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detective who’d investigated the murder in their Key Biscayne condo. The casual mention of his name had clearly placed her curiosity on full alert.
    Hoping to forestall a lengthy interrogation, Molly warned, “Liza, I do not have time to discuss Michael O’Hara or my social life.”
    “Oh?” Liza said, all innocence. “I wasn’t aware that you had a social life or that you could link such activity with Michael O’Hara in the same breath. Does that mean things have changed since I left for Guatemala last month?”
    “It doesn’t mean a damn thing, except that I am at my wits’ end and I do not have time for this,”Molly snapped, suspecting she was wasting her breath. Liza was not known for staying on track or taking a hint, no matter how directly or waspishly it was phrased.
    “What’s happening over there? Is it exciting? Maybe I should take a break from all this disgusting glue and bring Brian over to watch. I know it’s late and all, but it’s not a school night, right? Besides, I wouldn’t mind getting a close look at Gregory Kinsey. From what I’ve seen he’s quite a hunk.”
    “Not anymore,” Molly mumbled.
    “What?”
    “He’s dead.”
    There was an instant of stunned silence. Then, her tone suitably sober, Liza said, “Gregory Kinsey is dead? What happened? Molly, are you okay?”
    Molly responded to the genuine note of caring in her friend’s voice. “I’m as well as can be expected considering the fact that we are about to have police and reporters swarming all over the place, and I don’t have answers for any of them. Not that the police are going to expect answers from me, but the reporters might, and if I don’t have them, Vince will kill me.”
    “Molly, you’re babbling.”
    “Don’t you think I know that?” she retorted. “Liza, I’ve got to run. I have to get to Veronica. Greg’s body was found in her trailer. I don’t think she knows about it yet.”
    “Oh, my God. Do you suppose …”
    Molly hung up without supposing a thing. She had to find the actress and warn her that all hell was about to break loose. Then she had to figure outhow she could help to stem the tide of all the negative publicity.
    Unfortunately, a survey of the outdoor café where she’d left the star less than twenty minutes earlier proved fruitless. Either Veronica was suspiciously aware of the fatal shooting in her trailer and had vamoosed to safer ground—Miami International Airport was a hub for all those tempting Latin American locations that didn’t have extradition treaties. Or she’d gotten tired of waiting for her call and had simply gone back to her hotel in a snit. Either way, the police were not likely to be happy about the absence of a woman likely to be a prime suspect.
    Rather than wasting time trying to guess how Veronica’s mind worked, Molly skirted the crowd outside the murder scene and went back to the production trailer. The same people were gathered inside. Now, though, a palpable tension had replaced the boredom.
    Hank Murdock, his usually affable expression grim, tried to pop open a soda, only to drop the can and send a dark spray all over the pale green carpet. No one moved to wipe it up. Hank just reached for another can. Jerry Shaw sat at the table and drummed his fingers in a nervous rhythm. Molly sat down beside him.
    “You okay?” she asked.
    He shot her a disbelieving look. “Do I look okay? The country’s greatest film director since Hitchcock has just been murdered by a conniving bitch and you ask if I’m okay? Are you nuts, lady?”
    Hank glared at him. “Shut up, Jerry.”
    Jerry’s face crumpled. “Jesus,” he murmured over and over. “Jesus.”
    “Did you find Veronica?” Hank asked Molly.
    She shook her head. “There was no sign of her at the café. I was hoping she’d come back here. I doubt she ventured back to her own trailer with all that commotion outside.”
    Jerry muttered a cynical remark under his breath, but Molly chose to ignore it.