Once Marilyn’s body arrived at the morgue, there were more tales of postmortem sex. Every nurse, coroner’s assistant, and janitor in Los Angeles claimed to have known someone who had some. There was even a song by that guy Tom whatever-his-name-is. So that was proof it was true.

“Totally true,” I said to myself as I hit “save” on my laptop.

I pushed back from my desk and reached my hands toward the ceiling, trying to stretch out the knot in my back that came whenever I hunched over the computer writing. I wondered if I should try that new cupping technique I saw in Us Weekly. Cupping isn’t really new— it’s been around for centuries—but ever since Gwyneth showed up at a movie premiere with her back looking like a Nebraska field scored with crop circles, cupping had been the new old thing that people on both coasts were rushing to try to ease their joint ailments.

My thoughts of Marilyn and Gwyneth were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. I straightened up, smoothed my hair, and yelled, “Come in,” hoping it wasn’t anyone with a question. Today was my first day back in the office after being gone all week and I was playing catch up and feeling even more overwhelmed than usual. Plus, my boyfriend, Dave, had some sort of surprise planned for tonight and had persuaded me to kick out of work early, so I was trying to get things here a little under control before trying to sneak away.

Tommy from wardrobe poked his head from around the door. “Hey, Dani, you got a sec? I want to show you some options real quick.”

“Sure,” I replied, relieved it was just a question about wardrobe and not my boss, Steve Jacobs, wondering why my revised pages for the show weren’t finished.

“Do you think this is too much? For when we catch the guy at the end of Act Two?”

Tommy held up a T-shirt that read, “Crack open a cold one.” I stared at it in disbelief.

“It’s a real shirt they sell,” Tommy said. “I got it off a necrophilia Web site.”

“Crack open a cold one?” I repeated. “Jesus, and I thought I was sick. They actually have shirts?”

“Yep.”

I didn’t want to think about how Tommy knew where to find the shirt on such short notice. All of a sudden the premise for my “Marilyn” episode made me feel very tired.

“I don’t know,” I told Tommy. “We’re kind of pushing it with the whole story line anyway, and we might push the network censors over the edge with the . . . shirt. I really don’t want to do anything to make them start looking at this episode any closer.”

Tommy tried not to look hurt. “So, too much?”

“Way too much. Just put the guy in something normal from the Gap or Aberzombie.”