Chapter One If I'd known Cassie Crawford would die, I might not have joked about wanting to kill her. I'd been at her brand new three-million-dollar penthouse overlooking Los Angeles for almost an hour this morning, making sure all the details were perfect. Fresh calla lilies in the Steuben vase. Stainless steel Italian cappuccino machine properly filled with organic, shade-grown Sumatran ground beans. Electronic shades opened at the right angle to let in the light but not the UV rays. At 12:17, Cassie strode in, wearing a sheer white blouse, white jeans, and strappy gold high-heeled sandals, looking even blonder and slimmer than the last time I'd seen her. Our appointment stood at noon, but given the commission she was paying, seventeen minutes late counted as on-time performance. "Is everything done?" Cassie asked anxiously.

Apparently we weren't going to bother withHello, How are you,or evenNice to see you again.Cassie took off her Chanel sunglasses but didn't even glance up at the hand-made Swarovski crystal chandelier that sparkled overhead, sending gleams of sunlight flickering across the foyer. "Done," I replied simply. "Thank God," Cassie said. She made a quick movement of hand against chest, and I thought at first she was crossing herself. But instead she religiously adjusted the seven-carat diamond pendant hanging just above her cleavage. As she patted it into place, the necklace clinked against her wedding band, so heavy with sapphires and diamonds that Cassie risked carpal-tunnel syndrome every time she lifted a well-manicured finger. Of course, now that she'd married Roger Crawford, she never needed to lift a finger again.

Without another word, Cassie pivoted on the four-inch heels of her Jimmy Choos and headed to the bedroom. I followed, traipsing comfortably if not quite as elegantly in my Lilly Pulitzer pink flats. If the ability to stride seamlessly on stilettos was required before you married a billionaire, I'd obviously never be so blessed. Or maybe cursed. Despite the perfect outward appearance, Cassie seemed to be in a controlled panic as she checked out the penthouse for the first time. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she raced around the room snapping her head like a Perdue chicken. She opened and closed the storage drawers I'd cleverly tucked behind floor-to-ceiling lacquered doors, then moved quickly on. "Do you think Roger will like the bed?" she asked, sitting tentatively on the edge of the fifteen-thousand-dollar Hypnos mattress I'd had flown in from London.

"It's the same one Queen Elizabeth sleeps on," I said, as if that settled it. Though who knew where Prince Philip slept. "And the sheets?" Cassie asked, running her fingers over the linens that were so soft they made 600-thread-count sateen seem like sandpaper. "Frette?" "Definitely not," I said firmly. "Frette is so last year. They're now used in some" -- I lowered my voice -- "hotels." Cassie looked briefly uncertain, but then nodded. At age twenty-eight (according to the gossip columns), she couldn't know everything.

I couldn't either -- but being older meant I knew how to sound like I did. She sighed. "Well, I'm counting on you to get everything right. Isn't it funny? Until I married Roger, I lived in a furnished sublet in Studio City. This is the first place I've ever decorated myself." She'd decorated this place herself ? "You did a nice job," I said encouragingly. I'd been in the business long enough to know that the person signing the check got to take credit for the success. Cassie had turned up as a new client not long ago, calling me out of the blue and asking if I could furnish the just-bought penthouse from top to bottom while she and Roger cavorted on a three-week trip to Hong Kong and Tokyo.

"It'll be tricky with such a quick turnaround," I'd said. "Price isn't a problem," she'd insisted. With any luck, the combination of Cassie's bank account and my eye for.