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  "You'll love the apartment," she assured me, handing me my purse. "The pool is great."

  For the first time since leaving Bob's office, I brightened. I had something to look forward to, at least. "You've seen it?"

  "Only the photos. It sounds great and the apartment manager said it would be just the thing for a young professional like you."

  "You're new in town?" Ben guessed.

  "She got here this morning," Martha told him before I could breezily pass myself off as a competent native. "I found her a place to live near Venice. The Bougainvillea Apartments."

  "Venice Beach? Nice. I live close to there. Want me to show you around town? I could drive you over to the deceased's family? Make sure you don't get lost?" he eagerly offered.

  I hesitated, ready to accept when I realized he almost had me hoodwinked. Did he think he could charm me out my first story for The Chronicle? "Me? I never get lost," I told him snippily. "And I don't need your help, thank you!"

  "I can get my keys. I'll be just a min..."

  "Don't worry about me!" I gave him and Martha a little wave as I moved the few steps to the door. "I know how to get around the city."

  "But do you know where you're going?" he asked.

  I had absolutely no clue, but there was no way I would admit that to him. "Absolutely," I said, giving my hair a little shake so it fell prettily over my shoulders. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get busy for my column." With that, I grabbed the door handle, pulling it so hard, I heard the hinges groan, and flashed out of The Chronicle office.

  I didn't just have an interview to conduct. I had to discover if Chucky Barnard was more than just a back page story.

  Chapter Two

  I became hopelessly lost in no time at all.

  "Tell me how to find Laurel Avenue," I told my SatNav as its screen fizzled black and white noise. It managed to get me within five minutes of Laurel Avenue before dropping out of the windshield holder and falling to the floor. Several minutes of frustrated crying in a grocery store parking lot while shaking it and repeatedly stabbing the screen with my forefinger didn't improve my luck.

  The drive from The Chronicle office was pleasant enough. The sun was shining, the sky a beautiful azure blue that thrilled the tourists, and the traffic was nothing like the comments I'd heard about. I saw no roads snarled with honking cars. Even better, was the image I gave myself of Ben Kosina's face when he realized I scooped him to the headline with the Chucky Barnard story.

  Of course, his face would look a lot happier if he learned I couldn't even find Chucky's house and had to settle for writing a puffed-up obituary column with all the information gleaned from the internet. All I had to do was imagine Ben's smug face as he offered to drive me so I wouldn't get lost. Of all the insolence! Was he trying to rub it in that he was the ace reporter, so beloved by our editor that he could waltz back into The Chronicle and swipe his job from me? I'd show him the true ace reporter when I filed my story!

  "C'mon on, Shayne, pull yourself together," I pep talked, willing my breathing to slow down and my heart rate to obediently follow. The indignity of arriving in LA only a few short hours ago, my new great life ahead of me, still burned. This was supposed to be my big break. My ticket to the high life. Hadn't I worked my ass off at The Montgomery Gazette, chasing stories at all times of the day, developing a roster of informants and perfecting my interrogation skills? Did that all count for nothing now that my big city job was gone? Not just gone, but stolen by that smug jerk! The image of him sitting at my corner desk, bathed in golden sunlight, flashed into my mind again. My lips turned down, my face soured and I had to hold back a sob of frustration. Why did he have to be so damn handsome too? Sometimes, life just wasn't fair.

  Catching sight of the boxes filling my back seat, At least, I have my new apartment to look forward to, I thought. Sure, it was a little smaller than my Montgomery apartment, but I knew upgrading to city life meant downsizing in material luxuries. Plus, I didn't plan on spending that much time in my new apartment anyway. Not when I had a whole new life to create. Despite the job disappointment, Bob didn't mention any further reduction in salary, and I planned on putting my money to good use. Only yesterday, I signed up on a dating site, my Gran's words still ringing in my ears. "You can't put your life on hold for me, sweetheart. You get your city job and you meet a nice boy." I even had a date lined up for the next night with a hot, young producer!

  "Life," I told myself, "is exactly what you make it."

