The avocado-colored fridge held yogurt, cottage cheese, decaf, nonfat Mocha Mix, some bruised peaches and plums, grapes that had started to pucker. In the freezer was a package of skinless chicken breasts and a dozen boxes of Lean Cuisine.

Dieting. Trying to better himself, the poor guy. And someone had gutted him like a fish.

The living room contained two straight-backed chairs, eight guitars on stands, and three amplifiers. Atop one amp was an obtrusive bit of elegance- a charming little cloisonné box, black enamel decorated with red dragons. Inside was an assortment of guitar picks.

And that was it.

Petra ’s cell phone tooted. The clerk at the station informed her that Linus Brophy had called, wanted to know if she needed him for anything else.

She laughed and hung up.

More of the usual procedures took up the next few days- lots of perspiration, no inspiration. Petra ’s esophagus ached, and her head pounded. The case was starting to acquire that nasty whodunit reek.

At 1 A.M., Monday, sitting at her desk, she got to Baby Boy’s datebook.

The black leatherette volume was virtually empty, save for scant reminders to shop for groceries, pick up laundry, or “call J. T.”

Lee keeping in touch with Jackie True. Hoping for what?

Then Petra came to the week of the murder. A single notation spanned all seven days: the large, right-slanted block letters she’d come to know as Baby Boy’s. But larger, penned in thick, black marker.

GIG AT S.P.

No exclamation points, but there might as well have been. Lee’s excitement came across in the scale.

Petra flipped a page to today’s date: Two notations, much smaller letters. Baby Boy planning a future that never arrived.

Gold Rush Studios? $$$?

That made sense. Jackie True had told her Baby Boy was still fired up, had intended to spend some of his Snake Pit fees on a recording session.