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nearly nine. Beside me, Nick was sleeping peacefully with Tinkerbell curled up on his chest and Cat stretched out next to his leg, resting her chin on his ankle.
    Since Sunday morning was the only day of the week he allowed himself to sleep late, I climbed out of bed as gently as I could. Fortunately, my dogs limited their early-morning activity to staring at me expectantly, as if worried I might forget that letting them out was always the first order of the day. They both wagged their tails furiously, although Max, having only a stub left, actually wagged his whole butt. How the two of them managed to do that with full bladders, I couldn’t imagine. It was some canine secret that hadn’t been revealed to us in vet school.
    As quietly as possible, I let them out the back door, checked the water bowls for all my winged and four-legged loved ones as I gave each of the others a pat and a cheerful “good morning,” and headed straight for the coffeepot. While my good pal Mr. Coffee gurgled away, working his usual magic, I stuck an English muffin into the toaster oven and hunched over the tiny kitchen counter, watching the peaks and valleys on the surface darken.
    You have a friend in need and a murder to solve, I reminded myself firmly. No matter what Nick thinks, no matter how busy you are this week being welcomed into the Burby clan, no matter how many clients you have to see, and no matter how far behind you are in coming up with a topic for Friday’s
Pet People
spot on Channel 14, you made a promise to Betty.
    I tried not to dwell on the fact that the first step I was going to have to take was contacting one of my least favorite people—a vain, self-centered man with a Napoleon complex. After all, Lieutenant Anthony Falcone, Chief of Norfolk County Homicide, was most likely the best source of information about what the police were doing to solve Simon Wainwright’s murder. Even if I was sure he wouldn’t be inclined to share very much of it with me.
    I hoped Falcone would be working despite the fact that it was Sunday. I was pretty sure that the Norfolk County Homicide Department, like the Big Apple, never sleeps.
    I waited until after nine, which seemed like an appropriate time to begin conducting business on a weekend morning. By that point, my two cups of coffee and my two halves of an English muffin had brought me fully into consciousness.
    But even a healthy dose of caffeine can only do so much. I was still filled with dread as I punched in the familiar number.
    “Homicide. Officer Delaney speaking.” Not surprisingly, the officer who answered the phone sounded less than cordial. I figured he probably wasn’t very happy about having to work on a Sunday morning.
    “I’d like to speak to Lieutenant Falcone,” I announced confidently.
    “He’s not here,” the crusty officer at the other end of the line informed me. With a great deal of satisfaction, it seemed to me. “Want his voice mail?”
    “Where is he, if you don’t mind me asking?”
    “Actually, I do mind. But since he just left for a ten o’clock press conference, that’s not exactly top secret information. Anybody with a TV or a radio will be able to figure out where he is.”
    “May I ask where it’s taking place?”
    “You’ll probably see it in the background when you turn on your TV.”
    “Thanks for all your help,” I replied dryly before hanging up.
    I coudln’t be positive, but I had a feeling that if Lieutenant Anthony Falcone was holding a press conference, it was almost certainly related to Simon Wainwright’s murder—and that he’d be sure to stage it at a place that would provide him with the greatest possible sense of drama. I was beginning to suspect there were a lot of actors out there who had never set foot in a theater.

    Adrenaline surged through my veins as I wriggled into an outfit that was more or less respectable, depending on how high your standards were, and jumped into my red VW Bug. Sure enough, as I pulled