  I had new friends to meet. Maybe my apartment's complex had a book club, or I could make friends by the pool. I could take up a hobby, or learn how to surf. Maybe I would find another job on a different newspaper, or freelance on the side. Maybe I would get a blog and become one of those uber cool bloggers with a scintillating mix of fashion, entertainment, food photography and hard-hitting opinion pieces! I would have to start using Instagram. Perhaps I could even learn how to cook and become a breakout YouTube star.

  "My life is going to be fabulous! And it all starts today!" I punched the air, buoyed by my pep talk.

  "Ma'am?" A fist rapped on my window. "Ma'am?"

  I rolled down the window.

  A security guard leaned down, his eyes roaming over the interior of the car before settling on the boxes and my duvet that had somehow opened and began to unravel. "Are you okay, ma'am? You can't live in the parking lot."

  "I'm not living in the parking lot!"

  He gave a side eye to the open duvet as he fixed me with a disbelieving look. "Move on, please, ma'am. You have two minutes."

  My shoulders dropped. My job was filched and now a grocery store security guard thought I was moving into his parking lot. "Hell no," I told myself, giving the SatNav one more shake. "Uh-oh!" I squeaked as it burst into life, displaying a map to my destination. Two left turns, then one right and I'd be on Chucky's doorstep, just in time to ruin his grieving family's day.

  I gunned the engine, put the car into drive and sped out of the lot, arriving at a neat, white bungalow a few minutes later. The front door was open, and from my vantage point on the road, I could see someone moving about inside. I flipped down the sun visor and checked to be sure my mascara wasn't running and my nose wasn't shining, before replacing it and peering at the house. It wasn't the mansion I expected or in the most exclusive of neighborhoods, but it seemed like a nice street. It was full of one-level buildings and only the occasional two-story. All the lawns were neatly clipped with a pretty array of flora. Facades were neatly maintained and no trash littered the sidewalks. A handsome man walked past with seven tiny, fluffy dogs on leashes. He gave me a brilliant white smile before walking on and turning the corner.

  A moment later, a woman walking a cat followed him, but instead of turning the corner, she proceeded along the street, like it was absolutely normal to walk a cat on a leash.

  I refocused on Chucky Barnard's bungalow, which didn't look like a crime scene. I saw no crime tape and no police presence. It was like he never even died. I wondered if the neighbors knew. Back home, our neighbors would have all known, and called their family and friends. Within an hour, everyone in Montgomery would have heard what happened and not one of them would have hesitated in talking to a reporter. All of them would’ve been eager to get their names on the front page. Sometimes, that made my job easier, and others, it was pretty hard trying to work out who actually saw something and who learned via their cousin's sister-in-law's neighbor. Some were so intent on their story-telling that they almost believed they were right there.

  On accepting the job, I knew my life would become more difficult. I would have to build a new contact list at LAPD, seek out new informants, and find my way around a city that made gridlock a common hobby. But why coast when I could stretch my skills so much further? I longed to push through the job ceiling I'd already reached at The Montgomery Gazette. That, and I badly needed a change of scenery.

  After feeling reassured that my notepad and pen were in my purse, along wi
th a small speech recorder, I hopped out of the car and buzzed it locked.

  "Hello," I called, knocking on the door. Inside, a woman was kneeling beside some open boxes, and currently occupied with wrapping a vase in bubble wrap. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of my knock.

  "Hi," she said, rising to her knees before walking over. Light brown hair, with blonde highlights, reached her shoulders, and her soft green eyes were red-rimmed. Her frame was similar to mine: slim, and toned. "Are you one of Chucky's friends?"

  "No," I admitted, figuring there was no harm in telling the truth. I wasn't against a little subterfuge to get a story, but this didn't seem like one of those times. She looked like someone who needed to hear the truth. I just hoped it wouldn’t result in her slamming the door in my face. "I'm Shayne Winter from The LA Chronicle."

  "The newspaper?" she asked, frowning.

  "That's right."

  "You're a reporter," she said, reaching for the door.

