I was going to have to stop sleeping on couches.

My arm had fallen asleep during the night sometime after the rest of me, and it felt as if a colony of bees had made their home inside. The kink in my neck was back, the poison oak patch had conquered new territory, and both knees were accented with crusty scabs the color of a bad red wine.

And I had pillow hair.

Dan was gone. In his place on the lumpy couch, next to his curled-up cat, was a note that read, “How about lunch at the Nugget around noon? Got a few things to take care of this morning. Dan. P.S. You snore.”

I do not snore. It was probably his cat.

I rolled out of the couch bed, fluffed my flat hair, rubbed my numb arm, massaged my stiff neck, scratched all around my poison oak, and ignored my ugly knees.

A vision of the dead mystery man popped into my head. Things certainly could be worse.

After a quick stop at home to feed Casper and take a shower, change into fresh jeans and a Dr. Seuss T-shirt, I made a brief search for the calamine lotion. Not finding the bottle, I made a mental note to pick up a refill, then taped new bandages over my knees. Patched together temporarily, I rode my bike to the Mark Twain Slept Here Inn.

Looking a little less anxious than the previous day, Beau was sitting on the verandah with his mocha and reading my competition.

“Any dirt?” I called up as I parked the bike off to the side of the porch.

“In this rag? Are you kidding? Just another tabloid full of lies. Of course, that’s why I read it. But it could use a few more stories about Sean Connery and not so many about Leviathan Smiley’s latest grandchild. By the way, loved your mystery puzzle last week.”

“Did you solve it?” I plopped down in a wicker chair next to him and eyed his drink.

“I would have, if you hadn’t made the clues so obscure. How was I supposed to know it would take two bottles of rat poison to kill the IRS agent. I thought it was at least twice that. Did you read the story on ‘The Bed-and-Breakfast Murder’?” He held up the front-page headline. It read: “Dead-and-Breakfast,” with a by-line by Mary Meek. “They just had to call it that, didn’t they. Oh, well. Business is booming. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing. Everyone wants a crime scene with their blueberry scones and heirloom comforters, I guess. Want a mocha?”

“I would die for one of your mochas, pardon the expression. With cinnamon. And whipping cream. And chocolate sprinkles. In one of those oversized mugs with—”

“One Sanka, black, coming up.”

Beau returned moments later with my coffee-and-chocolate drink, just the way I like it. The break gave me a chance to think about the previous night’s tragedy.

“Get any sleep last night?” I asked, when Beau returned.

“Not a wink. Of course, I don’t think the dead man got much sleep while he was here either, so I shouldn’t complain. At least I woke up this morning. Can’t say the same for him.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, after licking the mocha mustache from my upper lip.

“He’s dead.”

“I know that! I mean, what do you mean about not getting much sleep?”

Beau pursed his lips. “Well, I’m not one to gossip,” he said, then flushed when I rolled my eyes. “But our mystery man had a visitor practically every night he was here. And the two of them weren’t exactly playing Yahtzee in there.”

“Really! Who was it? Lacy?”

“I don’t know. I don’t spy on my guests, contrary to what you might suspect. But every morning when I cleaned the room I’d find evidence of a midnight guest.”

“Like what?”

“Well, wine glasses and empty bottles. Cosmetic jars. All that women’s stuff. You know.”

I knew women’s stuff.

“And that bottle of hair coloring the sheriff found. It wasn’t a common brand, like Clairol. It was called ‘Persistence’ or ‘Permanence,’ or something like that. I think the shade was Cappuccino. Personally I prefer Cinnamon on mine. It’s a little more subtle.”

So the bigamist had a visitor who colored her hair. Lacy? I asked Beau if he’d saved any of the castaways but he hadn’t. The sheriff had confiscated the hair-coloring bottle, and the rest of the discards were long gone. For another half hour we discussed all the possibilities of who the man might have entertained, but came up with nothing that resembled a solution. Beau hadn’t seen a strange car, hadn’t glimpsed a telltale silhouette on the window shade, hadn’t found anything other than the “women’s stuff.”

I thanked Beau for the mocha and rode my bike to the office. Miah was keying in the obituary for yesterday’s murder victim.

“It’s like trying to make a mountain out of a molehill,” Miah said. “We’ve got nothing on this guy.” He leaned aside to let me read the bit of copy. An anthill was more like it.

“I’ve got an idea. Let’s make a couple of phone calls.”

