Jane Smiley knows she's got us where we live. She says this while spearing shrimp toast off another friend's plate. Later, when Alice, a librarian, suspects that the killer is one of them, she realizes that she feels more moral outrage toward drunken drivers and cheating landlords on the television news. The operating condition here is affectlessness, formerly known as cool. The author matches her tone to her people with unerring pitch.
Images have an elegant, satisfying thwack, like the closing of solid-core doors.
In a chic clothing store, ''the mirrors were along the south wall, silvering the air. . . . Fear is just another emotion that hangs out, waiting for itself to happen. It drifts through the door like an intruder in overpriced sneakers who has somehow got hold of the key. By the way, the detective's name is Honey. A nice touch.