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the solemn, serious way he addressed the kids’ worries melted my heart just the teensiest bit.
    I stood and motioned for Detective Drummond to do the same. He gave the kids one final reassuring smile and then rose to his feet.
    “If that’s true, I guess I should apologize for my crack about the warrantless search,” I said in a magnanimous tone.
    He nodded.
    I smiled. Good; I’m glad that’s out of the way, I thought.
    “Go ahead,” he said.
    “Go ahead?” I echoed.
    “Go ahead and apologize,” he told me, catching me in the same behavior I’d called Felix on less than twenty-four hours earlier. Detective Drummond pursed his lips and tried to hide his amusement.
    I didn’t bother to hide mine. I threw back my head and laughed then said, “Well played. Let me clarify. I’m sorry for the crack about the illegal search. And I would really appreciate some help.”
    His lips curved into a genuine smile. “Good. Take care of your visitors and then we’ll talk.”

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    I t took me what seemed like forever to convince Sage to leave—she was worried about me, afraid to leave me alone. Finally, I promised to meet her and the kids at the Santa Monica Pier and to keep my phone charged and handy then shoved her and the two blonde cuties out of the building. I hustled Detective Drummond into my apartment and headed for the kitchen.
    “I need some tea,” I told him as I plugged in the electric kettle. “You interested?”
    “You have loose tea and milk?” he asked in return.
    “No milk,” I said, recalling the sad state of my fridge. “Why?”
    “I can make a mean chai.”
    I shot him a disbelieving look over my shoulder.
    “What?” he said.
    “You don’t look like the chai type.”
    “Chai’s a type?”
    “Whatever. You just strike me as more of a black coffee kind of guy,” I said.
    He let that go. Instead he said, “Sure, I’d love some tea. So, Sage is your older sister?”
    I dug around in the cabinet and found the little wooden chest of fancy teas I’d liberated from the kitchen at my parent’s resort. As I placed the selection of teas on the wobbly IKEA table, I gave him a questioning glance. “No, I’m the oldest. Why?”
    “She seems very maternal, the way she was clucking over you. I figured she was used to taking care of you.” He shrugged and flipped through the tea packets, settling on a hot pepper/mint/green tea combination.
    I plucked a vanilla chamomile packet out of the pile and tore it open. “No. I’m the oldest. Sage is in the middle. And our baby sister is Thyme.” I waited for the stupid joke, but it never came. I blinked. Sage had once informed me that she’d spent three months keeping count: upon hearing our names, eighty-seven percent of men and seventy-two percent of women responded with a lame crack. What she expected me to do with this information, I’d never known, but I figured that’s just the way accountants’ brains work.
    “Huh. Well your younger sister sure is concerned about you,” he observed.
    The kettle beeped to let me know the water was hot. I sort of missed the whistle of a stovetop kettle, but convenience trumps nostalgia. I grabbed two mugs from the cabinet overhead and plunked them down on the counter. “Of course she is. You’re trying to pin a murder on me.” I turned to face him.
    He held up his hands in a gesture of appeasement. “Listen. What I said to those kids is true. I don’t think you killed Amber Patrick. But I do think you know more than you’re letting on about her death. And, yes, someone’s gone through a fair amount of trouble to make it look like you killed her. So, what we need to figure out together is who and why.”
    I clamped my lips together and crossed my arms.
    He took in my defensive posture for a moment and then shrugged. “It’s your move, Rosemary. Detective Sullivan’s in a hurry to clear this and get the freaking paparazzi out of her hair. If I don’t give her another viable suspect, she’ll do