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at Bobby Joe Taylor's house a few days. We're guests."
    "I'll drop by about five this evening."
    "But--" I didn't get a chance to protest. He'd hung up. And it was only after he'd done so that I remembered the lipstick message on the mirror. I should have reported it. As it was, I hadn't even mentioned it to Graf.
    "Are you okay, Sarah Booth?" Dallas asked. She was holding a slender, short skirt and a pair of spike heels that looked to be my size.
    "Apparently the fire last night was an arson."
    "Oh, my." She frowned. "Surely they don't think the fire was meant to harm you." Her face brightened. "I'll bet some gal went after Bobby Joe Taylor. He's got a bad reputation with the women. Likes to love 'em and leave 'em, or so I've heard."
    Sweet relief swept over me. The message on the mirror could as easily have been for Bobby Joe, calling him a hickand telling him to get out of town. He was from Alabama, and the hick title fit him as well as me. Even better, perhaps, if Dallas was right and he made a habit of rolling over people's feelings.
    That thought sustained me through the rest of the work day. When Graf and I drove up the mountain to the house that afternoon, we found Sheriff Grady King waiting for us.
    He was a handsome man--no surprise in a county where looks are part of a person's resume. Tall, lean, with an elegant mustache, King's sharp gray eyes took in every relevant detail. His gaze shifted from Graf to me to our left hands to the house and Sweetie Pie's nose poking up at a window.
    "You say you're visiting here?" he asked without even an introduction.
    Graf went through the whole spiel about how we were borrowing Bobby Joe Taylor's house while we were getting ready to film. King didn't make a single note but listened with full attention. There were things about him that brought Coleman to mind, and I snuffed out the attending emotions that came up.
    Graf gave him Bobby Joe's contact number, and we were about to walk inside when I turned back.
    "Someone broke into the house two days ago, while we were at the studio. They left a message in red lipstick." I repeated the words exactly. "I was so angry I cleaned them up before I even thought."
    I found myself caught between dual looks of concern and consternation.
    "You didn't mention this," Graf said without even an attempt to hide the accusation in his tone.
    "I figured the message was for Bobby Joe. I mean someone who had a key to the house." I shrugged. "I just assumed it was one of his ex-girlfriends who was mad. Bobby Joe is from Alabama and a reputed rounder. He could be called a hick as easily as me."
    Sheriff King was strangely quiet, another habit that reminded me of a Mississippi sheriff. "Would anyone leave such a message for you?" he asked me at last.
    I was about to answer that Suzy Dutton might be a little pissed that I'd gotten the role of Matty, but Graf beat me to the punch.
    "Everyone in town adores Sarah Booth. There isn't anyone who would leave such a note or even refer to her as a hick. Just because she's Southern doesn't mean she's a hayseed. She's sophisticated."
    "Thanks, Graf." It was nice to have someone rush to my defense, even if it wasn't the complete and total truth.
    "If you think of anything, give me a call." The sheriff pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to Graf. "I'd get the locks on the house changed. If Mr. Taylor has a harem of distressed women chasing him down, you don't want to get caught in the crosshairs."
    "You think a woman started that blaze?" Graf asked. "Arson doesn't seem to be a female crime."
    King tilted his head as if he were considering. "I thought you were an actor, Mr. Milieu. I didn't realize you were also a criminal profiler."
    Graf didn't react instantly. He thought it through. "I gather you have some issues with actors," he said softly.
    "No, no, that's not it at all. I enjoy the picture shows as much as the next one. What I have an issue with is a person who thinks they're so special they don't have