Looks to Die For
Authors: Janice Kaplan
Also by Janice Kaplan (with Lynn Schnurnberger)
The Botox Diaries
The Men I Didn’t Marry
Mine Are Spectacular!
TOUCHSTONE
Rockefeller Center
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Janice Kaplan
All rights reserved,
including the right of reproduction
in whole or in part in any form.
T
OUCHSTONE
and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Designed by Sue Walsh
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kaplan, Janice.
Looks to die for / Janice Kaplan.
p. cm.
“A Touchstone Book”
1. Interior decorators — Fiction. 2. Los Angeles (Calif.) — Fiction. I. Title.
PS3561.A5593L66 2007
813’.54 — dc22 2006050556
ISBN: 1-4165-3866-6
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com
To Ron,
for walks in the woods
Contents
Chapter One
T
he night the police came
to arrest my husband for murder, I was upstairs, killing myself on the treadmill. If I kept up this pace, I’d finish my three miles in twenty-two and a half minutes, a personal best. So when I heard the doorbell ring, I ignored it, and then ignored it again. But whoever was chiming wouldn’t go away and the noise was going to wake up the whole house. Annoyed, I hit the
STOP
button, threw a Juicy Couture sweatshirt on over my pink running bra and matching shorts, kicked off my all-terrain cross-trainers, which were giving me blisters anyway, and headed downstairs. No personal best tonight.
The Chinese cloisonné clock in the front hall foyer registered ll:50
P.M
., not a typical time for guests to arrive at our gated community in Pacific Palisades. I tried peering through the peephole in the door, but the artistically cut crystal sphere had been designed for beauty, not usefulness. I could vaguely make out two men who seemed to be cops, and when I tentatively called out “Hello?” they waved their identification cards, not knowing that from my side, those IDs could have been Picasso graphics. I made a mental note to check out more practical security systems.
Cops at my door? My first emotion was curiosity, not panic, since those I loved and worried about full-time were tucked in upstairs. Grant had turned in early to get some rest before a science test tomorrow, Ashley had communed with two girlfriends until just after ten then gone straight to her own bedroom, and little Jimmy had heard monsters rumbling in his closet but managed to get to sleep after I read him three picture books and pretended to fall asleep first. Even my husband, Dan, had spent forty-five minutes reading medical journals and then set his alarm for dawn so he’d be up for early-morning surgery.
I twisted the ring on my right hand so that the big ruby and two small diamonds pointed into my palm, then opened the door, glancing first at the tall Hispanic cop who still gripped his identification awkwardly, then to the other cop, slightly older and shorter, dour and doughy-faced.
“We need Dr. Dan Fields, ma’am,” the older cop said, his voice as rough-edged as his body.
“What for?”
“I’d like to explain that directly to the doctor.”
I was sweaty and tired and not interested in conversing with cagey cops. But I had an idea what was going on here, since about a month ago, a three-car police escort had come to whisk Dan to the hospital to take care of a major actress who had sliced off her finger cutting a bagel. My husband was the Saint of Hollywood, the plastic surgeon whose skill at molding, reattaching, and reconstructing meant he could save any face or body part that was seriously endangered. This being Hollywood, he had also nipped and tucked some of the most famous faces on the planet, and the wait for a consultation at one point stretched to eight months. If you couldn’t get an appointment, you could at least read fawning articles about him in
Vogue
or
Elle
. No doubt written by editors who figured that with enough sweet talk, Dan would move them to the top of the waiting list.
“Has somebody been hurt?” I asked the cop.
“Someone’s been hurt real bad.” He took a step toward me, edging in front of his buddy, a sneer contorting his features. “Now go get Dr. Fields for us.”
His menacing style wouldn’t work. “Look, Dan’s gone to sleep already,” I said, trying not to sound as intimidated as I felt. “Why don’t you tell me what this is about?”
The Hispanic cop glanced back over his shoulder at his partner, who was pocketing his identification, then repeated, “Just get the doctor for us.”
“If you’re looking for a favor from Dan, you could ask a little more politely,” I said.
The cops exchanged looks, then the Hispanic one said, “It’s not a favor, ma’am. If you don’t call him down, we’ll go get him. We know he’s in the house.”
The guy was a genius. I say Dan’s gone to bed and he figures out that he’s in the house. “If you don’t call it a favor to come by here at almost midnight and ask for Dan…” I stopped, because they were both looking at me oddly, and the message finally penetrated that I was off base. Way off base. Maybe not even in the right playing field.
I took a deep breath and, looking again at the doughy-faced cop, noticed that his badge said Detective Vincent Shields and that his buddy was Detective José Reese. Shields quietly said, “I assume Dr. Fields is your husband. He’s wanted for questioning.”
I stood there, unable to move, and Shields added, “We’re investigating a murder.” He pointed to the intercom by the front door. “Can you call him down?”
I was suddenly so confused that the intercom might as well have been a moon rock that had dropped into my front hall. I cleared my throat. I pulled myself back together. “Uh, the thing is, we just remodeled the top floor and wiring it into the old system has been a problem, you know? The electrician kept saying he could do it, even though he couldn’t do it, so we probably need a whole new system or at least a whole new electrician, if you know what I mean….” I paused, wondering if I could make myself stop babbling. Maybe some action would do it. I stepped over to the intercom, touched the
TALK
button and the “Master Bedroom” light, and then said, “Dan? Honey? Can you hear me?”
For a response, I got static. I ran my fingers through my curly hair, pushing it back from my forehead, which was still sweaty from the treadmill. And getting even sweatier from the fear suddenly coursing through me.
“We need to go upstairs,” Reese said. “You want to lead us?”
I didn’t want to do anything of the sort. Having the cops in my marble foyer was horrifying enough. But it didn’t really occur to me that I could say no to a man with a badge.
“Mommy? Is it monsters?”
I spun around and saw Jimmy standing at the top of the steps, peering down at us through a railing. His ankles stuck out of his too-short Superman pajamas at an odd angle, and he looked so skinny and vulnerable that I wanted to run right up the stairs and give him a hug. But the cops were eyeing me intently and sudden moves didn’t seem like a good idea.
