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   She was either a really good actress or a really bad suspect.

It was my job to find out which.

   Just to be sure we wouldn't be overheard, I looked around. There was a couple playing tennis on the far court, but other than that, Valerie and I were alone. "Have you seen him lately?" I asked Valerie.

   "You mean Brad? No, thank goodness. Not since that day I followed him over to Alexandria." She twisted the cap on the bottle of water and took a long drink. "I was thinking about what you said, you see, and I realized you were right. Following Brad isn't something I should do. I need to leave that up to the experts. You. And Eve."

   This was a bit of information I hoped Valerie wasn't eager to share with anyone else. Tyler for instance. I looked at my watch. "I really appreciate you helping me out," I told her. "I've got to get moving and head back to Arlington to get to work. Are you familiar with that area?"

   She shrugged. "Been there, of course."

   "I just moved there a few months ago." It was a blatant lie, so I made sure I didn't look at Valerie when I said it. I have one of those honest faces that make it impossible to tell a fib. "I've got relatives coming in from Wisconsin this weekend, and I need to give them directions. You know, to get around town and over to D.C. They're hoping to see the cherry blossoms."

   Valerie squinted at me. "You came all the way over here to talk to me about cherry blossoms?"

   I laughed. It was either that or admit I was the world's worst interrogator. I wasn't ready to throw in the towel. Not yet, anyway. "No, actually, I came over here to talk to you about Brad. But I wondered, you know, about the cherry blossoms. I'd hate to see Aunt Sophie and Uncle Ben get lost. Can you help me with directions from the Clarendon Metro station?"

   "Clarendon Metro? Never been there." Valerie looked at me closely. "And you know what? Eve might be right, and you might be a good detective. But you're a lousy liar."

   I could have debated it, but then I would have been lying again. And that only would have made things worse.

   I sank down on the bench, and Valerie sat next to me. "It's that obvious, huh? I thought I was doing better than that."

   "Don't take it personally." She wiped the back of her neck with the towel and tossed it into a gym bag. "It's just that once you've met enough Weasels, you have radar for that sort of thing. So you don't really have relatives in Wisconsin?"

   "Not a one."

   "And they don't really need to go see the cherry blossoms?"

   I shook my head.

   "So why do you want to know about the Clarendon Metro station?"

   Since lying was getting me nowhere, I had no choice but to stick with the truth. "You haven't seen the papers? You don't know? Brad Peterson was killed at the Clarendon Metro station on Monday."

   Even a good actress couldn't make the color drain out of her face like it did out of Valerie's. She sucked in a breath. "Killed? You mean, like an accident?"

   "I mean killed. Like murder."

   "And you think that I . . ." She hopped off the bench, and her hands curled into fists. "That's crazy."

   "I know it is." I was lying again, but this time, she was too irritated to notice. "It's not like I suspect you or anything, but you have to admit, it's pretty convenient. You wanted Brad to stop giving you lousy references. Well, you got your wish."

   "That doesn't mean I had anything to do with him dying."

   "No. Really, it doesn't." I said this with all the oomph I could muster because I hadn't found out nearly enough, and I couldn't afford to alienate Valerie. "Look," I told her, "I'm not accusing you of anything, I'm just looking for the truth. To do that, I need to follow every lead. You have to admit it, Valerie. I heard you say it. You said you wanted Brad dead."

   "I did. I do. Brad Peterson is . . . was . . . a vile, no good son of a bitch. But just because I hated him doesn't mean I killed him. Lots of people wanted Brad dead."

   "And I'm going to do my best to talk to every single one of them."

   "But you started with me."

   I could have lied—again—and said I'd made the decision based on the WOW women I'd met. But really, my reasons were simpler than that.

   "You have a hooded sweatshirt."

   "What?" Valerie was far taller than me, and when she looked down at me, her eyes flashed. "Of course I have a hooded sweatshirt. I've got a few hooded sweatshirts. And what does that have to do with Brad, anyway?"

