Her gaze went straight to me, and she clapped her hands together, giving a kittenish mew of delight. She floated over, chiffon scarf streaming behind.

"Jaime Vegas. Oh, my sweet Lord, it is you!" She took both my hands and clasped them as she gazed up in limpid adoration. "You're my idol. I've been following your career since I was-" a girlish laugh, "-knee-high to a grasshopper, as my daddy would say."

A cameraman and a journalist appeared behind her, recording every frame and word. I tilted my head to my best angle and swept my hair back so it wouldn't block my profile. The lens inched my way.

"That's so sweet of you," I said. "And you must be…?"

"Angelique… but my friends call me Angel. The Angel of the South."

"Oh, of course. Let me guess, you're the third spiritualist."

"I am. Can you believe that?" An earsplitting squeal of a giggle. "My big chance to work with Jaime Vegas. I was so afraid you'd retire before I got the chance."

I gave a throaty laugh. "Don't worry, I'm not retiring for a while."

Around us, the party had stopped, everyone watching the drama unfold.

"So, do you have any theories on Marilyn's death?" I asked.

"Oh, it was such a tragedy," she said. "Someone so young and beautiful, called to heaven too soon. My daddy-he's a minister, you know-always says-"

"I meant theories on how she died."

A wave of titters.

"Oh, yes, of course. Well, er, that's what we're here to learn, isn't it? To free her from the limbo of a tragic passing, to discover who wronged so innocent a soul."

"So you think she was murdered? Are you leaning toward the Kennedys or the Mafia?"

"Oh, my Lord, that is such a beautiful dress. So daring. My daddy would die if I wore something like that. You're so brave!" She waved to the cameraman. "Doug, you have to get a shot of the two of us, for my press release."