If looks could kill, she’d be a dead woman.

In fact, she realized when they finally found their table and sat down, every single woman at the banquet was dressed in some variation of back. Black silk, black chiffon, black with beads, black with rhinestones, short black cocktail dresses, black evening dresses, and even black pantsuits. All black. There was no way she was going to get lost in this crowd, not in her pink-and-orange poppy print

It’s a small-town rule: Never speak ill of the dead until the estate has paid the outstanding bills.

Lucy had no complaints about her dinner. Anything was fine with her as long as she didn’t have to cook it.

Murder was apparently too common-place in the big city to attract much notice. Poor Luther, thought Lucy, as she headed back to the hotel. Even in death he was only a big fish in a small pond.

She was halfway through the revolving door when the thought hit her; she was the one who had seen Junior and Luther fighting before the banquet. She was the one had told Detective Sullivan. Overcome with guilt, she grabbed Ted’s arm and faced him. “It’s because of me,” she said. “Junior was arrested because of me!

A girl had to do what a girl had to do and it looked as if this girl’s immediate future included chicken Caesar salad, chocolate cake, and Cary Grant.

I’ve been to livelier funerals,” grumbled Herb.