   It didn't help when it came to the height department, but I stood, anyway. At least that way, I didn't feel like a little kid getting lectured by an adult. When I spoke, I was careful to keep every scrap of emotion out of my voice. "There's a security camera at the Metro station. It shows a person in a hooded sweatshirt pushing Brad off the platform. The cops, they found a blond hair inside the hood."

   "And you think—" Valerie nearly choked on her fury. "You've got a lot of nerve. Eve said you were a detective, but she didn't bother to mention that you were stupid. And Eve . . ." Thinking, she narrowed her eyes. "That's it, isn't it? I wanted Brad dead. But so did Eve. I'm a blonde. But so is Eve. You're playing favorites, Little Ms. Detective. You're trying to clear your friend."

   "Yes, of course I am. Eve didn't do it."

   "Well, neither did I."

   It wasn't like me to be shifty, but except for the fact that I was pissing Valerie off, I was getting nowhere fast. I had to try to trip her up.

   "Do you have an alibi for the time Brad died?"

   Valerie tipped her head. With her top lip curled, she wasn't nearly as pretty as I remembered her to be. She managed to keep her voice down, but even that wasn't enough to hide her anger. Her words were sharp. "I don't know. When did he die?"

   Damn, if she'd produced an instant alibi after telling me she didn't even know Brad was dead . . .

   With that route closed to me, I stuck to the facts. "Monday morning, about nine o'clock."

   "An alibi, huh?" Valerie grabbed her gym bag and strode toward the building. "Will the first lady do?"

   I was still wondering what she meant when I scrambled to catch up. I followed Valerie into the women's locker room. She stopped at a locker to the left of the door and spun the dial on the lock. When she yanked the door open, I saw that she had a newspaper clipping taped inside.

   "There. Is that good enough for you?" Valerie pointed. I didn't bother reading the article but concentrated on the photo that went along with it. It showed the first lady visiting with an elderly woman at a nearby hospital. I noticed the date at the top of the picture was Tuesday's and that the caption clearly said the photo had been taken the day before, Monday morning. The same morning Brad had been killed.

   When it comes to egos, mine is as low-maintenance as they come. Still, it wasn't easy playing at being a detective, then having to admit I didn't have a clue what Valerie was trying to show me.

   My blank expression said it all.

   "Look. There." She stabbed a finger at the photo. In the background was a line of people, eagerly waiting to greet the first lady. Valerie was in the front row. She was standing right in front of a clock that clearly showed the time: 9:10.

   "My grandmother is in the hospital," she said. "I stopped there Monday morning to visit her. I got there around eight, early enough to talk to her doctor when he did his rounds. With all the security and all the news cameras that came along with the first lady, I didn't manage to get out of there until just after noon. So you see . . ." She slammed the locker shut and stood with her back to it, her arms crossed over her chest. "I say three cheers for whoever killed Brad. But if he died Monday morning at nine, it sure couldn't have been me."

I knew instantly that something was different.

   That might have been because of Doris, who was standing on the bar trying to reach the picture of the Loch Ness monster that hung on the wall nearby. Or Emma, who had gotten hold of the kilt that should have been draped over the sandalwood screen that separated the entryway from the seating area of the restaurant. She had it wrapped around her shoulders and was zooming through the place proclaiming herself to be a superhero. Wendy, Gloria, Lucy, Alice, and Rosemary were at one of our tables, bickering over the last bite of a hot fudge sundae. It didn't take an expert in children's behavior to see that things were about to get physical.

   Thank goodness it was pouring outside, and traffic was at a minimum. The restaurant was empty of customers except for Larry, Hank, and Charlie, regulars who were sitting at the bar, sharing a pitcher of beer, and taking it all in stride. Jim was behind the bar, and even as I watched, he reached a hand out to catch Doris before she fell and broke either the Nessie picture or a couple of bones, reminded the girls at the table to mind their manners and keep their voices down, and told Emma, in no uncertain terms, that if she "didn'a stop that rollickin' and settle down, she wouldn'a have a place to sleep that night but in the yard."

   I didn't bother to say hello. I figured Jim was too busy to notice, and besides, I never had the chance. I don't know where she came from, but as soon as she saw me, Fi had ahold of my arm.

