“Great,” I said. “Lay it on me. I could use some good news.”

“That audition I went on? I got the job!”

“That’s wonderful.”

“It’s a fast food commercial for Bucko’s, a burger chain in the Southwest. I play a talking ketchup packet. I guess they must’ve been impressed by my star turn as that eggplant in the vegetable soup commercial. Anyhow, it pays big money, and all the Bucko burgers I can eat.”

“Congratulations. We have to celebrate.”

“That’s why I’m calling. How about lunch this Friday? My treat.”

“We’re on!”

I was glad Pam landed her dream job. Because it sure didn’t look like I was going to get mine. Not after that ghastly men’s room episode yesterday. The toilet paper on my shoe was probably the final nail in my employment coffin. I’d be surprised if I ever heard from Andrew Ferguson again.

I did, however, get a call later that morning from one of my regular clients, Seymour Fiedler, of Fiedler on the Roof roofing, with a writing assignment for a new sales brochure. Short, pudgy Seymour Fiedler was a far cry from the hunkalicious Andrew, but I accepted the job eagerly, grateful for the distraction—and the paycheck.

I plucked Prozac from where she was napping on my computer keyboard and hunkered down to write about the joys of reroofing. But my heart wasn’t in it. I kept thinking about Lieutenant Clemmons and how he’d blown me off. I felt like yanking out that silly cowlick of his, one hair at a time.

Finally, after staring at the same paragraph on Fiedler’s No-Leak Warranty for twenty-five minutes, I gave up and drove over to Rochelle’s house.

If the cops wouldn’t take me seriously, maybe Rochelle’s attorney would.

I drove past the gauntlet of news vans parked in front of Rochelle’s house and rang her bell.

“Go away,” a woman’s voice called out from inside. “We’re not talking to the press.”

Poor Marty and Rochelle. This was getting to be their theme song.

“Rochelle? Is that you?” It hadn’t sounded like her. “It’s me. Jaine Austen.”

A sweet-faced woman in her seventies opened the door.

“Quick,” she said, yanking me into the foyer. “Get inside before those vultures take our picture.”

When I was safely inside, she smiled apologetically.

“Sorry to shove you like that, but those newspeople out there are impossible.”

She wiped her hands on her sweatpants, leaving a faint trace of flour behind. She must’ve been busy baking when I showed up. I could smell the heavenly scent of warm chocolate in the air.

“I’m Rochelle’s mother, Adele.”

I suspected she was Rochelle’s mom before she introduced herself. The family resemblance was unmistakable. The same wispy hair. The same caring smile. The same dishtowel slung over her shoulder.