“I see a casting director on the patio whose ass I have to kiss. Sorry, hon. I’ll be right back. And then I’ll be here for you one hundred percent.”

And she scampered off to suck up to her casting director.

I sat back in my chair in a lovely champagne buzz and gazed at the menu, trying to decide between flourless chocolate cake and brownie à la mode for dessert.

Then suddenly someone’s cell phone started ringing. I shook my head in annoyance. Why couldn’t people shut off their dratted phones so the rest of us could have a little peace and quiet? I looked around to see where the noise was coming from and realized it was coming from our table. It couldn’t be my phone, because mine was in the car. It had to be Pam’s.

I looked over at her huge leather tote, slung from the back of her chair, and sure enough the ringing was coming from somewhere inside its depths. I reached over to grab it, but in my haste, I knocked it over, sending its contents clattering onto The Farm House’s rustic hardwood floor. Quickly I got down on my knees and grabbed the phone, but whoever was calling had hung up.

With an apologetic smile to my dining neighbors, who were staring at me with undisguised disdain, I began picking up Pam’s stuff. Good Lord, the woman packed more supplies in her purse than a Nepalese sherpa. It was like a mini-garage sale on that floor. I frantically began grabbing Tampax and mace and movie stubs, a grocery list, a lottery ticket, a Thai take-out menu, a half-eaten jelly donut, a Diet Snapple, a monkey wrench, and a library book due some time in 1987. Just as I was reaching under a neighboring table for an errant package of Rolaids, Pam came back.

“What’re you doing down on the floor?”

“Your cell phone was ringing, and when I reached for your purse to answer it, I knocked it over and everything spilled out.”

I plopped the Rolaids back into her purse, along with a pair of tweezers. “Haven’t you ever heard of less is more?” I hissed.

A snooty blonde handed me a Tootsie Pop that had rolled under her table. I handed it to Pam, along with her purse and her cell phone, and we sat back down at our table.

“My cell phone!” she said. Her eyes lit up with excitement. “That’s the answer!”

“Great,” I said, taking a slug of champagne. “Now what’s the question?”

“I’ve got an eyewitness who can prove Marty was in town the day of the murder.”

“Who?” Now it was my turn to be excited.

“Me!” she grinned. “I’m an idiot for not remembering sooner, but I bought this cell phone the afternoon of the murder. I got it at Best Buy over in Westwood.”