"That's very good, Grace."

"Of course it is, dear. Now let me see what I can find out about wigs that have been purchased here in town in the past two weeks."

Grace left just as Lottie breezed through to gather arrangements we'd made for a funeral. "I convinced your mom to come to my knitting club tomorrow night," she announced proudly. "Isn't that great? She can't do any harm with yarn. Now we can all breathe easier."

Where my mom's art was concerned, was that even possible?

I hummed contentedly as I gathered supplies for another arrangement. No matter what my problems were, when I immersed myself in flowers, everything else receded. Twenty minutes later, I stepped back to look at the finished product and declared it a success.

As the client had requested, I'd fashioned a real romantic beauty using lots of pink and red roses in graduated tones that blended spectacularly ('Chapeau de Napoleon', 'Duc de Guiche', and 'Celsiana'). Then I backed them with sprigs of lady's mantle (Alchemilla mollis), lamb's ears (Stachys), and the delicate greenery of euphorbia, all set in an old-fashioned cream-colored ceramic pitcher with red roses painted on the sides. I wrapped my creation in clear cellophane, tied with a pink ribbon at the top, tagged it, and placed it in one of the coolers.

"Abby," Grace said, coming into the workroom, "I checked with salons all over the county and none report the sale of a long-haired red wig anytime within the last three weeks."

"Great," I said with a sigh. "If that wig was ordered through a catalog or over the Internet, we'll never track it down."

"Never say never," Grace admonished. "If the wig was ordered, then someone had to deliver it."

"Someone like UPS or FedEx! You're a marvel, Grace."

"Merely the Watson to your Holmes, love." She paused as the bell over the door jingled. "I'll see to that and track down the delivery later."

"Thanks, Grace." Before I started another order, I turned off my creative juices long enough to phone Dave to see what he could tell me about the blanket found with Delphi's body.

"Abby, I was just about to call you," he said.

"Really? What's up?"

"Marco's frustration level."

I wondered if he could hear the smile in my voice. "PI Salvare is frustrated?"

"He seems to think you're trying to thwart his investigation."

"What? No way! Tell him he's being-irrational." That was one of the labels he'd given me, and it still smarted.

"Hold it. When did I become your go-between?" Dave asked.

"I didn't ask you to be the go-between. It must have been PI Salvare."

"PI Salvare? That's what you're calling him now?"

"You don't want to hear my other choices." Weasel came to mind.

"Abby," Dave said, switching to his gruff voice, "I'm talking to you as your lawyer and your friend. If this problem between you and Marco is going to hamper my ability to protect Libby in any way, shape, or form, then this is going to be our last conversation on this case."

Yeesh. I couldn't let that happen.

Lottie came back from making her delivery just then, and I didn't want to talk in front of her about Marco and me, so I said, "Not a problem, Dave. I'll stop by your office at five to discuss it. And maybe you can find out what kind of blanket Delphi's body was wrapped in."

"I'll do my best. See you at five."

By the time I'd locked Bloomers' front door, cut across the courthouse lawn, and made it up the creaky stairs to Dave's office, it was a few minutes after five o'clock.

"I'm here," I said breathlessly, brushing my windtossed hair away from my face as I dashed in the room. Then I stopped dead in my tracks.

Marco was sprawled in one of the two chairs facing Dave's desk, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his hands behind his head. I glanced at Dave with a furious scowl. He'd set this up. He should have warned me so I could've prepared myself.

At once Marco rose, giving me a solemn nod even as those dark eyes raked over me, making my heart beat as wildly as it had the first time we met. He was wearing his familiar black leather jacket over a sienna T-shirt with blue jeans and black boots. Although his gaze was as impudent as ever, his eyes appeared tired. A late night with Libby, perhaps?

"I didn't know we were having a conference," I said, giving Dave a pointed look.

"I thought we needed a meeting of the minds," Dave replied. "Have a seat."

Feeling not only miffed but also as nervous as if I were on a blind date, I forced myself to act cool as I casually removed the green knit scarf at my throat, slipped off my navy peacoat, and sat down. Marco waited until I was in the chair; then he sat, too. But if he thought his gentlemanly ways still impressed me...he was right, damn it.

"Now, then," Dave said, "as long as you're both going to be investigating this case-"

"Hold it," Marco said. "Abby doesn't need to investigate. I thought you called her in here to explain that."

"Excuse me?" I said. "I wasn't called in. This isn't the principal's office. I happen to be conducting my own private investigation."

"For what purpose?" Marco asked.

"Because I don't think you can be unbiased."

"You're questioning my professionalism?"

"Actually, yes."