Miah dialed the first phone number I gave him. I read his lips as he asked the questions I had written out, and watched him jot down the responses. He called the next number, and the next, using his obituary format to glean the information we needed.

“Great job!” I gave him two vigorous thumbs up. “Listen, I’ve got to go see someone. Can you hold things together for me while I’m out? I’ve got Barbara Libbey coming in with that report on the frog festival ticket sales in about an hour, and three more fillers to add. Will you cover those for me? I’ll owe you.”

“You always owe me,” Miah said, sweeping his blond hair back. Nipple ring or no nipple ring, he was still the cutest young guy in Flat Skunk. I was grateful for his help. I hoped he was grateful for the paycheck.

My next stop was the mortuary. I hoped for another little chat with French and Celeste, but French wasn’t in. I knocked on Celeste’s door. She greeted me courteously but didn’t seem to be her usual cheery self. Small puffy pillows framed her eyes. Her usually perfect hair was flat and droopy. She wore an extra layer of makeup, as if to mask her emotions rather than cover up her blemishes. She kept her hands fisted at her sides.

With slumped shoulders she led me into her office, promising attention for the next few minutes, until the expected prospective buyer arrived—a man who apparently knew the value of purchasing “pre-need.”

“Sorry about all the questions the other day,” I said. “I was just trying to get some information for the newspaper. This Lacy Penzance thing is a big story and I’d like to write the best possible report I can. I guess I pushed a little too far.”

She gave a half-smile. The fists remained clenched. I went on.

“Pre-need, huh? It sure is popular. I guess that’s what I should do for my aunt.”

Celeste spoke with little animation or enthusiasm, almost as if by rote. “Most people don’t want to leave the financial burden to their bereaved loved ones. How is your aunt?” Although facing me, she didn’t look me in the eye.

“Fine, actually,” I said quickly. “Couldn’t be better.”

Celeste appeared unimpressed. She looked past me and I wondered if someone had appeared at the door behind me. A quick turnaround revealed no one.

“Celeste, I was wondering. Are you handling the burial of the man who died last night?”

Celeste’s lips tightened slightly. She looked at her watch, then rifled through some papers on her desk. “What man?”

“The man who was killed at the bed-and-breakfast last night. You did hear the news?”

She interrupted with a wave of her hand. “Oh—yeah. Uh, no, I don’t think Memory Kingdom is going to be involved with the … resolution of the body. At least, I haven’t heard anything yet. I’m sure he’s—it’s—still over at the coroner’s office.”

“You didn’t happen to know him, did you, Celeste?”

Celeste stopped fiddling with the papers, pressed her hands on the desk, and met my eyes. “For God’s sakes, Connor! Not this again. What is with you? No, I didn’t know him! Why would you even think that?”

Definitely hit a nerve.

“Sorry. Guess I figured you knew everyone who comes to pass in this town, you being in the mortuary business and all. Pretty narrow-minded of me, huh?”

She just glared. I went on. “People are always thinking the same thing about me. Do I know this deaf person or that deaf person. They think we’re all one big happy family, just because we’re deaf.” I laughed, then turned it into a cough. This was getting me nowhere.

I ran my fingers through my hair. “God, these murders are making me old before my time. I think I’m getting a few new gray hairs from all this stress.”

She didn’t take the hint, just narrowed her eyes as if trying to figure out what the hell I was talking about. I floundered on.

“That color you’re using. It’s really natural looking. I tried a new color a while back but it didn’t do anything except turn my hair an unflattering shade of green. I guess you do your own coloring, being a former beautician and all.”

“Stylist. We don’t use ‘beautician’ anymore.” Celeste absentmindedly pushed at her flat hair, picking strands from the bottom and twirling them in her manicured fingers.

“What color is it?”

She spoke listlessly. “I mix them. I could do yours for you sometime, if you want.”

“That’d be great. Where do I buy the colors you use?”

“I can get them for you at the beauty supply shop. They give me a discount.”

Still nowhere. I needed a name. Another tack.

“Is it Clairol? My mother used Clairol.”

She shook her flat but shiny mane. “No, that’s for housewives who prefer to do it themselves when they really shouldn’t. I use professional coloring.”

“What brand?”

Celeste looked at me, paused, frowned, then said, “I don’t remember. I use all different kinds.”

