The receptionist informed me that the first available appointment was two weeks away. That would never do. I put on my most needy voice and told her how this was an emergency liposuction, that my high school reunion was coming up, and I couldn’t face my former classmates with thighs the size of hamhocks. The receptionist, recognizing a true medical emergency when she heard one, managed to squeeze me in at 1:15 that afternoon.

My next blonde was Ginny Pearson, SueEllen’s best friend from her game show days. Luckily, she was listed in the phone book and was home when I called. She agreed to see me that morning.

I assumed Ginny was another trophy wife, living in a mansion in Bel Air, busy with ladies’ luncheons and bikini waxes and telling the cook what to make for dinner. So I was surprised to find her living in a modest apartment in West Hollywood.

The Hollywood Royale was a boxy stucco building with narrow balconies and ugly fiberglass curtains on the windows. I pressed the buzzer for G. Pearson, and she buzzed me into a tiny lobby littered with abandoned junk mail. I took the elevator up to the third floor and made my way down a corridor in desperate need of a paint job. Scuff marks from careless movers covered the walls. I suspected that tenants were constantly moving in and out of the Hollywood Royale. It didn’t seem like a place you’d want to be stuck in for long.

I rang the bell to Ginny’s apartment, and a willowy blonde in a black pantsuit opened the door. I could easily picture her pointing to an entertainment center on national television. There was something about her face that looked familiar. At first I thought I remembered her from one of her game shows, but then I recognized her. It was the blonde waitress from SueEllen’s party, one of the few friendly faces I’d seen, the one who gave me the baby lamb chops.

“Oh, hi.” Her eyes lit up in recognition. “I remember you. Baby lamb chops, right?”

“That’s me.”

“Come on in,” she said, ushering me into her living room, which looked surprisingly good, in spite of cottage cheese ceilings and cheap carpeting. Somewhere along the line, Ginny had picked up some good furniture. Big overstuffed pieces in pricey slipcovers.

I took a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs. Up close I could see the armrests were threadbare from years of use.

“So how can I help you?” Ginny asked, shaking her blonde pageboy away from her face. “You said on the phone that you’re investigating SueEllen’s murder.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Did Hal hire you?”

“No, not exactly. I’m working on my own, on behalf of Heidi.”

Her eyes widened with surprise. “Heidi?”

“Yes, the police think she might have had something to do with SueEllen’s death.”

“But that’s impossible.”

“Well, you heard what she said at the party. About wishing SueEllen was dead.”

“Oh, come on. She’s a teenager. They say things like that all the time.”