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to avoid my dog was much more entertaining than his bad French accent.
    “Max.” Detective Jones’ voice had the ring of authority. “Come.”
    My dog trotted to his side.
    “Sit.”
    Max sat.
    Powers sighed. “My hero.”
    “When did you last see Mrs. Harper?” Powers’ hero repeated.
    Powers waved an insouciant hand. “I don’t know. The whole point of having Madeline in the office was that I didn’t have to be.”
    “Was she a good employee? Reliable?”
    “Heavens no. Ellison, my darling, vino? Or maybe you’d like to make me a martini?”
    If anyone was going to drink a martini, it would be me. I poured him a glass of wine.
    “If she wasn’t a good employee why did you keep her?”
    Powers sipped. “Madeline wanted a job that didn’t interfere with her life. One that she could use as an excuse when she didn’t want to do something and ditch when she did.”
    Detective Jones’ eyes narrowed to slits worthy of Dirty Harry. Better than Dirty Harry. Detective Jones was a real cop and he didn’t need a gun to look menacing. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
    Powers’ left eye twitched. I bet he didn’t find Detective Jones quite so attractive now. Or maybe he did. He was looking at the policeman like I look at chocolates. Delicious, delectable, and hard to stop after that first taste.
    “She worked for peanuts and gave good phone.”
    Detective Jones lifted a brow. “Gave good phone?”
    “A hefty portion of my business comes from the coasts. Someone has to answer the phones.”
    “The coasts?”
    Powers nodded. “A movie tanks and the producer needs to sell his Lichtenstein but he doesn’t want all of L.A. to know, so he calls me. Same thing for New York. The heiress who’s burned through her fortune doesn’t want Park Avenue to know she’s broke so she calls me and her grandmother’s Monet goes to California. I need the right person to answer the phone.”
    “Why you?”
    Powers’ eyelashes fluttered again. “I’m very discreet.”
    “I’m sure. You represent Mrs. Russell?”
    “I do.”
    “For how long?”
    What did my paintings have to do with Madeline’s murder? I opened my mouth to ask but was interrupted by the ring of the doorbell.
    “Gracie, would you get that?” I called up the stairs.
    The resentful trudge of teenage feet answered me.
    A moment later, Hunter Tafft sauntered into my kitchen as if he owned it. He was self-assured. He was prematurely silver-haired. He was more polished than Mother’s sterling. He leaned over and brushed his lips across my cheek. “Ellison, how are you?”
    I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. What was he doing here?
    “Your mother asked me to come over. She said you needed a lawyer.”
    There was going to be another murder. Justifiable homicide. Mother should pick out her casket. Why in the hell hadn’t he called first? If he thought I was a legally challenged damsel in distress just waiting for an attorney in a white Mercedes to ride up and save me, he was wrong.
    Hunter greeted Powers with the slightest of nods. Powers’ answering nod was even smaller. Brief jerks of their chins said everything they didn’t say out loud. They were willing to acknowledge each other socially. Barely. I wondered if there was a story there. Did Hunter feel threatened by Powers’ preferences? Did Powers feel threatened by Hunter’s perfect hair? Maybe a bit of both?
    Hunter turned his attention on Detective Jones. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
    “I don’t believe we have.” The expression I was fast coming to associate with disapproval settled on Detective Jones’ face. He leaned back against the kitchen counter.
    The skin around Hunter’s eyes tightened. “You are?”
    “Detective Jones.”
    Hunter showed off his gleaming teeth. Blinded by their brightness, I wasn’t sure if his smile was genuine or not.
    “I don’t believe I caught your first name,” Hunter said. The smile was definitely manufactured.
    “I don’t believe you