Right. “Beau says he uses a color called Cappuccino, I think. No, wait—Cinnamon. He—”

Celeste paled and her eyes flared open. I thought she was going to speak but she said nothing.

“Celeste, is anything wrong? You don’t look very well.”

She blinked and sat up straight. “No. Everything’s fine. Just tired, I guess. Didn’t get much sleep last night. I think I’m overdoing it.”

Join the club. She got up to show me out. I didn’t move but turned around in my chair and watched her walk toward the door. “Celeste, I have one more quick question.”

“I do have this appointment, Connor. If you don’t mind, could we make it some other time?”

“Do you know Risa Longo?”

Celeste blinked and started to shake her head. “I—”

“Arden Morris?”

Celeste closed her mouth and looked at me.

“Gail Knight?”

Celeste closed the door, turned around, and crossed her arms in front of her.

“No, I’ve never heard of them. What do you want, Connor?”

I was certain there was a connection, but I had to create the details. Being deaf, you learn how to bluff well, especially when you don’t want to give away how little you sometimes understand.

“They all knew you … They met you when their first husbands died … They were all counseled by you in their time of grief … And they all thought you were a saint.” I peeled out my fingers one at a time for each point. The phone calls Miah had made for me were paying off.

Celeste didn’t smile at the compliment of being compared to a saint. “So? A lot of people come and go around here. I have many clients. Now, I really have to—”

“Celeste, I think you were at the bed-and-breakfast last night, with the man known occasionally as James Russell. There was a bottle of hair color found at the scene. I’ll bet it was yours.”

“What? You’re crazy. Why on earth would I go there to color my hair? Besides, mine is Mahogany, not Cappuccino—” She stopped abruptly.

“How did you know it was Cappuccino they found at the B-and-B?”

Celeste’s face drained of color, leaving the artificial glow of blush on her cheeks. She looked like a rag doll.

“You knew the man who was staying there. The man who was apparently married to at least three wealthy women. The man who was about to marry a fourth: Lacy Penzance.”

“I … don’t …”

“Do you know what happened to him, Celeste?”

“No, I …”

“Did you kill him, Celeste?” I asked impulsively, then suddenly realized I might be standing in front of a cold-blooded murderer, unarmed and defenseless. I glanced around for a protective weapon, but Celeste didn’t whip out a trocar and try to shish-kebab me.

Instead, she burst into tears. Wild, physical sobs, tears streaming down her overly made-up face, giving a bizarre carnival look. She leaned back against the door and slid weakly to the floor.

All I could do was sit there and let the outburst run its course. After the big sobs subsided she spoke, her mouth wet from the copious tears.

“I … didn’t … kill … Jim … I didn’t … I loved him.”

I knelt over her and took her hand, but she pulled it away. I moved down next to her on the floor, close, but not touching, so I could watch her lips.

“You were there last night.”

She bit her lip, then said, “I went to see him, yes, for a while.”

“Why?”

Celeste paused, bit her lip hard enough to make a mark, and wiped her running nose with the palm of her hand. “I helped him with his hair. And then I left. That’s it. He was alive and perfectly fine—and now he’s dead.” She burst into tears again.

I waited a few moments. “He was your husband, wasn’t he?”

She looked at me, her expression a mixture of panic and amazement.

“The ring.” I nodded at the gold band she was twisting on her finger.

I waited for the next outburst of tears to subside as we sat on the floor, facing one another. “You found out about his relationship with Lacy, and you killed him? And her?”

“No! No! I told you! I didn’t kill him—or her.”

“But you know about the other women …”

Celeste nodded. It caused her nose to drip down onto her lip. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

“What are you going to do?” she said, in jerky, hiccuping sentences. I had to strain my eyes to understand her altered speech.

“Nothing. I just want to know what this is all about. I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.”

“Are you going to tell the sheriff?”

“No, but you should. If you don’t, he’ll figure it out for himself. He found hairs and fingerprints—and that bottle of dye your husband used to change his appearance. It won’t take him long.”

Tears welled again in her eyes. “I didn’t kill Jim. I met him a couple of years ago, when I was a hairdresser in Hollywood.”

I nodded for her to continue.

“He was an actor, an aspiring one anyway. We hit it off and got married impulsively one night. Things went fine for a while, wonderful really. But then I lost my job and he wasn’t getting much work as an actor. So I took the mortuary job up here while he stayed in L.A. trying to get parts.”

