Hi there, sorry again for the long wait in between chapters. But I took a family vacation AND was totally immersed in my editing for my latest book. I had promised to be finished until end of May, and that deadline is approaching! But here it goes...

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MARION ALTWARD COULD be best described as a trophy wife past her prime. Although the DMV entry had her age at 35, her breasts looked younger and the back of her hands looked older. She lived in a condo-complex near SD Marina. The guest parking spots in front of the complex were occupied but Ron simply clipped on the red magnetic light and parked right in front of the baffled doorman who was sweeping the entrance.

"Did you do this to impress me?" I asked.

"Always works," he said as we went directly to the elevator, ignoring the protests from the front desk.

Mrs. Altward had kept her ex-husband's name. Personally, I found that suspicious after a divorce but who was I to argue. She offered us ice tea; we declined and sat around a coffee table that hosted several coffee table books of art photography

"You are into photography?" I asked, pointing at the stack.

"I am working on it. I used to have a gallery before I married Andrew. Now, I am trying to pick up where I left off."

Ron said, "I explained the situation to you on the phone. We just want a little more background on the business of your former husband."

"You mean that you want to pump me for dirty information, Detective?" Licking her lips, she raised an attractive eyebrow at Ron. Competitive hormones flushed into my bloodstream.

"You made me, Mrs. Altward. Or is it Miss Altward?" Ron politely noticed her weightless boobs.

Marion Altward's smooth California laugh came right out of the book. "It is still Mrs. Altward. My maiden name is Smith; it is clearly an advantage to keep the Altward-tag in the California art community. It has a better brand value," she shrugged, boobs bopping.

"Ah, I understand," Ron said, not.

Marion Altward moved forward to better show off her wonder breasts. "OK, shoot." I almost laughed out loud at that remark.

Ron was unfazed and he asked questions about the general setup of the gallery, the artists and the daily dealings. Marion Altward leaned over a lot, managed to hitch up her skirt by two inches, without manual intervention, but could not give us anything that we didn't already know.

"Your ex-husband recently picked up bank loans for about two million dollars. Any idea what he needed the money for?"

Marion shook her head. "But I bet he had a little cash problem after our divorce a year ago. I didn't strip him but my lawyer got me a nice package."

"Do you know what he needed the money for?" Ron asked again.

"I can only speculate. Maybe he has a good deal on hand that he needs to finance. Or he needs money up front to prepare a new show? Whatever?"

"You're still in contact with your ex-husband?"

"Not really, no. We meet now and then at charities or social events and we exchange pleasantries. Or an occasional coffee. But that's it."

Ron looked over at me for additional questions. I decided to give it a shot. "What kind of business is Andrew doing with Thomas Cornelius?"

"Is he still around? Cornelius turned up about 18 months ago; I never really got to know him. Andrew and I had already separated and had started fighting for the lot. They worked on some kind of jewelry deal; it was supposed to be a big thing, another breakthrough." The rolling of her eyes told us what she thought of her ex-husband's deals. "I don't know any details, though. There was another partner involved, someone named Max."

"Max who?" Ron asked.

"I don't know, but I heard them drop the name several times."

"Would Mr. Faulkner know anything about it?"

"I assume, him being partner of my former husband."

"You know anything about the jewelry involved?"

"He made a lot of phone calls to Mexico." Another shrug, she was bored.

Ron's notebook page—after intensive interview note taking, showed ten doodles and three words: 'Max, Mexico and Faulkner,' which summed it up nicely.

"Thank you very much for your time, we appreciate it," Ron snapped his notepad shut.

Marion gave him an extra deep look into her front end as we got up. We shook hands and on the way out she said, "By the way, how did that little tramp take the death of her father?"

"Excuse me," Ron looked at her, bewildered, and for once, dropping his already-know-it-all attitude.

"You know, the California baby doll, Phoebe or whatever her name is, that Andrew went to bed with."

Ron caught himself in time and said politely, "Miss Eastman is devastated, that is for sure. But I bet your former husband takes good care of her."

After Marion closed the door behind us and we stepped into the elevator, we exchanged high fives.

"Son of a gun. Andrew shagging the daughter of the night watchman."

I almost kicked his shins but thought about my consultant status. "Why didn't they tell us?"

"We didn't ask!"

"You were too busy interviewing her breasts!" I said and quickly held my mouth shut, not believing what I just had said.

"Theyanswered. Did they not?"