“That’s a comforting thought.”

“I just want you to be careful.”

“I’ll be careful. I promise. Now, as long as you’re treating, how about dessert?”

One lovely tiramisu later, we headed out to the parking lot.

The sun was shining, the gulls were swooping in graceful arcs in the deep blue sky, and the million-dollar yachts were bobbing merrily in the water. I was feeling a lot more mellow than when I first showed up. I could tell I’d mellowed out, because I no longer wanted to strangle Kandi. Maybe there was life after Tommy the Termite, after all. Maybe, in time, the memory of last night’s debacle would fade. Never completely, of course. But enough to make me think of crème brulee without puking.

As I stood there, pondering the nature of the human psyche and its ability to heal itself, who should I see driving in to the parking lot but Brad Kingsley? The lovely Amber sat at his side, running her fingers through his thick curls.

And you’ll never guess what Brad was driving: A brand new cherry red Ferrari.

Brad tossed his key to the valet, and strode into the restaurant, Amber on his arm. King of the mountain. Top of the hill. If he saw me, he gave no indication of it.

“Wow,” Kandi said, eyeing the Ferrari. “I’d kill for a car like that.”

“You’re not the only one,” I said, wondering if Brad Kingsley had done just that.

Back in Beverly Hills, I lucked out and found a parking spot in front of my duplex. As I headed up the front path, I glanced in Lance’s living room window. Lance and a cute redheaded guy were sitting on the sofa, feet propped up on the coffee table, eating bagels. I was glad at least one of us was having a love life.

I let myself into my apartment where I found Prozac napping on the Sunday paper. She opened one green eye, and shot me a look that said: What? No leftovers?

“Sorry, Prozac. I was hungry. I finished everything. So sue me.”

If she’d had the opposable thumbs to call a lawyer, she probably would have.

I made myself a cup of coffee and settled down on the sofa with the Sunday crossword puzzle. There’s nothing I like better than whiling away a Sunday afternoon driving myself crazy thinking up a seven letter word for “African simian.” You’ll be proud to know I finished the whole thing in less than an hour, thanks to my razor sharp brain and three crossword puzzle dictionaries.

I was just reaching for the comics, when I saw the headline on the front page of the Metro section: Police Search for Mysterious Blonde in Kingsley Murder.

So Professor Zeller’s call to the cops had paid off. Lieutenant Webb was finally getting off his ass and looking for Heidi’s blonde.

And he wasn’t the only one. I intended to look for her, too.

What’s more, I intended to find her.