I looked at the clock. After eleven. It was dark outside, I’d just listened to a robotic death threat, and that was the high point of my evening. For all I knew, there was some maniac waiting right outside the door with an ax, cops or no cops.

“It can’t be that bad, Greer.” She wasn’t sobbing. She wasn’t screaming.

“That’s what you think!”

“In the morning,” I said patiently.

“Mojo, I’m desperate!”

“Then you’d better tell me what’s going on, because I’m not driving out there unless you’re bleeding.” I grimaced, remembering poor Bert. Let him be alive, I prayed.

Greer started to cry.

I almost gave in. As I said, my sister wasn’t a weeper.

“Listen, Greer, I’ve had a really bad night, and the day wasn’t so great, either. So maybe we could do this tomorrow—”

“I’ll come over there, then,” Greer broke in, sounding peevish. “This is serious, Mojo.”

I really wished she’d stop italicizing every third word. “Okay,” I said cautiously, “but there’s a crime scene downstairs, and the cops might not even let you into the parking lot.”

Now we were talking serious.

For a moment, the old Greer was back. “No shit? What happened?”

I explained, taking care to include Bert’s wound, my clothes being taken for evidence, the nude photo shoot and the fact that I had temporary custody of a flatulent basset hound.

“See you in twenty,” Greer said, when I’d finished.

All righty, then.

“Bring kibble,” I put in quickly, before she could hang up.

“Kibble?”

“I mean it, Greer. I gave this dog canned stew and, given his digestive system, we could be on the threshold of an environmental disaster.”

She said a hasty goodbye and rang off.

With luck, I could get through the long-distance confrontation with Jolie before Greer arrived. The threatened ETA was twenty minutes, but that was without the stop for dog food.

I steeled myself and dialed Jolie’s number.

She must have been sitting on the phone, and she definitely had caller ID. She jumped straight onto my back. “Mojo Sheepshanks, you did a rotten, lousy thing, storming out of here like that!”

“You’re right,” I said. I couldn’t quite get to “meek,” but I did “regretful” credibly.

The admission stunned her to silence, but I knew it was temporary.

“I’m sorry,” I added. It was the equivalent of sitting on top of the refrigerator and throwing frozen pot roasts to Sweetie. And I really did feel terrible about bailing on her.

If I hadn’t, though, Bert would probably be dead by now.

Assuming he wasn’t.

“Me, too,” Jolie said.

I caught my breath. “What did you say?”

“I said I’m sorry, Mojo. I should have kept my opinions to myself. About your job, I mean.”

I was beyond relieved.