I ushered the cops to the bathroom, and showed them the tub.

“Somebody broke into my apartment and did this.”

The cops looked at the empty wine glass in my hand, and exchanged glances.

“Are you sure you didn’t fill the tub yourself, and then forgot about it?” the beefy one asked.

Oh, God. They thought I was drunk.

“No, I didn’t fill the tub myself. And I didn’t drop the hair dryer in there, either.”

“Maybe it fell in by accident,” the skinny one said, pulling the plug from the socket.

“Don’t you understand? This is a death threat. Whoever did this wants me to call off my investigation into SueEllen Kingsley’s murder.”

The cops exchanged another glance.

“Whatever you say, ma’am.”

Clearly these two had me pegged as a drunken kookoo so desperate for attention, I reported make-believe death threats.

“I swear, I did not do this myself. For the upteenth time, somebody broke into my apartment.”

“There are no signs of forced entry, ma’am. We checked before we rang your bell.”

“But look. The living room window is open.”

“Are you sure you didn’t leave it open yourself?”

And then I remembered that Larkspur had opened it to let the sun shine on my cellulite. In my haste to get over to Heidi’s today, I’d forgotten to close it.

“Okay, so maybe I did leave it open, but I want you to dust for fingerprints. It’s my unalienable right as a Beverly Hills citizen!”

The beefy one looked at me, and sighed.

“You want my advice, honey? Lay off the sauce.”

They opened the front door to leave, but they didn’t get very far, because standing there in the doorway was Lt. Webb. Very tall, very imposing, very Clint Eastwood.

Prozac, the little slut, crept out from under the sofa and trotted over to him, rubbing his ankles with wild abandon. She has a thing for hunky authority figures.

“I got your message,” he said, sidestepping Prozac’s shameless advances. Then he flashed his badge at the two cops. They snapped to attention.

“Good evening, sir,” the beefy one said.

“Show me the crime scene,” he commanded.

Good heavens. He said crime scene. Did that mean he was actually taking me seriously?

We trooped back to the bathroom, and watched the hair dryer floating in the tub.

“It was plugged in when I found it,” I said.

“I unplugged it,” the skinny one piped up, eager to claim credit.

“Bully for you,” Webb said. “Now talk to the neighbors and find out if they saw anybody entering the building.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, practically saluting.

“And you,” Webb said to the beefy one. “You dust for prints.”

I shot her a ha ha, so there! look as she left the room.

“This was obviously a warning,” Lt. Webb said when we were alone. “Somebody wants you to mind your own business.”

“It wasn’t you, was it?” I joked.

But he didn’t crack a smile; he was still doing Eastwood.