When Pam and I showed up at the PMS Club that night, I knew right away there was something wrong with Rochelle. She had a wild look in her eyes that hadn’t been there the week before. Her limp hair had taken on a life of its own and stood out in angry spokes from her pony tail. She wore a T-shirt that seemed to match her mood. I’m Out of Estrogen and I’ve Got a Gun were the words emblazoned across her chest.

This week, instead of sporting a dishtowel slung over her shoulder, she greeted us at the door waving a margarita.

“Hi, there,” she said, blowing a healthy blast of tequila in our direction.

Pam and I had dined al fresco at the Jack in the Box, where we were lucky enough to nab a table next to a colorful fellow reading Kafka and sipping rotgut whiskey through a straw.

We’d driven over to the PMS Club in my Corolla, and now we stood in Rochelle’s foyer trying not to get too close to the tequila fumes.

“C’mon in, gals,” she said. Only “gals” came out “galsh,” her speech slurred from her trip to Margaritaville.

“Are you okay, Rochelle?” Pam asked.

“Fine!” she said, with a bitter laugh. “Never better.”

She headed for the living room, almost tripping over an umbrella stand.

“Oopsie,” she said, righting herself against the stairway banister. “Why don’t you two go upstairs and see my new master bath?”

“It’s finally finished?” Pam said.

“Yes.” Rochelle’s eyes narrowed into angry slits. “My dear friend Marybeth put the finishing touches on it today.”

You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to notice the sarcasm dripping from the words dear friend.

“Damn,” Rochelle said, sniffing. “The empanadas. I think I burnt ’em.”

She lurched off to the kitchen, and Pam and I exchanged boggled looks.

“What’s got into her?” Pam said.

“About a fifth of tequila,” I guessed.

Pam shook her head, puzzled, then shrugged. “Well, come on. Let’s go see the designer loo.”

We headed upstairs to the master bath, which was a symphony of peach and sage—with his ’n hers sinks, marble countertops, a stall shower with about a gazillion jets, and a tub big enough to swim laps. There was even a separate room for the toilet. Or, as they call it in Brentwood, “the commode.”

We found Colin bent over the commode, installing a roll of toilet paper.

“Would you believe I had to go to five different markets before I found this toilet paper?” he groused. “Marybeth insisted it had to match the towels exactly. For crying out loud, the towels are in a whole other room.”

He got up, his jaw clenched in anger.

“Some day I’m gonna kill that bitch.”

“And hello to you, too,” Pam said.

He broke out in a grin.