   "A boy! Can you believe it? Oh, Annie." Tears streamed down Fi's cheeks, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. "What on earth am I going to do with a boy?"

   Call me psychic, I knew she was talking about the baby. Or maybe that's because while she imparted this information, she had one hand on the bulge of her stomach.

   I smiled and raised my voice to be heard about the din. "That's wonderful news," I told her. "I'll bet Richard is thrilled."

   Fi's lower lip quivered. "Haven't told him. Just found out myself this afternoon. A boy!" Her carroty-colored curls quivered when she shook her head. "I don't know a thing about raising boys."

   "Richard will be happy to help you with all that." I hadn't been able to get through to her with logic—maybe a little empathy was what she needed. I patted her arm and kept my smile firmly in place. "I'll bet he's always wanted a boy, right? And think about it, Fi, think about how much fun it will be. Soccer and baseball and tadpoles and trucks." I have to admit, even as I tried to convince her, it sounded like fun to me. "The girls will love having a little brother."

   "And I . . ." Fi's tears burst. "I don't even have any boys' names picked out!"

   Overcome, she disappeared into my office and closed the door behind her.

   So much for the work I had planned for that night.

   I went over to the bar, plucked Doris off of it, and set her on the floor. "How's your day going?" I asked Jim.

   His tight-edged smile said it all. "And yours?"

   "Well, my first suspect didn't pan out." I wasn't worried about telling Jim about my investigation. Sometime between when I figured out that I had to look into Brad's death and when I went to see Valerie, I also figured out that one of the reasons Jim had been opposed to my previous investigations was that I hadn't let him in on all the details. He worried about me because he was left in the dark, and naturally being worried, he did his best to try to make me mind my own business. I wasn't going to make that mistake again; I valued our relationship too much. This time, I had vowed to clue him in from the start. I climbed onto a barstool. "I need to talk to Eve about the rest of the names on that list Valerie gave us. Is she around?"

   "Out back." He tipped his head that way. "Walking Doc."

   The fact that Jim spoke without the least bit of rancor said a whole lot about his mood. Then again, I could hardly blame him. With little girl voices bouncing off the walls and the sounds of Fi's incessant sobbing coming from my office, it was hard to think straight. Otherwise, Jim wouldn't be taking Doc's visit in stride.

   I cringed at the memory of the last time the dog had made an appearance at Bellywasher's, and the same worries I had then came back in spades. If a health inspector happened to see the dog . . . If a customer happened to complain . . . If anything went wrong and anyone found out that there was a dog in our kitchen . . .

   I was off the barstool and looking for Eve and Doc in no time flat.

   I found them just as they were coming in the back door.

   "Little Doc was a good little doggy-woggy." Eve cooed and lifted the dog into her arms so she could take off his yellow rain slicker and matching boots. She kissed the top of his head. "He's my sweet-ums!"

   "He's going to be the reason this place gets closed down."

   She didn't looked worried. "It's just for tonight. My dog walker has strep, and I couldn't leave Doc all alone without his dinner-winner or a chance to go for a little walkie." She lifted the dog long enough to rub noses with him. "He's going back into my tote bag, and my tote bag is going into the storage room for the night. I'll check on him when I take my break. Don't worry, Annie. This time, nothing's going to go wrong."

   "That's what you said last time."

   Her grin was short-lived. "It was kind of funny. Except that Doc ended up with a tummy ache. Besides, this time . . ." As if it had been timed, we heard a crash from out in the restaurant, and the squeals of seven little girls. Eve rolled her eyes. "Doc could walk out there and start mixing drinks at the bar. Who would notice?"

   She was right. And even in four-inch heels, she was also faster than me. With Doc still in her arms, Eve pushed through the kitchen door, and I trailed behind her. We found Doris, Gloria, Wendy, Rosemary, Alice, Emma, and Lucy gathered around the shards of the sundae dish they had knocked on the floor. Gloria was snickering. She was the only one who thought it was funny. Wendy, Doris, and Rosemary were on the verge of tears. Emma, Alice, and Lucy had apparently learned a thing or two from their mother. They were sobbing to beat the band. Cousin Jim was standing over them, his fists on his hips and his eyes flashing fire.