But what about Tania? She was the one—along with Cartwright Records Television—who was supposed to be responsible for keeping these girls busy during their stay at her camp.

“Perfect,” I say. “This is just perfect.” Stephanie will be thrilled that her plan to turn three talented vocalists into backstabbing little divas is turning out so nicely.

“There are also,” Jamie says, “these.” She hands me ten registration cards. They’re the cards residents sign upon checking in, noting that they’ve received their key. All ten have keys taped to them and signatures under the checkout line.

“They checked out?” I ask, bewildered, even though it’s obvious.

“Yeah,” Jamie says. “Last night. I guess Tania Trace Rock Camp didn’t sound like so much fun after hearing that a guy got murdered by one of Tania’s own fans, right here in the building.”

I can feel my mouth pressing into a thin line. “That isn’t exactly how it happened—”

“Well,” Jamie says, “that’s how they’re reporting it on the news. A few of the girls’ parents heard about it and freaked. Some of the moms checked out with their daughters. One dad drove all the way from Delaware to pick up his daughter. The roommate went with them. The others checked into hotels. I’ll guess they’ll be flying home today. Lisa dealt with it. I’m sure you’ll hear all about it.”

I’m sure I will.

“Thanks, Jamie,” I say.

“I’m sorry, Heather,” she says, looking as if she means it. “I guess none of this is going the way we’d hoped. Oh, and none of us is quite sure what to do about the stuff in the package room.”

“What stuff in the package room?” I ask, perplexed.

She hands me the key. I walk over to the door, unlock it, and can barely believe the sight that meets my eyes. The entire room is filled with deliveries. Not just roses, but every conceivable kind of flower, including lilies and carnations and huge sunbursts of gerbera daisies, bunches of balloons, teddy bears, candles, fruit baskets, store-bought cards, and handmade cards, some three feet tall. Most of them are addressed to Tania, but some are addressed to Jared, or “In Memory of . . .”

“People started stopping by with this stuff last night, and it’s been coming ever since,” Jamie says. “I’m not sure why. Tania’s not the one who died. But I think they figured out that the cupcakes were for her and that someone wanted to hurt her. Some of them have been crying so much they could hardly talk. We didn’t really know what to do with it all, so Gavin started locking everything into the package room. We’re going to run out of space in a little while, though.”

My eyes inexplicably fill with tears, looking at all the teddy bears holding signs that say, GOD BLESS YOU! and the handmade cards—some of them in Spanish—that say, WE WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU. Tania may have her problems, but there’s something about her with which people really seem to connect. I can’t help thinking that if people knew the truth about the hardships she’s had to overcome—the real hardships, the ones she’s too ashamed to speak of and has struggled so long to hide—they’d love her even more.

“Thanks, Jamie,” I say, closing the door and handing the key back to her. “I’ll talk to the network and see if they can send someone down to collect it all. Keep accepting whatever people bring—unless it’s food, of course. Tell people you’re not allowed to accept any food. And if a creepy-looking middle-aged man comes by—”

She looks at me blankly. “A middle-aged man? What exactly does ‘creepy-looking’ mean? Because some of the girls’ dads have been by, and they’re a little creepy-looking—”

I realize I’ve jumped the gun a little. Cooper had left a message for Detective Canavan the night before, asking him to call us back as soon as he could, even though I’d argued that this would betray Tania’s trust.

“She told me to tell no one,” I’d said to him. “And I’ve already told you, and now you’re going to tell the police—”

“The man is a murderer, Heather,” Cooper said. “Tania’s going to need to stop worrying so much about the public relations angle of this thing and get real. It’s all going to come out, one way or another.”

“It isn’t the bad PR she’s worried about,” I’d said. “It’s that he’s going to hurt her baby.”

“Well, his chances of doing that are going to be a lot slimmer once he’s locked up in Rikers,” Cooper said.

It was hard to argue with that line of reasoning. When Detective Canavan called back early this morning, I was the one who picked up the phone. He’d listened to everything I’d had to say about Tania’s former husband—I didn’t sugarcoat it—interrupting only to say the occasional swear word. When I’d finished, he’d said, in his most sarcastic tone, “Well, this is great, Wells. This is just fantastic. We got a homicidal maniac on the loose, and you tell me I have to keep it to myself because of your ex-boyfriend’s new wife’s feelings? I got news for you. This ain’t a Lifetime special, and I ain’t John Stamos.”

I refrained from mentioning that it was hardly likely that Lifetime would cast someone as young as John Stamos to play him. Possibly Tom Selleck.

“We’re only keeping you in the loop as a courtesy,” I said, “because you’re a friend.”

Cooper winced when I said this. At the time I hadn’t realized why . . . until the detective blew up.

“I’m not your friend!” he shouted into the phone. “I’m an officer of the law! You just told me a witness—your good friend Tania Trace—lied under questioning, not once but twice. As a citizen of this city, she had a duty to reveal what she knew.”

“She’s scared,” I said. “She went to the police before for help, and they didn’t offer her any. Isn’t there a statute or something for that? Like the burning bed defense?” I’d actually seen a movie about this on Lifetime.

“Burning bed, my ass,” Detective Canavan growled. “I wish she’d burn this guy in his bed. That’d save me a whole lot of paperwork. You know what I was doing all night? Questioning hippie vegetarian cupcake bakers, trying to figure out if anyone at that Pattycakes place might remember having sold a dozen gluten-free jimmy jobs with vanilla soy gummy whatevers to anyone who mentioned Tania Trace, or if any of them put the poison in the cakes personally. But guess what? Lab results actually came back in a timely fashion for a change, and it turns out those things weren’t vegan or vegetarian or whatever the hell they were supposed to be at all. They didn’t even come from Pattycakes. Guy only used a Pattycakes box. He made the damned cupcakes himself out of a mix, which, if you ask me, is how the hell you’re supposed to make a cake in the first place. Quite the artist he was too, with the icing. Bought the little violets, though. He didn’t make those.”