A Seattle sleuth tangles with tough guys and dolls in a novel that "vividly evokes the ambiance of classic . . . hard-boiled crime writing" (Publishers Weekly).

It's 1950, and private eye Gunnar Nilson hangs his shingle in Ballard. The Seattle neighborhood teems with working-class folk of Scandinavian descent, and gals with hourglass figures and gimlet eyes enticing men in gray flannel suits. One of them is Christine Johanson, just a gal he met at the movies. Gunnar gives her a ride home to shake the creep who's tailing her. It's none of Gunnar's business who ended up killing her. Not until he discovers she dated the godson of his wealthiest client, a man who's willing to pay big bucks for Gunnar to nose around.

Nose around he does, in the perfumed rooms of Fasciné Expressions, a pricey paradise of pulchritude that employed Christine. Schooled to be class acts by a former showgirl, these fine-feathered beauties know how to inspire men to spend big on gifts for their ladies. Gunnar believes the victim was killed by one of her customers, but the heady fragrance Christine left behind makes it awfully tough for a guy to think clearly, especially when the killer is also breathing down his neck.