  I braced myself, waiting for her to slam it shut. "Not exactly. I'm a columnist..."

  "But you are here about Chucky?" she cut in.

  "Yes, I..."

  Again, she cut me off, this time asking, "How did you hear about his death?"

  "From the police. My editor told me to..."

  "Did the police tell you the whole story?"

  "No, just that..."

  "I hoped they would take me seriously, but this is a surprise. I didn't feel like the detective I spoke to was too interested. Please come in. I'm Jenna, Chucky's sister. I called the police repeatedly, but I didn't think they took me seriously. They sent a detective who said it was an open-and-shut case. But you're a reporter! You wouldn't be here if you didn't think there was a story somewhere, right?" She paused, then rushed on before I could confirm her suspicion. "Is it wrong that I hoped someone would come to investigate? I thought about calling a newspaper, but figured they would just think I was kook. Do you think I'm a kook?"

  "No, not at all." I stopped, not expecting her openness. It would definitely make my interview easier. As for a kook? I was usually good at reading people, and Jenna didn't come off as any kook. She seemed more like someone who was very worried and also bizarrely pleased to see me. "I came to ask a few questions about Chucky's passing for the..."

  "So you suspect some kind of treachery too?" She gasped, holding her hands over her mouth. "Oh, thank you. You don't know what this means to me! Finally, someone else suspects besides me."

  "Suspects what?" I asked, over the frantic beat of my heart as my hopes rose. I would never wish an unfortunate demise on anyone, but it had already happened, and now, I wanted nothing but the truth. This, I decided, could be the thing that changed my day, taking it from blah to hopeful in an instant.

  "That he was murdered!"

  "Thank heavens!" I squeaked.

  Chapter Three

  Chucky Barnard's home was a veritable shrine to Chucky Barnard. Every available surface paid homage to his many achievements. There were trophies and medals for celebrity sporting events in which he competed as a teen and young adult. Cut-outs from magazines were framed and plastered on every wall, many featuring his brilliant white smile. There were photographs of him with his celebrity friends, presenting checks to charities, and one even shaking hands with a former president, reputedly a fan of the show that made Chucky famous. What stood out for me, however, was the age of the memorabilia; none of it was recent, which made me wonder, what had Chucky been doing with his life since the peak of his television career and fame?

  Even with the large volume of paraphernalia on display, I noted that Jenna had already half-packed several boxes. A quick peek inside as I passed by on the way to the couch, featured many more boastful merchandise items. Chucky, it seemed, loved himself a hell of a lot.

  "Murdered?" I repeated as Jenna dropped onto the adjacent easy chair, looking every bit like she belonged there. I gingerly stepped around a stack of original Not Just Chucky comic books while trying not to congratulate myself on gaining access to my first celebrity home. Sure, he wasn't A-list, but I was thrilled all the same.

  "My brother did not commit suicide! And he sure wasn't so dumb that he would accidentally overdose," she said with the air of someone who was absolutely committed to the idea.

  I wasn't sure about either of those things and I couldn't take Jenna's word for it. But her insistence intrigued me. "Why do you say that?" I asked, parking myself on the couch as I took out my reporter's notebook and a pen. I flipped the cover open and waited for her to tell me something to corroborate her claim.

  "For one thing, Chucky was always anti-drugs. He barely even took an aspirin for a headache. He definitely wouldn't have taken sleeping pills."

  "They found sleeping pills?" Bob's notes were sparse and I hadn't read anything about sleeping pills. There was merely a question over whether Chucky's death was accidental or not. Also something about an unmarked prescription bottle. Could they have been the pills Jenna mentioned?

  "That's what the police said. They found two bottles in his bedroom, but I told them Chucky does not, and has never, used sleeping pills."

  "How can you be so sure?" I asked, making my first note.

