Buried In Buttercream

interesting stuff.”
    “Spill it.”
    Tammy reached into her purse, took out her electronic tablet, and turned it on. “Well, he’s the one who told me about the convention and the various classes. He even checked the lists to see who attended what.”
    “He did all that for you over the phone?” Dirk asked, astonished and maybe a tad jealous.
    “He certainly did.”
    “How?” Dirk wanted to know.
    Tammy batted her eyelashes. “If you’re a girl and use a southern accent, you can get a guy to do anything for you. Huh, Savannah?”
    Savannah glanced at Dirk, shrugged, and cleared her throat. “What else did this concierge tell you?”
    “He told me that when a hotel guest enters their room, using their key card, the time registers on the hotel’s security computer. And he told me exactly when Ethan Aberson entered and exited his room every day since he’s been there.”
    “Okay,” Dirk said. “Anything interesting?”
    Tammy glanced down at her tablet’s screen. “The day that Madeline was killed, he left his hotel room at nine fourteen in the morning. And he didn’t return until a little after three in the afternoon.”
    “Maybe he was at a seminar on hair-dressing trends or a symposium on complementary shades of pancake makeup,” Savannah said. She glanced at the scowling Dirk and added, “Or not.... Sorry.”
    “There were classes, but he didn’t attend any of them,” Tammy told her.
    “He was gone from the hotel the whole time?” Dirk said, perking up considerably.
    Tammy nodded.
    “But he was in Las Vegas at nine fourteen and back at three,” Dirk said, coming down a bit. “That’s six hours. And it would take him at least five or six hours to make the drive to San Carmelita, one way. Even if he flew from Vegas to LA and then drove to San Carm ... it’d still take too long.”
    “Not if he flew from Vegas to Santa Barbara and drove down here from there,” Savannah said. “It would be snug, but he could have done it.”
    “If he didn’t dally when he was doing the murder.”
    “Doesn’t take that long to plunge a long, sharp object into your soon-to-be-ex-wife’s back.”
    Tammy held up one hand. “Before you two get all excited, I’ll tell you, I already thought of all that and checked it out. He wasn’t here.” She lifted her chin and grinned, looking quite pleased with herself. “I know where he was.”
    “The concierge spilled that, too?”
    “As a matter of fact, he did. The day before the murder, the concierge arranged a car rental for Ethan and printed out directions for him to a brothel called Monique’s Ranch. It’s about an hour drive from Vegas. The next day—the day Madeline was killed—when the concierge asked Ethan how he liked the brothel, he said he’d had such a good time, he was on his way back, right then, for a second date.”
    “Wonder if he mentioned that to Mom and Pop when he called home to check on his daughter?” Savannah said.
    Dirk chuckled. “Guys don’t tell Momma everything.”
    “Gals either,” Tammy returned.
    “An hour to drive to the brothel. Two hours round trip,” Savannah mused. “Say he stayed there an hour. That’s three hours. Leaves him with several hours to spare.”
    “He could’ve gambled,” Dirk suggested.
    “He was at a matinee of a magic show,” Tammy told them. “He had the concierge get a ticket for him.”
    Dirk raised one eyebrow. “I’m surprised that concierge has time to get tickets for anybody, if he spends all his time talking to women with fake, flirty southern accents.”
    “I was most assuredly his first,” she said, pouring on the Georgia drawl. “And I dare say that young man was plum enamored by my down-in-Dixie charm.”
    “Hush up, girl,” Savannah told her. “It’s just too weird, hearing you talk like me.”
    “Okay, I’ll drop the accent. But you don’t want me to hush. Believe me ... you’re going to want to hear what else I came up with.”
    Casually, a smug little grin on her face, Tammy picked up her fork and began to play with her salad.
    Savannah and Dirk watched, simmering with impatience, as she carefully cut a cucumber into four even, neat pieces.
    Finally, Savannah snapped. “Girl, you better spit it out, or I’m gonna slap you upside the head with a French fry. With a big ol’ glob of ketchup on it, too.”
    Tammy laughed and put down her fork. “Okay.” She turned to Dirk. “You’ve probably already found out about the restraining order.”
    Dirk