Dead Ex

( 2 )

Overview

Wollie Shelley—the endearing, idiosyncratic heroine of the award-winning Dating Dead Men, Dating Is Murder, and A Date You Can’t Refuse—returns in a funny murder mystery set in the world of television soaps.

When David Zetrakis, the producer of a popular soap opera, is found shot to death the day after Christmas, Wollie Shelley finds herself caught up in the murder investigation. Zetrakis was one of the many Mr. Wrongs in Wollie’s career as a serial dater, and her friend Joey ...

See more details below
Available through our Marketplace sellers.
Other sellers (Hardcover)
  • All (43) from $1.99   
  • New (6) from $1.99   
  • Used (37) from $1.99   
Close
Sort by
Page 1 of 1
Showing All
Note: Marketplace items are not eligible for any BN.com coupons and promotions
$1.99
Seller since 2014

Feedback rating:

(0)

Condition:

New — never opened or used in original packaging.

Like New — packaging may have been opened. A "Like New" item is suitable to give as a gift.

Very Good — may have minor signs of wear on packaging but item works perfectly and has no damage.

Good — item is in good condition but packaging may have signs of shelf wear/aging or torn packaging. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Acceptable — item is in working order but may show signs of wear such as scratches or torn packaging. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Used — An item that has been opened and may show signs of wear. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Refurbished — A used item that has been renewed or updated and verified to be in proper working condition. Not necessarily completed by the original manufacturer.

New
Read * Reuse * Recycle-Thank You for Supporting Our Earthly Cause! New-great condition. First edition.

Ships from: NORTH WALES, PA

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Canadian
  • International
  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
  • Express, 48 States
  • Express (AK, HI)
$2.00
Seller since 2008

Feedback rating:

(15891)

Condition: New
Brand New! New dust jacket.

Ships from: Frederick, MD

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Canadian
  • International
  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
  • Express, 48 States
  • Express (AK, HI)
$7.89
Seller since 2014

Feedback rating:

(84)

Condition: New
Ships same day. Very slight shelf wear/age.Tracking included.

Ships from: Hastings, MI

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
$14.00
Seller since 2005

Feedback rating:

(109)

Condition: New
2007 Hard cover First edition. New in new dust jacket. Signed by author. First Print. Signed in person by the author on the FULL title page, not inscribed, clipped or otherwise ... marked. Read more Show Less

Ships from: Apache Junction, AZ

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Canadian
  • International
  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
  • Express, 48 States
  • Express (AK, HI)
$20.00
Seller since 2005

Feedback rating:

(52)

Condition: New
New York 2007 Hard cover First edition. First edition first printing. New in new dust jacket. Signed by author. First edition first printing of the third novel in the Wollie ... Shelley series. SIGNED by the author on the title page. In fine / fine unread condition. Glued binding. Paper over boards. With dust jacket. 338 p. Audience: General/trade. Read more Show Less

Ships from: Niagara Falls, NY

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Canadian
  • International
  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
  • Express, 48 States
  • Express (AK, HI)
$45.00
Seller since 2014

Feedback rating:

(136)

Condition: New
Brand new.

Ships from: acton, MA

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
Page 1 of 1
Showing All
Close
Sort by
Dead Ex

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • NOOK HD/HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK Study
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook)
$9.99
BN.com price

Overview

Wollie Shelley—the endearing, idiosyncratic heroine of the award-winning Dating Dead Men, Dating Is Murder, and A Date You Can’t Refuse—returns in a funny murder mystery set in the world of television soaps.

When David Zetrakis, the producer of a popular soap opera, is found shot to death the day after Christmas, Wollie Shelley finds herself caught up in the murder investigation. Zetrakis was one of the many Mr. Wrongs in Wollie’s career as a serial dater, and her friend Joey has emerged as the media’s prime suspect. A hot-tempered celebrity who had dated Zetrakis and was fired from his show some years ago, Joey has inherited a million-dollar Klimt from him. But Joey is not the only potential suspect. Zetrakis left lots of nice bequests to the cast and crew of the show. And as the dating correspondent on a talk show called SoapDirt, Wollie, who’s required to dine and dish with the stars, quickly discovers that the behind-the-scenes intrigues of television soaps are as highly charged as the on-screen shenanigans.

When Wollie is not trying to protect Joey from an onslaught of predatory reporters, she’s helping her brother make the transition from a mental hospital to a halfway house and negotiating her relationship with Simon, her FBI-agent boyfriend. Dead Ex is another full-out romp of a mystery sure to please Kozak’s many fans—and win her many new ones, too.

Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

Holy Hollywood! In actor-turned-author Kozak's witty third crime caper (after 2005's Dating Is Murder), wild Wollie Shelley must solve the cold-blooded murder of terminally ill David Zetrakis, producer of the popular TV soap At the End of the Day. Tall, unarmed and sometimes very dangerous if provoked, Wollie's an underemployed greeting card artist who starts moonlighting as the dating correspondent for the talk show SoapDirt. Getting the dirt on David's killer, however, proves to be a major challenge. Wollie and her best friend, fellow Dayactress Joey Rafferty, had both dated David, and Joey becomes the LAPD's top suspect when it turns out David bequeathed her a valuable Gustav Klimt painting. Wollie's faith in her friend is further tested when Joey's husband dies in a suspicious surfing accident and Joey disappears. A Greek mythology twist and crackling insider insight into the fascinating soap opera world enhance this clever whodunit. (Aug.)

Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
Library Journal

It's been much too long since Wolley Shelley's last appearance. But now she's back, and her newest adventure is just as entertaining as her first two (Dating Dead Men; Dating Is Murder). Having participated in a dating experiment, Wolley, a part-time greeting-card designer, is now considered a "dating expert" and even has her own segment on a popular television show. Life is good until Wolley's ex-boyfriend, famous writer/director/producer David Zetrakis, is murdered, and her best friend, Joey, becomes the prime suspect. But who really killed David? Wolley knows that Joey would never do such a thing; besides, several people have benefited from David's death. Despite objections from her hunky live-in love, FBI Agent Simon Alexander, Wolley is bound and determined to find out who pulled the trigger. Quirky characters with witty dialog and snappy comebacks make the writing sparkle. Libraries of all sizes will want this hilarious, rapidly paced romp for their mystery and chick-lit collections. Kozak, winner of the Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity awards, is also an accomplished actress (Parenthood).
—Shelley Mosley

Kirkus Reviews
What's a gal to do when her best friend is suspected of murder?Greeting-card designer Wollstonecraft Shelley drags her six-foot frame out of bed with her boyfriend, FBI hunk Simon Alexander, to console her pal Joey Rafferty Horowitz about the cancer death of a former lover of them both, soap-opera mogul David Zetrakis. But wait a minute. Cancer didn't kill him; a bullet to his handsome head did. Was it murder, or assisted suicide? And did Joey, recently on the outs with her hubby Elliot, have anything to do with it? The cops zero in on her, but friends know better, don't they, and Wollie and Fredreeq, another chum, take up Joey's defense. She sure needs it, because Elliot is about to die too while midnight surfing. Enlisting her Uncle Theo and his temporary boarder Apollo, on a student visa to Cal Tech from Greece, Wollie (Dating is Murder, 2005, etc.) visits the soap set, bandying bon mots with cast and crew, and soon has troubles of her own. Simon asks her to move out for a while; network execs dye her hair neon orange (don't ask); and she's lured into a room that's about to be blown up on the soap during sweeps week. For drama, wit and just plain fun, every life (and death) needs a little Wollie. Agent: Renee Zuckerbrot/Renee Zuckerbrot Literary Agency
From the Publisher

Dead Ex is a charming book with a well-done mystery and one of the most likeable heroines in the genre.” —Chicago Sun-Times

“For drama, wit and just plain fun, every life (and death) needs a little Wollie.” —Kirkus Reviews

Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780385518024
  • Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 8/7/2007
  • Series: Wollie Shelley Series , #3
  • Pages: 352
  • Product dimensions: 6.37 (w) x 9.11 (h) x 1.21 (d)

Meet the Author

HARLEY JANE KOZAK is an actor who appeared in the movies Parenthood, The Favor, and Arachnophobia, and has also acted on the soap opera The Guiding Light. Her first novel, Dating Dead Men, won the Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity awards. She lives in Topanga Canyon, California.
Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt

One

Men, in my experience, do not like being interrupted during sex by a ringing telephone. I suppose it's true for women too. It's true for me, anyhow, which is why I never have a telephone in my bedroom.
In late December, however, I had no bedroom. I was sharing one with a guy named Simon Alexander, along with two cell phones, two answering machines, a landline, computer, TV, radio, surround-sound system, beeper, clock, printer-fax-copier, and smoke alarm, all of which had interfered with romantic moments, although some only when one of us rolled over onto a remote.
There was also a gun, occupying the bedside table. The gun hadn't interrupted anything yet, but I'd been living there only a couple of weeks.
Simon was an FBI agent.
We were in the thick of things that late Friday afternoon, in a sweaty, muscle-clenching, heart-pounding clinch, when a click from across the room reminded me I'd turned off the ringer on the phone. Simon's arm tightened around me.
"Wollie," the answering machine said. "Pick up. Wollie."
Simon's grip loosened. It wasn't a national emergency. Despite his technical sophistication, he preferred an answering machine to voice mail for its screening ability. "Simon, if you're listening," the voice said, "I gotta talk to Wollie. Wollie, please be there."
It was my friend Joey. Despite a masculine name, like mine, Joey, like me, is female. Knowing her as I do, I assumed that under the circumstances she'd want me to ignore her.
"Okay, you're not there," she said, her gravelly voice cracking. "I hate to say it to the machine, but you'll hear it on the news. David's dead. David Zetrakis. Our David."
"David?" I extricated myself from Simon's grasp and crawled to the machine. "Our David?" I said. Too late. The beep indicated that Joey had hung up.
Simon's hand found my thigh and gave it a squeeze. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I . . . yes." But I didn't move. After a moment I felt a comforter placed over me.
Simon stood. He was six foot five, as tall as anyone need reasonably be who's not in the NBA, and in great shape, too, which is not unusual in L.A., where gym memberships are as common as car insurance, but still, impressive in a guy approaching fifty. Our relationship, affair, hookup, whatever it was, was new enough that the sight of him naked could still distract me from anything. Even the death of an old boyfriend.
"Someone close to you?" He was checking one of his cell phones for messages.
"Very close. Once upon a time." I picked up my own cell phone to call Joey.
Simon bent down, grabbed a handful of hair, and kissed my shoulder. "Later, beautiful girl," he said. Then he retreated to the bathroom. Still naked.
"Joey," I said to her answering machine. "That's . . . so sad. Are you okay?"
David had been an old boyfriend of mine, but he'd been Joey's too, longer and more seriously. When she picked up the phone halfway through my message, she didn't bother talking. She cried. Joey Rafferty Horowitz was a fairly tough cookie, so hearing her cry, while not a complete novelty, was alarming. Eventually I asked what had happened to David.
"He had cancer," she said. "Pancreatic. Horrible. Untreatable."
I searched for something to say that wasn't a cliche, but gave up. "God, that's awful. I didn't even know he was sick." I design greeting cards, so you'd expect better from me, but when it comes to death, I'm an amateur like everyone else. "And so young," I added.
"Fifty-one," Joey said, blowing her nose. "It's a measure of how old we're getting that fifty-one seems young."
"Did he die in the hospital?"
"At home," she said. "Toluca Lake."
I wrapped the comforter around myself, cold suddenly, and walked to the window. Simon lived in a penthouse on Wilshire Boulevard, a stark, masculine, tall-ceilinged condo with oversized windows washed by a cleaning lady on the inside and a professional crew on the outside. The view went all the way to the ocean. Toluca Lake was to the northeast, over mountains, so it wasn't like I could see David's house, but maybe his spirit hovered above the Pacific.
"When did you last see David?" I asked, but Joey had put me on hold.
I watched the sun set. It was that week between Christmas and New Year's, a time to calculate end-of-year quarterly taxes and polish off gingerbread men and eggnog while making resolutions about sugar, carbs, and alcohol. The L.A. sky faded until the smog was indistinguishable from the sea. I heard the shower in the bathroom and considered joining Simon; he showered unarmed, so it was one place I could safely ambush him.
A click indicated that Joey was back on the line, but she didn't speak.
"Joey?" I said.
"I'm just . . . scared. Wollie, would you still be my friend if . . ."
"Yes. If what?"
"If . . . never mind. Are you going to Rex and Tricia's cocktail thing tonight?"
"I have to. You'll be there, right?" I waited, then said, "Joey, what is it?"
"God, I'm making such a mess of my life." She sounded drunk.
"Honey," I said, "David died of cancer. It's not your fault."
"I didn't say he died of cancer," she said. "He was sick with cancer. What he died of was a gunshot wound to the head."

