Looks to Die For by Janice Kaplan

the first time. “Are you by any chance related to the Dan Fields I read about in the paper? The murder suspect?”
    I took a quick breath. “He’s my husband, actually.”
    “Really?”
    “Unfortunately, yes. I mean, not unfortunate that he’s my husband, but unfortunate what’s happened.”
    “I knew the victim,” he said, dropping his silky voice almost to a whisper. “She worked here.”
    I gulped, stunned that we’d hit on the topic that had driven me to visit Roy Evans in the first place. I pulled myself together. “It’s an awful situation, but Dan had nothing to do with it. I’m sorry about the victim. Was she…a friend of yours?”
    “Not really. I just knew her. We worked together sometimes.” He finally let go of my hands and looked carefully at me. “What’s going on with the investigation?” he asked casually.
    “The police are pulling together all their evidence — whatever that may be. Our lawyer has detectives trying to get to the real story. At the moment it’s all kind of hazy. I just know Dan’s innocent.”
    “How did your husband know Tasha?”
    “I’m not sure he did.”
    Roy didn’t say anything. That was an old trick of interviewers — leave a long pause and somebody would rush to fill it in. But I didn’t have anything to add so the silence lingered in the room. Finally I put out my hand and said, “I hope you’re still willing to work with me. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
    “Tomorrow,” Roy said.
    I left his office and managed to get down the elevator, through the lobby, and into the parking lot before I started trembling. However anxious I’d been about being recognized by the deli clerk and the security guard, it never occurred to me that Roy Evans, network reporter, would know who I was.
    Had he made a lucky guess? Or was it more than luck?
    I suddenly felt my knees wobble and grabbed onto a red Porsche convertible to keep from falling over. Sure, Molly Archer’s name carried a lot of weight and, yes, Roy Evans seemed so publicity-hungry that he’d eat a People magazine on rye for lunch. But he’d asked me to be his decorator in a heartbeat, and while I had a good reputation, I wasn’t exactly hosting Extreme Makeover: Home Edition . Roy Evans, master manipulator of conversation, had steered our talk around to Tasha Barlow. Maybe the stunningly self-involved star had the same motive for the meeting that I did — he wanted to get information about the murder.
    Because possibly we both knew the police had arrested the wrong man.

Chapter Four
     
     
    O n my way to the showroom on Robertson Boulevard the next morning, I stopped for a morning smoothie at Jamba Juice. The line snaked out the door, giving me time to stare at the posted nutrition guide and learn that the Orange Berry Blitz offered 390 percent of the daily allotment of vitamin C — which seemed to be 290 percent more than I needed. Tasty concoctions like Mango Mantra or Berry Pizzazz could strengthen my immune system, promote brain cell activity, and give me a healthy heart and eyes. I wasn’t sure if the drinks came in a tall cup or an IV tube.
    “Strawberry Nirvana,” I said to the young girl behind the counter, when it was finally my turn. Probably practicing for her afternoon acting class, she pursed her heavily collagened lips and flicked her long black hair, revealing a dragon tattoo that wound around her upper arm. If Angelina Jolie called in sick to a set one day, Jamba Girl could be a fast fill-in.
    “Are you trying to promote peak performance?” she asked dramatically, leaning forward on the counter.
    “Actually, I’m just trying to get breakfast,” I said.
    She rolled her purple-gray color-contact-enhanced eyes. “If you need an additional energy boost, we have ginseng and ginkgo biloba to fight fatigue and increase stamina.”
    “Not fattening, is it?”
    She gave a deep sigh. “If you’re worried about weight, you need the Burner Boost with chromium and thermogenic herbs to