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in the swamp on the other side. She’d surely blame me for that. I could just see her shaking her tiny freckled fist at me as a gator swallowed her whole.
    I slammed my fist on the steering wheel. “Why the hell did you rat on me?” I said. “I thought we were best friends and then you blab to the cops.”
    â€œ What do you mean?”
    â€œ You told Frida that Valerie and I had a fight.”
    â€œ You did.”
    â€œ It was private.”
    â€œ Half the county heard you.”
    â€œ Did you tell Frida why we fought?”
    â€œ The shop’s take, right?”
    I looked over at her face, but in the dim light I couldn’t tell if she knew more than she was saying. “Whatever. You owe me one.”
    â€œ Do not.”
    â€œ Do so. And here’s how you can make it up to me.” I told her about my concern for our business, and that I was worried the shop would suffer if Mrs. Sanders’ murderer wasn’t identified sooner rather than later. I told her my brilliant plan. She must have felt some guilt about talking to Frida because, to my surprise, she agreed to help me out.
    It wasn’t much of a plot. Mostly just the old good-cop-bad-cop routine put to good use by the good-consignment-shop-owner and the bad. I don’t have to tell you what part I was playing, do I?
    Getting Cory Burnside to confess to us what she and Valerie had been scheming about on the day of the fight would only be possible if her husband wasn’t home tonight. Rumor had it that Randolph Burnside spent as little time at home as possible. He was too involved in making money, something he seemed to do very well. I figured he needed all the cash he could get just to pay for the extensive “procedures” his wife underwent. Cory lived by that old dictum, you can’t be too rich or too thin, and its addendum—too wrinkle- or sag-free. Her face had undergone surgery so often that it was painful to look at her. She appeared to be in a state of perpetual surprise. One more lift and her eyebrows would join her hairline.
    We pulled up in front of Cory’s large house just as the sun was going down. The stucco dwelling sat back from the road, sheltered amid a variety of palms and oaks. A manicured lawn seemed to invite visitors to take off their shoes and walk across the green carpet, but a sign indicating the property was protected by a security system suggested the grassy invitation was not serious. I rang the bell and expected a servant to answer. Cory showed up instead.
    She kept us waiting at the door while she grabbed a load of garments from a hallway chair and loaded them into my arms. “Could we come in for a moment?” I asked.
    She looked surprised at my request. That reaction wasn’t what piqued my curiosity. It was the alarm I saw in her eyes.
    â€œ It’s about poor, dear Valerie.” Madeleine looked appropriately sad.
    â€œ This really isn’t such a good time.” She tried to close us out, but I’d already placed one of my size-ten feet in the door and I now stood in the foyer, looming over her. Madeleine ducked past me and went to stand next to her.
    â€œ Well, fine,” she said, “if you don’t stay long. I’m expecting someone.”
    â€œ We’ll stay for a quick drink. That’s all.” I walked straight ahead, across the marble entryway and into a dimly lit room beyond. The space was overcrowded with potted plants, heavy teak furniture and lots of leather—couches, chairs, even the lampshades were made of animal skins. That East Indian look that is so popular in south Florida.
    The back of the room was fashioned out of glass, and through it we could see a beautifully landscaped garden filled with royal palms, bougainvillea and a plethora of tropical flowers. Standing guard over the garden was a huge oak that dwarfed even the largest of royals. In the center of all of this beauty stood a pool into which a