As for my original plan—spilling my guts to Rochelle’s attorney—that was out of the question. I sincerely doubted Rochelle’s attorney would be interested in convicting the guy who was paying his legal fees.

The whole thing was so damn frustrating. Rochelle was about to be tried for a crime she didn’t commit. And I was just sitting there with my hands tied.

So I did what I always do when I hit a seemingly insurmountable obstacle.

I put on my running shoes and went out for a brisk jog, clearing my brain and fortifying myself with energy-producing endorphins.

Okay, so I didn’t go out for a jog. I went out for cinnamon buns. The only thing that got fortified was the cellulite in my thighs.

I spent the rest of the day trying to work on the Fiedler on the Roof brochure, but once again, I was having trouble concentrating. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Marty was out to get me. I kept telling myself that I scared him off with my threat about a damning letter in my safe deposit box. Not that I had an actual safe deposit box. My idea of a safe deposit box was an old sock with $20 stuffed in the toe.

But like I said, I was jittery all day long. Before I got in my car to drive over to my class at Shalom that night, I checked under my tires for nails. I even looked under the hood for a car bomb. (Not that I knew what a car bomb looked like, but I figured if I saw dynamite tied to the fan belt, it probably wasn’t a good sign.)

On the ride over my heart leapt at every horn that honked and every car that cut in front of me. And my eyes were constantly darting to the rearview mirror to make sure no one was tailing me.

But thankfully, there were no scary surprises on the road that night.

Nope, the big surprise was waiting for me at Shalom.

Goldie was gone. Vanished. Flown the coop.

There was no sign of Mr. Goldman’s sweetheart, the glam’rus gal from Paramus, when I showed up at class that night.

Mr. Goldman sat alone at the conference table, slumped in his chair, unaccustomedly silent. Whatever he’d been using to dye his hair had been washed out, and his feeble excuse for a mustache had bit the dust. Gone was the flashy Romeo in the loud sports jacket, and in his place was a little old man in baggy corduroys and a stained cardigan.

Mrs. Pechter and the other ladies were chattering among themselves as I took my seat at the head of the table. Was it my imagination, or did they seem particularly chipper tonight?

“Where’s Goldie?” I asked, looking around the room.

“She moved!” Mrs. Greenberg announced. “To a retirement home in Las Vegas!”