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unwanted sideline of being a murder magnet. The first time was when this nice-looking African American cop had tried his damnedest to prove I had slain two people. I was able to uncover the actual criminal. Since then, he had been involved in many cases where I helped friends and acquaintances who were accused of murder . . . sometimes by him. I absolutely identified with their angst, so what could I do but assist them?

    He’d been sympathetic when my former boyfriend, Jeff, had apparently disappeared, even though the two of them had been enemies of sorts. Ned and I had developed a mutual respect, or so I thought. But now . . .

    “Is everyone around here okay?” I asked in a lowered voice.

    “Oh, he’s not here as a detective,” said the woman with him. She was attractive and poised and seemed to resemble Ned. His sister? She confirmed my conjecture as she approached with her slender hand outstretched. “Hi. I’m Nita Noralles. This guy’s my brother. And don’t you think it’s the cutest thing ever? My brother the cop isn’t just a pig. He owns one. So do I.” She introduced me to the two cute black-and-white potbellies on the dressing room floor. Porker was Ned’s, and hers was Sty Guy.

    “So you’re here because . . . ?” I began, although the answer was pretty obvious. I looked at Ned.

    “We love our pigs,” Nita responded. “And we live near enough to Hollywood to get involved in stuff like this. We’d love to become stars—or at least for our pets to succeed.”

    Ned’s smile was a whole lot too bright. Somehow his sister had coerced his participation, and I guessed he wasn’t overly excited about it.

    Maybe it was because any of his cop friends or superiors who didn’t already know of the irony of a policeman having a pig for a pet would learn about it now.

    “Isn’t that right, Ned?” Nita goaded.

    He said strongly, “Absolutely.” One thing I’d learned about Ned: he could be a good sport—if he wanted to. Even when he was shown up by someone else solving the crimes he was assigned to. Like me.

    “Well, that’s great,” I said. “I’ll look forward to seeing how you do.”

    Things were getting organized around the sound stage. Rows of seats were set up for an audience, which for now would probably consist mostly of contestants’ friends and families. I saw several familiar faces, including cops who’d obviously come to cheer Ned on.

    As on many reality shows, a line of tables was set up for judges. The center stage was the focus of the cameras. And soon, the animal stars would emerge.

    Charlotte buzzed around, speaking with people, appearing official. And frazzled. I found myself a folding chair along the fringes of the room, out of the way and most especially out of camera range. Then, it was time to begin.

    A man in a suit strutted into the main area. “Hi, everyone. I’m Rick Longley, host of Animal Auditions .” He looked slick and smooth, used to facing the TV camera, but I instinctively glanced for a nonexistent weather map behind him. I’d never met him but knew him by reputation. He had been a successful local weatherman who’d heeded the call to potential fame and sallied forth to New York for a slot on network TV. Unfortunately, he had washed out. His slink back home had been about the time Charlotte starred in the reality show in which she’d had to choose between ostensibly true love and heading her own production. She’d smartly chosen the latter, and Rick had apparently enlisted to host anything Charlotte got involved in.

    In a moment, a lovely young lady, clad in a snazzy cocktail dress, strolled to his side. I couldn’t suppress the huge grin that slid across my face. “And I’m Rachel Preesinger,” she said, smiling for the camera. “Welcome to Animal Auditions .” I couldn’t be prouder that my pet-sitting assistant and daughter of my main house’s tenant was to co-anchor this show.

    The two of them introduced the production’s