"Hey!" Dave said as Marco and I began to argue. "Both of you sit quietly and listen to me. First of all, Marco, you know that when Abby sets a course of action, there's no deterring her. Right?"

Marco grunted what sounded like, "Yeah," then glanced at me, frowning.

I almost stuck my tongue out at him.

"And, Abby," Dave said, "you can't thwart this investigation. If people refuse to answer questions because you've already talked to them, that's interfering with my ability to protect my client, and I won't have it."

Oops. I was glad I'd kept my tongue in check. If only I could've said the same about that fiery blush on my face.

"So here's the way it has to be," Dave said. "You're either going to work together or-"

"No!" we both said, and began to talk over each other until Dave put his fingers between his teeth and whistled so loud that Martha came running.

Dave waved her away, then pointed at us. "I don't care what's going on in your personal lives-you work that out for yourselves-but either you both cooperate on this investigation or I'll hire another PI, and, Abby, you can forget about asking me for any further information." He paused to let his words sink in, then said, "Am I making myself perfectly clear?"

Marco had a white-knuckled grip on the arms of his chair, and I thought for sure he was about to tell Dave to hire someone else for the case. But then his fingers relaxed, he leaned back, and he gave a nod of agreement. Why had he conceded so readily? He didn't really need the work. Was he staying in it for Libby?

Dave glanced at me, waiting for my answer. What could I say? That working with Marco was impossible, given our lack of trust in each other? That I couldn't look into his eyes and not think of the relationship we'd been building that now seemed lost? That I couldn't hear his voice and not remember all the romantic things he'd ever said to me? Was there any way to keep my feelings out of it?

Would a professional investigator let a private matter stand in her way? that little voice of reason asked. But I already knew the answer. Even though I wasn't a PI, I could at least conduct myself in a professional manner. I glanced at the chiseled hunk on my right who was staring straight ahead, his smooth skin blurred by a five-o'clock shadow, his fingers tapping the arms of his chair. Fine. If Marco could do it, so could I.

"I'll cooperate," I said to Dave. I'd just have to tuck my feelings about Marco in a big box, lock them up tight, and throw away the key... maybe into Lake Michigan.

"Okay, then," Dave said. "Let's see what we've got so far." He opened the file on his desk and reviewed the papers inside. "Abby, you asked about the blanket found on the body. According to the police report, it was a gray utility blanket. Does that mean anything to you?"

"Sure does. Oliver bought one matching that description at Ace Hardware last week. And if he paid by credit card or check, there should be a receipt that proves it."

"That certainly throws more suspicion on him," Dave said.

Marco opened his own file, pulled out a piece of paper, and slid it across the desk to Dave. "Here's a copy of Delphi's irrevocable trust. Upon her death, each child is to inherit half of her estate. So it's possible that Oliver wanted to get his hands on his inheritance early."

"But why kill the golden goose?" I argued. "Oliver's mother bought him everything he wanted. You'd think he'd want to let her continue to make money so he could preserve his inheritance while continuing to mooch off her. And why would he have thrown the blame on his sister when she was his ally?"

"His intent might have been to make you look guilty, Abby," Dave pointed out.

"But he'd have to realize that it would also incriminate his sister," I said.

"I think I'll pay Oliver a visit," Marco said. "Maybe I can get some answers."

"Good luck with that," I murmured, reaching into my purse for my notes.

Marco fixed me with the penetrating gaze that always made my knees go soft. "Why?"

"I doubt that Oliver will talk to you. You're the man."

"He'll talk to me. We're not strangers. I've already met him at the bar. I'll just use my ranger background to get him to talk, since he likes the military so much."

Marco must have forgotten that Libby had been with Oliver at the time. Oliver alone was a whole different ball game. But I merely gave a whatever shrug.

"Do you have the autopsy report yet?" I asked Dave.

"No," he answered, glancing through the file. "And all the coroner's statement says is that the death was not accidental and would be preliminarily classified as a homicide. Let's see what else is on the police report. ...Time of death was between four and five in the morning."

"Still dark out then," Marco noted. "Easier to dump the body."

"That reminds me," I said to Dave. "Did you ask Libby about driving the van to Sally's house rather than her Corvette?"

"Libby told me that when the cops found her, she had just parked the van in the alley behind her shop so Oliver could use it later. She had left her Corvette in the alley earlier that morning and was in the process of moving it to a parking garage. The cops asked where she'd been, and she stated she had been to see her client Sally Mitchum. She didn't specify which vehicle she'd used because she didn't realize the importance of it at the time."

It sounded logical enough.

