As I neared the dining room, I heard a crisp British voice snap, "Because it's ridiculous, that's why. Mr. Grady is a professional. He will not be subjected to mockery."

Before I pushed open the door, I pictured the speaker: a stylish woman, roughly my age, dressed in a suit and oozing efficiency. I walked in, and there she was-short blond hair, thin lips, small and wiry, as if extra flesh would be a sign of softness she could ill afford. Icy green eyes glared from behind her tiny glasses. Personal assistant model A: the bulldog, designed to raise hell on her client's behalf, leaving him free to play the gracious, good-natured star.

Facing her was a younger woman, maybe thirty, dumpy, with a shoulder-length bob and worried eyes. Director model C: the overwhelmed first-timer.

The dining room, like most of the house, had been "redecorated" to accommodate the shoot. The homeowners had cleared out anything they didn't want damaged, so the dining set was gone, replaced by a cheaper one. As for the dead guy hanging from the chandelier, I suspected he came with the house, and was probably tough to remove without an exorcism or two.

The hanging man was maybe fifty, average size but with heavy jowls, as if he'd lost a lot of weight fast. He swayed from an old crystal chandelier, superimposed over the modern one. His face was mottled and swollen, eyes thankfully closed.

I eyed him from the doorway so I wouldn't be tempted to stare once I was in the room. After thirty years of seeing ghosts, you learn all the tricks.

This one, though, wasn't a ghost but a residual. What tragedy had brought him to an end so emotionally powerful that the image was seared forever in this room? I doused my curiosity. It would do me no good. When you see scenes like this every day, you can't afford to stop and wonder. You just can't.

Both women turned as I entered. The assistant's gaze slid over me, lips tightening as if someone had shoved a lemon wedge in her mouth. I flashed a smile and her lips pursed more. If you can't still turn the heads of twenty-year-old boys, winning the catty disapproval of women your own age is a good consolation prize.

I stopped a hairbreadth from the hanged man and tried not to recoil as his swaying body circled my way.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," I said to the woman with the worried eyes. "I was sent to speak to the director, Becky Cheung. Would that be you?"

She smiled and extended a hand. "It is. And you must be Jaime Vegas. This is Claudia Wilson, Bradford Grady's assistant."

I shook Cheung's hand. "Should I step outside and let you two finish?"

"No, no." Desperation touched Becky's voice. "This concerns you too. We're discussing a promo shot. Mr. Simon has decided he wants the three stars to say a line."

Claudia shot a hard look at Becky. "A specific line. Tell her what it is."

"Um… T see dead people.' "

The. hanged man's stockinged footswung past my arm as I managed a laugh. "I think I've heard that one before."

Becky's gaze went to mine, searching for some sign that I was offended. "We-Mr. Simon-thought it would be fun."

"It sounds like a cute gimmick."

"Mr. Grady does not do gimmicks," Claudia said, then strode from the room.

"Thanks," Becky whispered. "This isn't as easy as I thought. Everyone's taking it very…"

"Seriously? We're trying to raise the ghost of Marilyn Monroe. If that doesn't scream cheap thrills, what does? I'm in it for the fun." I grinned. "And the chance to spend a week in a neighborhood like this."

"Not everyone is so thrilled with that part. I think we're going to lose Starr Phillips."

"I heard she wasn't happy about the living arrangements."

"I know it's unusual, but the studio is all over us to cut the budget. Mr. Simon thought this would be the most efficient way to handle the preshow tapings. Put the three of you up in a rented house in Brentwood, a block from the Monroe home, where we can do all the preshow work and media in one swoop." A crew member motioned from the doorway. "Whoops. Gotta run. Here's your schedule for the afternoon, just media interviews and-"

My cell phone rang. I could tell who it was by the ring tone, and I'm sure I broke into a grin more becoming to a four-year-old than a woman of forty-four. I motioned to Becky that I'd just be a second, then told the caller I'd phone right back. When I hung up, Becky gave me a ten-second rundown on my afternoon obligations, and passed me the schedule. Then I was sprinting for the door as fast as my platform sandals could take me. Four-inch heels aren't made for anything speedier than a runway stroll, but I pushed them to a quick march, inspiring a look of alarm from two passing workmen.

I told myself Jeremy had a plane to catch, but even if he hadn't, I'd still have hurried.

I know I should have more self-respect. More dignity. The way I see it, though, it's karmic payback. I've always been the one leading the chase-inspiring the bad love poetry, setting the hoops ever higher-then waltzing away when I grew bored. Now, I guess some cosmic force had decided it was time for me to make a fool of myself.

I'd taken a big chance asking Jeremy to join me for the week.

We were-despite my hopes-just friends. Then, a few weeks ago, we'd been talking about the show and, having had a few drinks, the segue came easily. To my shock, he'd said yes. Now he was flying three thousand miles just to see me. That had to mean something.

The patio opened to a terraced yard stuffed with perennial borders, gazebos, ornamental trees and statuary. As I trotted along the flagstone path, winding around one fountain, one pond and two oversized statues, I wondered whether a trail of bread crumbs would have been wise.