She got her handbag and keys, and we rode down in the elevator together, both of us trying to ignore the Fuck You etched into the faux wood paneling. I walked her to her car, a white Mercedes that had to be at least 20 years old. Another memento of the good old days.

“If you think of anything that might shed some light on the murder, give me a call,” I said, handing her my card.

“Sure,” she said. “Poor Heidi. She must be terrified.”

Then she got in her car, and drove off to the hosiery counter at Bloomingdale’s.

As I watched the Mercedes disappear down the street, I wondered if Ginny secretly resented SueEllen’s good fortune. Had she hated her for living in splendor while she was spending her days selling knee highs? Had she gone berserk with jealousy and tossed a hair dryer in SueEllen’s tub? She said she was working the day SueEllen was killed. Could she possibly have slipped away on her coffee break, and bumped off her old roommate?

But Ginny seemed genuinely upset about SueEllen’s death. That tear of hers looked convincing to me. It was possible she’d killed SueEllen, but not likely.

At least, I hoped not.

Dr. Frankenstein meets Laura Ashley.

That was the scene at Hal Kingsley’s waiting room. Patients who’d just been taken apart and stitched together again sat around on dainty chairs, among pots of fresh flowers in flatteringly soft light.

When I showed up, there were two other patients there. One was a Chanel-clad dame whose skin had been pulled back tighter than a kettle drum. The other woman, in jeans and a leopard skin top, looked like she’d just gone ten rounds with Oscar de la Hoya. A thick bandage straddled her nose and, in spite of huge Jackie O sunglasses, I could see a patchwork of black and blue bruises ringing her eyes.

I thought about all the crazy things people do in the name of beauty. At one end of the spectrum, there were Dr. Hal’s patients and their fancy Beverly Hills face lifts. At the other end was my father, with a dead squirrel glued to his head.

I gave my name to a pert brunette at the reception desk.

“Right,” she nodded. “The emergency liposuction.”

She leaned over to get a look at my thighs.

“Those are emergencies, all right.”

Okay, so she didn’t really say that, but I’m sure that’s what she was thinking. I could tell from her size 2 waist that she probably had thighs the size of broomsticks.

“Have a seat and fill this out,” she said, handing me a medical questionnaire. I sat down in one of the dainty chairs, trying not to stare at the prematurely embalmed Chanel lady.

When I was through filling out my medical history, I checked out the magazines neatly displayed on the coffee table. Vogue. Elle. Harper’s Bazaar. No Good Housekeeping for this crowd. In the middle of the table there was a photo album, bound in sumptuous maroon leather. It was Dr. Hal’s Before & After book.