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actually being grimy, as pathologically fastidious as he was. Point of proof: The guy keeps a couple of freshly starched dress shirts in the car in case of the dreaded sweat stain.
    Bud’s eyes were the color of ashes and lingered in distaste on my wrinkled T-shirt. Okay, so I’d worn it the night before. Hey, this is a homicide; I was in a hurry. So sue me. Bud didn’t care for the way I dressed or for the way I cropped my hair. Last Christmas he’d disappointed me greatly with a year’s gift certificate to Mr. Race’s classy unisex salon called Winning Locks. I’d showed up once for an excruciating hour-long styling session with some guy who kept calling me girlfriend and admiring my high cheekbones and big blue eyes and telling me I ought to be a model ’cause I was so tall and willowy. I left looking like a complete jerk and gratefully forked over the gift certificate to an ecstatic Dottie, who had enough long, silky blond hair to send Mr. Race and his ilk into spasms.
    I said, “Give me a break, Bud. It’s frickin’ 6 A.M . What the hell do you do? Jump up at dawn and primp your heart out in case a call comes in? You’re not human anymore. You’re a closet GQ model.”
    Bud laughed. “Mama always said ladies go for the well-groomed man. All it takes to look this good is a little preparation.”
    “Yeah, right, six to ten hours of it.” I turned and watched the TV van accelerate up the road and out of sight. “How’d you keep Hastings out of the house?”
    “O’Hara might’ve drawn her weapon. I told her to shoot ’em if she wanted.”
    “Hastings just informed me that the victim is a famous actress. Say it ain’t so, Bud, please.”
    Bud grinned. “Well, it ain’t Julia Roberts, but you ever heard the name Sylvie Border?”
    “Soap opera?” The name clicked, but a face didn’t. I wasn’t even sure which soap she was on. I hadn’t watched daytime TV since I went to college at LSU. That oughta tell you something about how interested I was in academics in college. The front door stood wide open, and I studied the entry foyer with its ornate brass chandelier suspended over a whiskey-colored marble floor, which reflected its glow. More down-home perks for Nicholas Black’s two-grand-a-week guests.
    “Black’s assistant said Sylvie Border was here for some private counselin’ with the Man, mixed in with a dose of downtime R & R on the lake.”
    “His assistant? Where’s Black?”
    “He’s not here at the moment. Her name’s Michelle Tudor, but she wants us to call her Miki. Ain’t that cute? Miki with one k and two I’s . I hit her with the murder before she was completely awake this morning, but she got her act together real quick and informed me that His Highness flew to New York on his private Lear jet last night for, get this, Claire, an interview on this morning’s Today Show .”
    “So Black’s got an alibi? Well, we’ll check that out before we cross him off our list. What about Miki with one k ? Where was she?” What was it with these silly names? Whatever happened to Mary and Jane and Cathy? Didn’t people know how to spell anymore?
    “Said she spent the entire weekend at her kid’s soccer tournament in Lenexa, Kansas; that’s just outside Kansas City. Said her husband was there and fifty other people who could verify her whereabouts. Offered to come in for an interview the minute she gets back.”
    “When’s that?”
    “They’re charterin’ a flight. Should be about an hour from now.”
    “Suze Eggers said a neighbor found the body.”
    “Yeah, lady next bungalow over was swimming along the shoreline and came upon the vic before she realized what it was.”
    I looked at him. “ What it was?”
    Bud handed me a pair of protective gloves and paper booties. “You are not gonna believe the trouble this guy went to.”
    I snapped on the white latex gloves, then leaned against the deck railing and pulled the paper booties over my high-tops. Bud stood back and let