The next thing I knew Lance had drawn up a chair at our table and he and Colin were talking about an upcoming revival of Gypsy.

I made a few feeble attempts to join in the conversation, but I’d morphed into the Invisible Woman. Any more chatter about the murder, I could see, was out of the question.

I mumbled an excuse about an urgent appointment, took back my yam chips, and ran.

I ate my chips in the Corolla while I checked my phone messages. Nick from Toiletmasters had called to tell me my speech “bowled them over,” and Kandi called to tell me that the bridesmaid dresses had come in. She gave me the address of a bridal salon in Beverly Hills and told me to hurry over as soon as possible for my fitting. The last thing I wanted to do was squeeze myself into that ghastly frill festival Kandi had shown me. But sooner or later, I’d have to do it. And as long as I was already in Beverly Hills, I might as well get it over with.

So, after licking the last of the all-natural yam chip grease from my fingers, I put the Corolla in gear and headed off to the Amy Lee Bridal Salon.

Amy Lee was a stunning fortysomething Asian woman. In marked contrast to the gossamer bridal dresses that surrounded her, she wore a simple but impeccably tailored suit. Her glossy black hair was cut in a chin-length bob, with a bold streak of gray in front.

I told her I was there for Kandi’s wedding. She looked me up and down appraisingly.

“Ms. Tobolowsky said you might present a challenge. And I can see she wasn’t exaggerating. I’m going to have to jam you into that dress with a crowbar.”

Okay, so she didn’t really make the crack about the crowbar. She just nodded and got the dress.

I was hoping it wouldn’t look quite as bad as it had in the ad Kandi had shown me. I hoped in vain. In person, the puffy sleeves were even puffier, the nipped-in waist was tourniquet tight, and the hips flared out like wings on a jumbo jet.

Somehow Amy managed to zip me into it.

I’d been afraid that I’d wind up looking like Cinderella on steroids. I was wrong. I looked like Cinderella’s ugly stepsister on steroids.

Amy didn’t even try to soothe me with lies.

“This happens all the time,” she said. “The bride is so in love with the dress she doesn’t realize it may not be flattering for her bridesmaids.”

Amy summoned a seamstress from the back of the store, an elderly Asian woman who let out a steady stream of “tsk-tsks” as she pinned the dress for alterations.

At last, the torture was over, and I got back into my own clothes.