Well, you’ve got a point. Normally health food and I go together like pizza and grits. But I’d decided to follow Prozac’s shining example and watch my calories. If Prozac could summon up enough willpower to stick to her diet, there was no reason why I couldn’t, right? After all, I was at least one hundred points ahead of her on the IQ scale. Well, twenty-five, anyway.

Colin was waiting for me at a wrought-iron bistro table in the café’s charming outdoor patio. He wore chinos and a button-down baby blue oxford shirt, his dark blond hair cut short and spiky.

Could someone this cute and clean-cut really be a killer? Of course, he could. I wouldn’t be surprised if 9 out of 10 crazed killers looked like models in a Gap commercial.

After exchanging greetings, we went inside and gave our orders to the guy behind the counter. You’ll be proud to know I did not order a burger or fettucini alfredo. (Mainly because they didn’t have burgers or fettucini alfredo on the menu.) Instead, I ordered a free-range turkey wrap, hold the mayo.

Colin got the jumbo roast beef wrap, extra mayo, with a side of potato salad. Life sure isn’t fair, is it? The guy had a waist the size of my ankle and he was ordering extra mayo and potato salad.

Our sandwiches each came with a package of all-natural yam potato chips. Once again, you’ll be proud to know I gave mine to Colin. After all, 120 calories was still 120 calories, natural or not.

“So how’d things go at the reading of the will?” I asked, as we dug into our food.

“What a bust,” Colin said. “Marybeth’s estate was worth nearly two million dollars and all she left me was a crummy armoire.”

“How do you know it isn’t valuable?”

“I was with her when she bought it. It cost her fifty bucks at an auction.”

“That’s too bad,” I said.

“But,” he noted, “at least it means I didn’t have a motive to kill her.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. He could’ve tossed the peanut oil in the guacamole in a moment of rage, as payback for years of workplace abuse.

“So who got her money?” I asked.

“She left most of it to her relatives. There was a small bequest to her maid, and Ashley got ten grand. The one person who didn’t need any money got ten grand. Talk about the rich getting richer.”

He shook his head, disgusted.

“She could’ve at least left me her Porsche,” he pouted, “considering all the times I took it to the car wash for her. Or a percentage of that lottery money she won. After all, I was the one who had to race out in rush-hour traffic to pick up the damn ticket for her, along with her daily frappuccino and chocolate chip muffin.”