The narrator, an appropriately unnamed freelancer to the stars, is requested by indomitable politician and personality Dorothy Gibson to collaborate on a memoir now that Dorothy’s Independent Party race for the presidency has officially ended in defeat. The ghostwriter prepares for the spin zone that politicians often put up as a front, but Dorothy’s shtick is that she’s a down-to-earth straight talker keeping a low profile as she licks her wounds in her Sacobago home. From being picked up at the airport by Dorothy’s devoted assistant, Leila Mansour, to having a run-in with an overly zealous fan at Betty’s Liquor Mart, the ghostwriter experiences Dorothy as downright likable and as genuine as she seems—though she must admit she hopes Dorothy’s bodyguard will turn into more than he seems (wink wink). When Dorothy’s closest neighbor at the tricked-out Crystal Palace takes the big sleep in her bath, Dorothy can’t resist doing some amateur investigation into the suicide—or is it murder? Since Leila refuses to serve as Dorothy’s sidekick for the misadventure, the ghostwriter fills the niche, duly compiling material on her nominal subject while learning about the life and death of Vivian Davis. Vivian and her physician husband, Walter Vogel, who seems to be auditioning for the role of mad scientist, are as complicated as Dorothy is straightforward. The ensuing inquiry unearths more questions than answers, creating a satisfying puzzle that only Dorothy can solve.