Celeste took a deep breath and pinched her nose.

“Where’d you get the idea to introduce him to your clients?”

She looked away and wiped a tear that spilled down her splotchy cheeks. “I … I started working as a grief counselor for French. All these lonely rich widows would tell me their problems, just to have someone to talk to. I used to tell Jim about them. Some of the things they would tell me …”

She reached over to her desk, grabbed a tissue, and blew her nose.

“So, once you had the information on them, you introduced them to James?”

“He got the idea to meet them. He’d call them up and say he was an old army buddy or college friend of their dead husband’s. Then he’d ask them out to dinner and share some of the information I’d learned about them. You know, to prove he was an old friend.”

“So it was his idea to romance them?” I suggested.

Celeste laughed. “No one could resist Jimmy’s charm. Not even me. He was a great actor.”

She wiped the moist streaks under her eyes and took another breath.

“And then he married them?”

“Not at first. At first he just took what money he could get. It didn’t seem so bad. They were rich. They could spare it. And he gave them a wonderful fantasy life. But over time he got carried away.”

“He didn’t stop there?” I suggested.

Celeste pulled a tissue from the desk and kneaded it in her hands. “If things looked promising he’d propose, thinking that would get him even more—property deeds, wills, things like that. Then one day he said he was going to marry one of them.”

“Then he’d what—take their money and run?”

Celeste smeared a tear off her cheek. “Sometimes he’d withdraw money from the bank, or liquidate their homes or cars, saying he needed the cash for a secret mission or journalism job or whatever. He was very creative at coming up with excuses for leaving for weeks at a time. And the money we—he made—it was phenomenal!”

She smiled wistfully. It seemed what she admired most about her man was his ability to lie so effectively.

“How did he get away with that? Didn’t the women become suspicious?”

“Not until Lacy. He was very careful. These women wanted to believe in him so badly, they’d buy into almost anything he said. He’d take off for weeks at a time, saying he was on some kind of mission, then come back for a few days, give them a thrill, get some more money, then take off again.”

“How could he keep that up? Especially with so many women?”

Celeste shrugged. “After a while he just wouldn’t return to the earlier ones anymore. He’d send a fake telegram about his death without leaving any information they could trace. He took what he could and then moved on to the next one.”

“And you set him up.”

Celeste didn’t answer. Her eyes welled with tears. “It wasn’t supposed to be that way. But Jimmy was so persuasive. He said he didn’t love any of them. Just me. I hated sharing him with those old women, but what could I do?”

“The two of you essentially ran a kind of polygamy ring,” I said, summarizing her exploits into a clear ugly picture.

She sniffled and looked and me pleadingly. “We didn’t really hurt anyone. The women were happy to find someone who loved them again. They didn’t need all that money—they weren’t going to live forever, and they had plenty. They loved having this exciting, elusive man in their fantasy lives, even when he was gone.”

“How did he keep all the women separate? Wasn’t he afraid they’d find out about each other?”

“He was careful. They were all in different towns. Since I travel from place to place working for the Memory Kingdom chain, it made it easy to find new prospects throughout the Mother Lode.”

“And Arden Morris? What about her?”

“She moved to Rio Vista after they were married.”

“Did he kill Lacy because she found out about the bigamy scam?” I asked.

“No! He didn’t kill anyone! Neither of us did! He was just in it for the money. And I was in it for him mostly. Nobody got hurt—except Jimmy.”

“You don’t know that for sure. What about Lacy? She got hurt. She’s dead. And I’m fairly certain she was onto him. And perhaps onto you, too.”

“I know she was onto something. She found out about Risa Longo—I guess she went through Jim’s wallet and found the business card or something. She went up to Whiskey Slide to see for herself. But it wasn’t a big deal. Jimmy was just going to disappear for a while until things cooled off. They’d never find him because he had so many false identities.”

“But Lacy died.”

“Yes, she’s dead. And I’m sorry, not that I particularly liked her. She was just another spoiled, rich lady. But we didn’t have anything to do with her death.”

“Somebody used a trocar, Celeste. From the mortuary.”

“I know! I know! I don’t know how they got it. But I swear to you, we didn’t do it. That’s way out of our league.”

“You can’t really speak for James Russell, can you?”

Celeste looked at me. A large tear collected in the corner of her eye, rolled under her nose and down to her lip, then dropped to the floor, making a tiny damp circle in the dark carpet.