Finally, when I’d answered all his questions and assured him I had no idea who could’ve possibly tossed a hair dryer in SueEllen’s tub, he let me go.

On my way out I saw Heidi huddled with Hal and Brad in the living room. Brad sat hunched over with his chin resting on his clasped hands, tapping his feet in a nervous staccato. Hal stared straight ahead, his face an impassive mask. I had no idea what he was thinking. He could’ve been overcome with grief, or simply wondering what to order for dinner.

Heidi sat between them, dazed with disbelief. I tried to make eye contact, but she didn’t see me. I figured I’d call her later, once she had a chance to let the news sink in. Meanwhile, I wanted to get the hell out of there.

Which is exactly what I did. I got in my Corolla and raced home, if you consider inching along at ten miles an hour in rush hour traffic “racing.”

Normally in times of stress I head straight for the bathtub. But after what I’d just seen, the very thought of a bath sent chills down my spine. Instead, I opted for a nice relaxing shower. Followed by an even more relaxing glass of chardonnay.

I stayed in the shower for at least twenty minutes, letting the hot water cascade down my back until my muscles were the consistency of tapioca pudding. Then I padded out to the kitchen in my ratty chenille robe and poured myself that much needed glass of wine. The whole idea of SueEllen electrocuted with her own hair dryer gave me the creeps. Sure, she was a dreadful woman, but she didn’t deserve to die. Not like that, anyway.

I sat down on my sofa and sipped (okay, gulped) my wine, trying to erase the image of SueEllen’s perfect tush bobbing in the water next to the dryer. I couldn’t help thinking about the irony of it all—that a woman like SueEllen Kingsley, obsessed with looking beautiful, had been murdered with a deadly grooming aid.

Prozac, sensing my distress and knowing how much I needed her comforting presence, began yowling for her dinner.

As I trudged back to the kitchen to open a can of gourmet beef innards, I realized I was hungry, too. I hadn’t had a thing to eat all day except six Altoids and a Whopper I’d picked up on my way over to SueEllen’s. I rummaged through the kitchen drawer where I dump all the take-out restaurant menus that are left on my doorstep. I found one for Sir Speedy Pizza—“The Fastest Pizza in the West.”

I called Sir Speedy, and ordered a medium pizza with mushroom and pepperoni. Prozac looked up from her beef innards and shot me a look.

“And throw in a few anchovies.”

Prozac purred in approval and went back to her dinner.

The folks at Sir Speedy promised the pizza would be at my doorstep, piping hot, in thirty minutes or less. I hung up and poured myself some more wine to tide me over until it showed up. Then I headed for the bedroom. I figured I’d soothe my frazzled nerves with some TV. Of course, wouldn’t you know, the first thing I saw when I turned on the television was the bathtub scene from Fatal Attraction, where Glenn Close gets stabbed to death in the tub. I zapped around for a while, past Lucy and Larry King and a painful looking Pilates contraption on QVC. I was just getting comfortable watching Emeril Lagasse do obscene things to a catfish, when the doorbell rang.