A few days earlier, I’d been given the particularly grim task of accompanying the judge to a nearby department store to select an outfit. Let’s just say that nobody should have to see their boss wearing nothing but their lunch, a girdle, and purple Birkenstocks. After countless black polyester pantsuits, the judge settled on one. It looked just like all the others. But I still told her it was unusually lovely, was perfect for the occasion, that Bob would be smiling down on her from above.

“Sheera”—she swatted at me from the dimly lit dressing room—“Jews don’t believe in heaven!” At that point, neither did Catholic-Episcopalian-Hindu-Muslim mutts.

Once we arrived in chambers, Matthew and I dug up clipboards from the supply closet and treated ourselves to two brand-spanking-new mechanical pencils for the occasion. It sort of felt like we were doing PR for a movie premiere. Medieval Roy arrived on the red carpet. I gasped. He was wearing a tuxedo, a full tuxedo. With tails. And a top hat. His mullet was pulled back into a tight ponytail. He smiled. This movie would most likely bomb.

“Sheila, Matt”—he solemnly nodded—“the tulips have arrived.” He bowed. Next up, Janet. She came wearing a brown taffeta dress with ruffles, curiously resembling a half-peeled potato.

“Janet, what’s the status on the tongue?” I asked, pencil ready to check off “tongue.”

“Done.” Check.

“The liver?” Check.

“The borscht, the corned beef, pastrami, whitefish salad, cookies?” Check, check, check.

The phone rang. The judge, who else.

“Sheera, sheera!!!!” It was way too early for this. “Sheera, you need to get Esther. Get her. Esther, Esther.” Click. Thankfully, she was on speakerphone, so I had three detectives to help me crack that one. Didn’t take long. Janet had an explanation.

“Oh, Esther is Bob’s sister. The judge hates her.” As opposed to all the other people the judge positively adored? Where exactly were we to collect this Esther? I didn’t recall her name on the list and Matthew confirmed that he hadn’t contacted her. The fifteen messages Esther left on the chambers’ voice mail didn’t shed any light either.

The first ten were a shrill “It’s ES-TER. ES-TER!” The final five were the same announcement, coupled with “Pick me up for shee-vah. Helga? Helga? You better pick me up!” Oh God. Could it be? She sounded like the judge, only scarier. Now I got it! Bob had married his sister.