Armed with a wicked wit and a wanton disrespect for LA's most inflated egos, freelance writer Jaine Austen is back on the scene with a ghostwriting gig that has her rubbing elbows with the rich and deadly . . . A gal with a serious Ben & Jerry's habit and credits including a tome entitled "I Was Henry Kissinger's Sex Slave" can't afford to be too picky about employment opportunities. So when Beverly Hills socialite SueEllen Kingsley offers Jaine megabucks to ghostwrite a book of hostess tips, it's time to sharpen the #2s. So what if Jaine has to take dictation from a rail-thin lady of leisure in a bubble bath, sporting man-made breasts-crafted, no doubt, by her plastic surgeon husband, Hal-that qualify as flotation devices? Pride doesn't feed the cat (and Jaine's furry roommate, Prozac, eats more than the average kitty). A dubious side benefit of this particular job is an up-close, personal view of the amorous exploits of Hollywood's ladies-who-lunch. Apparently, swinging is alive and well in LA. The only bright spot is sixteen-year-old Heidi, a girl after Jaine's own heart. Shy, overweight, and oppressed by her stepmother, SueEllen, Heidi could use a friend as much as Jaine could use an ally.But everything short circuits when Jaine finds SueEllen floating face down in her tub, fried by her own blow dryer. The primary suspect: Heidi, whose account of a mysterious blonde fleeing the scene is greeted with skepticism by Beverly Hills' finest. It's time for Jaine to flash her YWCA membership card (that's Young Women's Criminology Association, for your information), and see which blonde's ambition led to murder. Peroxided suspects abound, including a very private masseuse, a jealous nurse, a former game show hostess . . . even a closet blonde with a surprising secret. One of them is hiding a murderous heart behind pricey highlights, and Jaine's out to expose the killer's dark roots. Because blondes have enough fun without getting away with murder . . .