“Yep, this is some bathroom,” Doris said. “If things go bad in the divorce she can always sublet it as an apartment.”

“Do you really think they’re headed for a divorce?” I asked.

“If she’s lucky. Well,” she said, hoisting herself up from the tub, “I’d better go downstairs and help Rochelle out in the kitchen. Poor thing is three sheets to the wind.”

“We’d better go, too,” I said.

“We’ll be right down,” Pam said, grabbing me by the elbow. “Jaine has to take a tinkle first.”

“Okay,” Doris said. “See you down there.”

When she was gone, I turned to Pam, puzzled.

“What was that all about? I don’t have to take a tinkle.”

“I know. But I want to sneak a peek at their bedroom. See if there are any mirrors over the bed.”

“Pam! You’re terrible.” Then I grinned. “That’s one of the reasons I like you so much.”

We tiptoed out of the bathroom and were heading down the hallway in search of the master bedroom when we heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Yoo hoo! Pam! Jaine! You up there?”

It was Ashley. We scooted back toward the bathroom.

“Yeah, Ash,” Pam called down. “We just saw the Taj Mahal. It’s fab.”

Ashley came up the steps, dressed to kill in a cashmere slack set that cost more than my car.

“Hi, honey,” she said to me. “I found the most marvelous pair of shoes at Saks after I saw you today. What did you do? Something fun, I hope.”

Sure, if you consider writing about awning rot fun.

“Just worked on a writing assignment.”

“Let me see the heavenly can,” Ashley said, marching over to the bathroom on her $500 shoes.

“Holy crap!” she said. “And I use the word crap advisedly. I’ll bet the Good Lord himself doesn’t go potty in a place this grand!”

Foiled by the appearance of Ashley, Pam and I abandoned our plan to snoop around Rochelle’s bedroom and followed Ashley back downstairs to the kitchen to see if Rochelle needed any help.

We found Colin pouring margaritas from the blender, and Doris at the kitchen sink, scraping the bottoms of Rochelle’s empanadas, which were burnt to a crisp. Rochelle was sitting at her kitchen island, nursing a margarita, staring at the empanadas with glazed eyes.

“Aw, screw it,” Rochelle said, getting up from her stool. She grabbed the empanadas from Doris and tossed them carelessly onto a serving plate. “So what if they’re a little burnt? Makes ’em nice and crunchy.”

I blinked, amazed. Was this the same perfectionist I saw running around like a wind-up toy last week?

“Here,” she said to Doris, handing her the plate. “Bring ’em into the living room.”

“What about the Mexican flags?” Doris asked.

“Who cares about the flags?” Rochelle said, taking another slug of her margarita. “They always were silly, weren’t they?”