Two

 Gunshot wound to the head.    
        Cop jargon came naturally to Joey, as half her family was in law enforcement and she herself had saved up for college by working in a morgue, but wouldn't "He committed suicide" have done the job as well? Now I'd picture David's face blown away when I thought of him. That it was anything but suicide--murder, for example--entered my mind and exited just as quickly. Who'd kill a terminally ill soap opera producer?
Suicide, though. What a sorrowful end. And why was Joey acting so strangely? Sad I understood, but . . . scared? Joey didn't scare easily; nor was she prone to despair. I was about to call her back when Simon emerged from his walk-in closet.
Simon clothed was nearly as compelling as Simon naked. He didn't dress like the FBI agents on TV; he dressed like he was off to the Polo Lounge. Tonight it was bark-colored pants and a burgundy shirt, suitable for the cocktail party I was going to, only he wasn't going to the cocktail party. I had no idea where he was going. "Work," he'd said, which could mean anything from a stakeout to a Lakers game. It was the second time that day he'd gone to "work."
I lay on the bed and watched him buckle his belt. "Is suicide a crime?" I asked.
"Is that what your friend did?"
"Apparently. Could you find out the details?"
He glanced at me. His eyes were glacier blue, an arresting color. "Why?"
"I don't know. I just_._._. Joey's taking it really hard, and--"
"No."
"What do you mean, no?"
"I mean that if it's not FBI business, there's no reason for the cops to let me in on it, and if it is FBI business, I can't discuss it with you." He began to knot his tie.
I reached over to him, snagging my finger through a belt loop, pulling him close. He didn't resist. "What's the point of sleeping with Feds," I said, "if I can't get inside information?"
"How many Feds are you sleeping with?"
"Within your division or nationwide?"
He took my face in his hands and covered my mouth with his, cutting off my air supply. I didn't resist. When he straightened up, letting go of me, I reached forward, grabbed him around the waist, and fell backward, pulling him onto the bed with me. I'm not an athletic person, so I must've had the element of surprise on my side.
What we did next is the sort of thing you might not expect of a girl who's just been given the worst sort of news about someone, but as my Uncle Theo says, we grieve in mysterious ways. When we were done doing the thing we did, Simon had to do the other things all over, the shower, the fresh clothes . . . the game face. Work.
Simon was at the point in his career where field agents turn into supervising agents, but he liked being a field agent, on the street, with a new operation every few months. Unlike me, who dreamed of a desk job. Not that I was in the FBI, although I had worked for them, for five minutes. I'd worked for nearly everyone for five minutes. In between designing greeting cards.
Life occurs to me in line drawings. Some people hear voices--my brother, P.B., for instance, when not taking his meds--and I do too, sporadically, but mostly I see things. Stuck in freeway traffic, the car in front of me becomes a picture with a caption: Volkswagens on Valium. It's not something I work at. The work is giving the image a context and getting it on paper, but that's more fun than drudgery. I had a line of alternative greeting cards called Good Golly, Miss Wollie, and while this paid the rent, I also needed food, gas, and the occasional pair of shoes. Thus, I augmented my income in a variety of ways, some stranger than others. At the moment I was on the hunt for a new odd job and had no prospects. On the plus side, Christmas shopping was over with for another year.
Simon left for work, and I dressed for my party. Or tried; mostly, I just stood in the closet, clutching the comforter. I'm not a party person--groups of strangers bring out my Inner Wallflower--and now thoughts of death overrode fashion. David, my boyfriend very briefly, had been my friend ever since, ten years, even though I hadn't seen him in months. He was such a dynamic personality, it was hard to conceive of him gone from the earth; it was nearly impossible to believe he'd put a bullet through his head.
And what was going on with Joey? Why would his suicide scare her?
My comforter slipped from my shoulders, and I shivered. Time to get dressed.
I was living out of suitcases. Simon's closets--I had one all to myself--were big enough to park cars in, but I was hesitant to spread out, since there'd been no talk of moving in, just a vague "stay here as long as you need" invitation. I didn't need to, strictly speaking, but my West Hollywood sublet had been reclaimed by its rightful owner a few weeks earlier, and I was too busy being romantic to get any apartment hunting done. In any case, Simon showed neatnik tendencies, so I felt a need to sequester my stuff. I'd taken to drying my toothbrush, post-brushing, and returning it to the suitcase. I pocketed used dental floss so that it wouldn't clutter the Lucite bathroom wastebasket. I Windexed the shower stall daily, purloining supplies from the stash kept by Ilse, the three-times-weekly cleaning lady--were they still called cleaning ladies?--and maybe this was excessive, but I was a woman in love and I didn't want to mess up.
My address book lay in one suitcase, atop my makeup kit, and on impulse I looked up the number for Pete Cziemanski, a man I'd almost dated, at the West Valley Police Department.
I called Pete. While on hold, I tried on clothes, seeking that combination of holiday festive, Hollywood sexy, and _my-friend-is-dead conservative, before going with a black velvet skirt and white silk blouse. It complemented the string of pearls Simon had given me on Christmas Eve, forty-_eight hours earlier. The good news was, I would've felt beautiful in a hospital gown, a happy side effect of having sex every day, multiple times a day. It was a feeling and a state of affairs that wouldn't last, because it never lasts, but I was enjoying it nevertheless.
"Wollie," Cziemanski said. "Liked your Christmas card. What's up?"
So much for small talk. "Pete," I said, "is suicide a crime?"
"Uh . . . a sin, maybe. A crime? No. Why?"
I started to tell him about my friend David, but he interrupted.
"Zetrakis? Producer guy? That was no suicide."
"Are you sure?"
"I know the black-and-white that answered the 911 from the housekeeper."
"What's that mean? He could tell from the body position it wasn't suicide?"
"He could tell by the gun. There wasn't one. Guys that blow their brains out don't generally hide the weapon afterward. Should be on the news if it isn't already."
"So it was . . ."
"Yeah. The 'M' word. Murder."
Murder. I hung up and walked through the masculine, state-of-the-art, black-and-taupe penthouse, my heels loud in the empty rooms. David was murdered, David was murdered, they tapped out, until I was out in the hallway, triple-locking the door behind me.