  "There was a kid on Chucky's show. He just had a bit part, but he was one of those on-off regulars that people instantly recognize. Anyway, this kid was having a hard time dealing with that brief bit of fame and later got a prescription from his doctor to help him sleep. Not Just Chucky was long over by then, but they were filming a spin-off show of his adventures as an adult. Anyway, one night, he and Chucky went to a bar and had a few beers before they went home. Chucky found him the next day. Dead. He was only twenty-one. Chucky told me after that happened, he would never take sleeping pills. It's just too easy to forget you took one, and pop another, then another. He blamed himself for not taking better care of the kid."

  My pen was poised over the paper. "What was the kid's name?"

  "Joe something."

  "What happened to the spin-off show? I don't remember seeing it."

  "It got canceled before it ever aired. The networks didn't want that kind of publicity, and neither did the studio."

  I nodded like I understood. "And when did this happen?" I asked, making a note. The name Joe didn't sound familiar, but I watched the entire eight seasons, mostly in reruns, just like every other kid of my generation. It was quite probable that I would know the guy’s face if not his name.

  "Almost twenty years ago."

  "Chucky could have changed his mind since then," I told her. "That was a long time ago. Perhaps he needed a little help sleeping."

  Jenna shook her head. "Uh-uh. No. Chucky told me so many times over the years, ‘Be careful of sleeping pills,’ and ‘don't ever start taking sleeping pills because they're bad for you.’ I don't care what anyone else says, he would never have begun taking them."

  "You're absolutely sure about that?" I asked. In my career, I'd encountered a lot of people doing things they would never have dreamed of telling their families about: drugs, cheating their neighbors or their employees, and on one memorable occasion, the theft of millions of dollars from an insurance company. What else could I say? People were devious by nature.

  "One hundred percent positive. I know people lie, but I also knew Chucky. He wouldn't. Our parents died not long after the spinoff show was cancelled and he took time out from acting to raise me. I was only thirteen. We were all each other had. He wouldn't leave me."

  "You think someone gave him those pills?"

  "Yes! How else could he have got them?"

  "Do you know if the script was made out to him?"

  "I don't remember."

  "You don't remember? You saw the bottle?" I prompted, hoping I guessed right. If she didn't remember, she must have seen them at some point. Jenna wrinkled her forehead in thought.

  "I found Chucky and there was a bottle in his hand. I remember that, but I don't remember reading it. There was a label on it, I think. It didn't r
egister at the time. It was only later when I spoke with the detective who told me what it was. I was so shocked, I'm still having a hard time remembering."

  "That's natural," I assured her. "What did you do after you found him?"

  "I checked his pulse and put my hand over his chest. I could tell he wasn't breathing. He was so cold, and his eyes... I grabbed the phone from his nightstand and went outside and called the police; then I sat on the stoop and waited for them."

  "Do you live here too?"

  "Oh, no. I live down the street. Chucky bought me the house, you know. He was so generous like that."

  "That is generous," I agreed. "Was there a reason you came over that day?"

  "Yeah. Chucky and I were supposed to have a conference call at ten that morning, but he wasn't answering his phone so I figured he must have overslept. I came over, let myself in and... and..." Jenna stopped, her throat choking.

  I needed to redirect the conversation quickly, so I urged Jenna to focus on something else besides the discovery of her brother. If she collapsed into tears, I could forget my story. "Let's go back to the conference call... What was it about?"

  "A new gig. I'm his manager. Chucky was so excited. It could have been his big comeback. He was going to host a new series about child stars; and what better person to host than one of the biggest child stars ever? He was going to interview them, do little comedy sketches, and put together old casts for reunions."

  "Do you think the gig would have gotten the go-ahead?"

  "Definitely. Chucky signed all the contracts and the show was already in pre-production. He just started filming last week. Why would he kill himself when he was just about to get everything he wanted? It makes no sense."

  I had to agree; it did seem strange that he would commit suicide by sleeping pills, given his aversion to such medication; and also since he was starting a big, new comeback gig. That didn't rule out accidental death, however, or even a secret addiction. Plus, having been in the press long enough to know that some public personas didn't match what people did in private, Chucky might have been vocal about sleeping pills, but that didn't mean he wasn't secretly using them. Something about Jenna's insistence that her brother wouldn't kill himself made me believe her.