Looks to Die For by Janice Kaplan

morning yoga group for years.
    “Lacy?”
    I nodded miserably, barely looking up. I should have called Jane after she brought Jimmy home that first day. But “should have” was never helpful. I probably should have done something about global warming and nuclear proliferation, too. Then there was that box of Godiva chocolates I shouldn’t have eaten.
    “I’m glad to see you,” Jane said, unloading her groceries onto the belt.
    “You, too,” I mumbled.
    “I didn’t recognize you at first,” Jane said, good-naturedly gesturing toward my reflecting sunglasses and pulled-down hat, and the Hermès scarf I’d wound halfway up my face. “When I spotted you over by the papaya, I thought you were a star recovering from plastic surgery.”
    “I’m trying to recover from something a lot worse,” I said.
    “Not nearly as interesting to most of us as a good eye tuck,” Jane said with a laugh. “Didn’t you notice everyone staring? I heard two women trying to get up the courage to ask you for the name of your doctor.”
    I smiled, and then started to chuckle. And then despite myself, I laughed out loud. The women who’d been scrutinizing me didn’t know about Dan — they just assumed I was concealing a swollen face and surgery scars. A little less disguise would have been better camouflage.
    “Today’s my first time out of the house in a week,” I admitted, feeling my defenses dropping a bit.
    “I can imagine how hard it is,” Jane said sympathetically. “After I saw the news trucks, I turned on the TV and figured out what had happened. I’m so sorry, Lacy. I didn’t know what to do. I almost sent a Mrs. Beasley’s basket.”
    “Thanks.” I was genuinely moved but slightly baffled. Somehow Mrs. Beasley’s mail-order food treats had become the number-one favorite gift in town. Every Christmas, Dan got half a dozen wicker sleighs filled with brownie bars, mini-muffins, and tea cakes, which we admired for a while and then threw away. Maybe that explained it. The goodies looked lovely and tasted terrible — making them the perfect present in Hollywood, the eating-disorder capital of the world.
    “We’re trying to get back to normal,” I told Jane. “That’s why I’m here — in addition to needing milk.”
    “Any idea what happens next?” Jane asked, moving down a few steps to pack her vegetables, soy cheese, and yogurt into plastic bags. (Not biodegradable, but plastic takes up less room in landfills than brown paper. Very confusing these days to be ecologically correct.) The cashier, preoccupied with plying an emery board around a flawless fingernail, completely ignored us.
    “We find out what really happened to the girl and solve the case,” I said flippantly. “Because the police have it all wrong.”
    “You’ll solve it,” Jane said earnestly.
    “Maybe not me personally,” I amended.
    “Why not?” Jane paused in her packing and turned to look at me. “You always know when things aren’t what they seem. You have an amazing eye. Do you remember when you took me to the Santa Monica flea market?”
    “Of course I remember,” I said, pleased. Mixed in with some wicker and bamboo outdoor furniture, I’d spotted a pair of nineteenth-century Chinese marble garden stools. I’d convinced Jane that if she arranged them next to the brocade sofa in her living room, she’d have a fabulously original end table.
    “You spot an outside seat and see an inside table,” Jane continued. “You’re probably the one who can spot a real killer, too.”
    I laughed because she had to be kidding. Knowing how to track down a creative coffee table didn’t qualify me to chase a clever killer. And I wasn’t prepared to find a murderer just because I could make over a room.
    Or was I?
    I stood up a little straighter. Come to think of it, I was resourceful. Maybe I could build a case the way I created a room — start from the basics and add the frills later.
    Jane put her grocery bags into the cart, ran