"Here's some new information on Delphi," Dave said. "Her body was discovered wearing a pair of pink silk pajamas, a pink silk robe, and matching slippers."

"Then we know she wasn't killed in her bed," I said. "If she took time to put on a robe and slippers, she must have gotten up for some reason-maybe to answer the door."

"Libby and Oliver have house keys," Marco said. "It wouldn't have been for them."

"Maybe it was Tilly Gladwell, the clerk Delphi fired," I said, eager to wow them with Grace's discovery. "Tilly had a motive, obviously, and the opportunity to have a copy of Libby's car key made. Not only that"-drumroll, please-"but according to Grace's source at the British embassy, Tilly is an impostor. Her real name is Cora. The real Tilly Gladwell is a wealthy Londoner."

Dave raised both eyebrows, clearly impressed, but Marco didn't say a word. So I told them about Cora's criminal background, along with Grace's belief that Cora knew how to hot-wire cars and pick locks and might have purchased a wig to commit the crime.

"Grace learned that no red wigs were sold by any salons in the county in the past three weeks," I said, "but that doesn't rule out catalog or Internet sales, so Grace is going to try to track down all deliveries made to our suspects to see if any of them came from a wig supply house."

"Good luck with that," Marco muttered, then gave me a look that said, Take that! His gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary, a little hotter than I would have expected, too, given the state of our relationship. For a split second, even the corner of his mouth quirked, that sexy little upward curve that always drove me wild. Was he flirting with me? By the hot flush on my cheeks, my body thought so.

But then his provocative little grin was gone-or maybe it had never been there, just wishful thinking on my part.

"If this Cora broke into Delphi's home," Dave posed, "wouldn't she have attacked Delphi in her bed?

"Maybe Delphi heard a suspicious noise and got up to investigate," Marco said.

"If Delphi is like most women," I reasoned, "she'd call the cops first. And don't forget, Delphi is a former model. She wouldn't risk bodily harm. Now, if she thought it was Oliver or Libby coming in, she'd put on her robe and slippers and go see what they were up to. Maybe Delphi surprised Cora."

"Until we find out where the initial crime scene was," Marco said to Dave, "we're wasting our time speculating. For all we know, Delphi might have been killed in the Corvette."

"She was in her pj's," I said, "and probably without makeup. She wouldn't have left her house that way unless there was a weapon pointed at her."

"There was no mention of any weapon in any of the reports I have," Dave said, "so that's an unlikely scenario. I'll call the prosecutor first thing in the morning and see if he knows where the initial crime scene was, and I'll let Detective Wells know about Tilly being an impostor. Anything else we need to discuss tonight?"

I reviewed my list and said to Dave, "What about Kayla Olin? She seems to have a strong motive-a damaged face and ruined modeling career."

"I requested a copy of the court docket from her lawsuit and a copy of the bankruptcy filing," Dave said. "They should be ready tomorrow afternoon."

"I did a preliminary workup on Kayla," Marco said. He pulled out an eight-by-ten glossy photo and placed it on Dave's desk. "I got this off of the talent agency's Web site. That was Kayla at the age of sixteen, before her surgery."

"She was beautiful," I said. "She didn't need any work done."

"According to what I found, Kayla is five feet nine," Marco said, "tall enough to need to push Libby's car seat back. And her dark hair could have been dyed red. I went to the address I have for Kayla-her mother's house- but her mother wouldn't let me see her. She was very anxious to keep me away from her daughter. I'm still trying to find out where Kayla works so I can talk to her there." Marco closed his file. "That's all I have."

"For our next meeting," Dave said, "I'll see if Detective Wells knows where Cora is. Marco?"

"Besides tracking down Kayla, I'm going to interview Oliver," Marco said.

"I'll follow up on the wig search," I said.

"If Marco has any trouble with Oliver," Dave asked, "will you assist, Abby?"

I didn't glance at Marco, but I guessed he was bristling at the thought of needing my assistance. "No problem. Oliver and I are simpatico."

Dave pushed away from his desk. "Let's plan to meet again tomorrow at five o'clock."

I slipped on my peacoat, grabbed my purse and scarf, and walked out of the office. "Good night, Martha," I called, tossing the end of my scarf over my shoulder and swinging my hips a bit more than was necessary as I sashayed out the door. I knew Marco was right behind me, but I pretended I didn't.

As I headed down the long flight of stairs that let out onto the sidewalk below, the door at the bottom suddenly burst open and there, outlined by the glow of the street-lamp, stood Libby. With her features in shadow, it could have been me standing there.

"Oh, Marco, thank God I found you!" she cried, wringing her hands. She pushed past me to run up the stairs to him. "Someone just tried to kill me."