Three

 Rex and Tricia were newlyweds living in Sherman Oaks, twenty minutes north of Westwood, traffic permitting, although traffic rarely permitted. I wondered how it would be to live in a place where "traffic permitting" didn't qualify every description of time and space, where knowing shortcuts and alternate routes was not a survival skill. In L.A., people made small talk about traffic instead of weather. David, for instance, had considered it a matter of honor to make it from his home to the TV studio where he worked in under six minutes. I was born and raised here, but I'd never liked driving. In my dreams, I lived in a city of sidewalks.
Traffic was moderate, which is to say the 405 North was moving, albeit at the pace of a middle-aged jogger, and eventually I pulled up to the mansion Rex and Tricia had built to begin their lives together. A valet parking attendant opened my door and watched as I made the slow trip out of the car: my heels were high, my legs long, and my old Integra low to the ground. Valet parking is a regular feature of any gathering over twelve in certain neighborhoods, signaling that this would not be a cheese ball-and-Wheat Thins affair, and that what you drive may factor into any assessment of you.
"Wollie! Is your cell phone off? I've been calling you for an hour." It was Fredreeq, my other best friend, hailing me from across the driveway.
"Wow," I said. "Look at you. You look . . ."
Fredreeq was swathed in layers of transparent red fabric and a turban. "African," she said. "But why have you come as a nun?"
"You were with me when I bought this blouse. You talked me into it."
"Oh. Well, then." She fussed with my hair as though I were one of her children, then unbuttoned my blouse to show some cleavage. As I'm well endowed, there was a lot of cleavage to work with. "There, that's better. It's not meant to be a turtleneck. Where's Simon?"
"Working."
"That shouldn't interfere with partying. You two are in the Dopamine Phase. New love, your bodies flooded with chemicals--you should be spending every possible moment together."
"We are. We do." I lowered my voice. "Did you hear about David _Zetrakis?"
"You mean that he's dead?" Fredreeq said, at full volume. "You mean that he had lung cancer, so he shot himself because he didn't want chemo?"
"I heard it was pancreatic cancer," I said. "And not suicide. Murder."

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 2 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(1)

4 Star

(0)

3 Star

(1)

2 Star

(0)

1 Star

(0)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
Sort by: Showing all of 2 Customer Reviews
  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    terrific amateur sleuth

    On December 26 someone lacked the Yuletide spirit when they shot and killed soap opera producer of the fittingly titled At the End of the Day David Zetrakis. Although she knows she should stay out of it, SoapDirt talk show reporter Wollie Shelley wonders who killed David, a man at the top of her Mr. Wrong date list considering most of Southern California is on Wollie¿s list means David was dead wrong to be at the top. LAPD and the media agree as rare as that seems, the former End of the Day actress Joey Rafferty is the prime suspect like Wollie she dated David, who ended their turbulent relationship by firing her off his show several years ago. Shockingly she is named in his will as are others, but the priceless Klimt painting keeps her high on the suspect list. Wollie investigates to prove her pal¿s innocence but when Joey's husband dies in a surfing accident and she disappears, even Wollie begins to believe. --- The third Wollie wacky adventure (see DATING IS MURDER and DATING DEAD MEN) combines a terrific amateur sleuth investigation with a deep insightful look at the world of soap operas and much more. The whodunit is intelligently designed so that the audience will agree with Wollie that there are plenty of suspects until the second death and the disappearance. Readers will enjoy this wonderful lighthearted romp starring a charming reformed serial dater. --- Harriet Klausner

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 10, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

Sort by: Showing all of 2 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)