A BIT ABOUT HER, DESIREE SHAPIRO I can't claim that I gave the character of my protagonist any prolonged thought. Or much thought at all, for that matter. As I began to write, this henna-haired and weighty food-lover (especially when it comes to Häagen Dazs macadamia brittle) emerged practically full-blown on the first page—name and all—and quickly went on to prove that there's life after size ten. But I'll let her speak for herself: I'm no Sam Spade. Mostly I handle divorce and insurance cases, with some child custody and missing persons cases thrown in. Once there was even a missing cat. That was a funny story. But I'll tell you about it later. Right now, I want to tell you about THE CASE. My name is Desiree Shapiro. Go ahead, laugh. Everyone else does. It was Desiree Soulé, but then I got married. Anyway, I've been a private investigator for about twenty years. (Of course, I started when I was prenatal.) A long time ago, that seemed like a pretty exciting thing to be, especially for a woman. I'd go to parties, and when people asked what I did for a living, it was a real kick to say I was a PI. To appreciate just what kind of an impact that made, picture this. I'm five-foot-two with auburn hair (abetted somewhat by Egyptian henna). Plus, I've got dimples. Not—unfortunately—on my face. But on my elbows and hands and knees and a lot of places the world will never see. Now, that may lead you to believe I'm a little overweight. Wrong. I'm a lot more than a little overweight. I won't tell you what I weigh, but I once lost over twenty pounds and hardly anyone noticed. I didn't get discouraged, though. I went and lost fifteen pounds more. This time everyone noticed. My friends thought I looked "fabulous." But it didn't get me Robert Redford. Or even a reasonable facsimile. And that discouraged me. So I put back the thirty-five pounds and then some. Eventually, I met and married Ed Shapiro, who was also a PI. It only lasted five years, because Ed choked on a chicken bone and died. I know that sounds bizarre, but believe me, it's no joke. We were very, very happy. Anyway, I started to tell you about this case of mine. . . . It was a double homicide that had the police and everyone else completely stymied. And I figured out the whole thing. For the first time I realized that I was a highly competent investigator and that I could do a lot better than the schlock stuff I'd been working on. In fact, right away I started getting some very interesting referrals. But the case didn't only affect my career. It turned my whole world upside down. Which is the reason I'm writing this. You see, if I don't, I think I may just explode. . . . Excerpted from Murder Can Kill Your Social Life.