I ran screaming into the bedroom and banged on the wall.

“Lance! Are you there?”

No answer.

Damn. He was probably on a date with Jim. He had some nerve going out and enjoying himself in my moment of crisis.

And then I remembered Prozac. Poor darling Prozac! What if, while I was in the bedroom, banging on the wall, she’d decided to abandon thousands of years of genetic programming and leaped in the tub? I dashed back into the bathroom, half expecting to see her furry little body floating lifeless next to the hair dryer. But of course, she wasn’t there; she was back in the living room, belching Jumbo Jack fumes.

Thank goodness she was safe. I raced back to the bathroom, and shut the door so she couldn’t get in.

Meanwhile, what on earth was I going to do about the hair dryer? Did I have to turn off the circuit breaker for the whole apartment, or could I just unplug it? I was sure there were emergency directions on the electrical cord of the dryer, but I couldn’t read them because the dryer was in the tub. So I did what any rational person would do:

I called 911.

The dispatcher wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear from me.

“Somebody filled your tub with water? That’s not exactly an emergency, ma’am.”

She told me that 911 was for medical emergencies and crimes in progress, and advised me to hang up and call my local police station.

They weren’t all that thrilled to hear from me either.

“Someone broke in to my apartment!”

“Did they take anything, ma’am?”

“No, but they put a hair dryer in my tub.”

“A hair dryer in your tub?” I heard him stifle a yawn. “You want us to send someone out there?”

“Of course, I want you to send someone.”

“I only ask because there was no actual burglary.”

“Don’t you understand? Someone put a hair dryer into a tub full of water.”

“Are you sure it didn’t fall in by accident? That happens all the time, you know.”

“No,” I said, with forced calm, “it didn’t fall in by accident.”

I gave him my address and slammed down the phone. Then I called Lt. Webb, who was gone for the day. Probably out somewhere making sure his sashimi was fresh. I left him a message, telling him about my death-threat hair dryer, and asked him to get in touch with me as soon as possible.

Then I did what I should have done in the first place. I drank my glass of chardonnay.

Forty-five minutes and another glass of chardonnay later, two bored cops rang my doorbell. Unlike the Marlboro men who showed up at the Kingsleys, these two were from the low rent division of the Beverly Hills Police Department. One was a tall, skinny, freckle-faced kid, whose name was Officer Mason. The other was big and beefy with muscles the size of hamhocks. Her name was Officer Schmitt. Prozac took one look at her and dove under the sofa.