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remember what happened the last time?’’
    I explained that a condition of my taking the case was that my involvement would be limited. ‘‘My client just wants to know whether his fianceé is dead or alive. He doesn’t even care who the perpetrator is—or at least that’s how he feels now. Anyhow, I made it clear that once I find out what happened to his fianceé, my job’s over.’’
    Ellen was not the least bit mollified. ‘‘I don’t see how that’s possible—restricting your investigation like that.’’
    ‘‘I think I know better what’s possible,’’ I retorted in this withering tone I usually reserve for people in the supermar
    ket who try to get on the ten-item express line with twenty items. I can only blame my reaction on an unwillingness to admit—particularly to myself—that Ellen was right. And, of course, I felt like a real bitch a second later. Ellen spoke before I had a chance to say how sorry I was.
    ‘‘Well, I still don’t like it,’’ she grumbled. ‘‘Just be very, very careful. Promise me.’’
    I promised her.
    She got the last word, though. ‘‘And by the way, you’re a fine one to talk about Maalox; you should have you for an aunt.’’
    When we hung up, I was shaking my head and smiling to myself. Ellen’s twenty-eight, but there are times I could swear they screwed up on her birth certificate. She’s usually so naive and open, so basically young, that it’s hard to believe she’s been around that long. And in New York, too. But then, at other times she’ll come up with something
    MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS
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    remarkably perceptive or intuitive, putting her finger on a truth I hadn’t considered. Or, as in this instance, hadn’t wanted to.
    Later that night, right before I drifted off to sleep, I thought about Ellen and Will Fitzgerald. He really did seem nice. I fervently hoped it would work out between them. Poor Ellen was due. Her last relationship had been with a guy who turned out to be raw sewage.
    I began building a few castles in the air. Wouldn’t it be something if this turned out to be it for her. I was even wondering if they’d be able to find a priest and a rabbi willing to perform a joint ceremony. (I don’t know if I mentioned it, but Ellen is actually Ed’s niece. She’s Jewish, while—with a name like Will Fitzgerald—it was fairly safe to assume that the prospective bridegroom was not.) It didn’t matter, though; the deliriously happy couple could always be married by a judge or a justice of the peace or somebody.
    Suddenly my mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton batting. What would my sister-in-law, Margot, Ellen’s mother, have to say about all this? She’d kill me, that’s what she’d do, for finding her only daughter an Irish Catho
    lic fiance´.
    Worse yet, she might not invite me to the wedding. Chapter 4
    First thing in the morning, I called the homicide detective Peter had mentioned as being in charge of the case. It happens that Tim Fielding and I have a kind of special relationship. He and my husband, Ed, had been pretty tight when they were on the force together years ago—before Ed left and became a P.I. Before Ed and I even met, in fact. And, quite apart from their friendship (which for the longest time I was completely unaware of), I got to know Tim myself, crossing paths with him on any number of oc
    casions during my investigations. He wasn’t working homi
    cide back then, of course. And in my younger, smarter days, I wasn’t, either.
    Fielding sounded pleased to hear from me. Until I told him why I wanted to talk to him.
    ‘‘That’s the only thing this lousy case was missing,’’ he groused. ‘‘You.’’
    Now, you have to understand something about Tim
    Fielding. He’s one of the nicest, most good-natured people you’d ever want to meet. From my point of view, if there was one lucky thing about this tragedy it was the fact that it had taken place in Fielding’s precinct. But