But Prozac didn’t bother to look up. She’d been giving me the cold shoulder ever since I tried to feed her some low-cal liver for breakfast. She’d looked at it like I’d just dropped a turd on the floor and began wailing like a banshee. But I hung tough. And eventually she gave up and stalked off to the living room.

For once, I’d shown her who was boss. True, I wound up eating my breakfast in the bathroom, perched on the edge of the tub, afraid of the dagger looks I’d get if she saw me eating my bagel dripping with butter. But the point is, I didn’t back down and feed her the Bumble Bee Tuna she was gunning for.

I was just tiptoeing back to the kitchen for another bagel when the phone rang. I picked it up warily, afraid that maybe an enterprising reporter had tracked me down for a statement about the murder.

“Ms. Austen?” An unfamiliar male voice came on the line. It was a reporter, all right.

“Who’s calling, please?” I said, lowering my voice an octave, intending to tell him he’d reached the wrong number.

“It’s Andrew Ferguson, from Union National Bank. Can I speak with Ms. Austen, please?”

Damn. Why did I have to lower my voice? Now he thought I was a guy. He probably thought I was married. Or living with a man—either that, or a very masculine woman. Not that it mattered what he thought. After my marriage to The Blob, I’d sworn off men forever, or at least until they invented one who remembered to leave the toilet seat down. But still, for some unaccountable reason, I didn’t want Andrew to think I was taken.

“Right,” I said, my voice still lowered. “I’ll go get her.”

I waited a few beats, then came back on the line in my normal voice.

“Hello, Mr. Ferguson.” Then I called out, as if to someone else, “Thank you, sir, for fixing that leak!

“Sorry,” I said, getting back on the line. “The plumber was here fixing a leak. That’s who answered the phone. The plumber.”

“Really?” Andrew asked, puzzled. “Do you always let plumbers answer your phone for you?”

“Oh, we’re good friends. In fact, we’ve known each other for years. I wouldn’t let anybody else near my drains.”

“He’s your friend, and you call him ‘sir’?”

“Yes, that’s short for Sirhan. Sirhan, the plumber. Fabulous guy.”

Would somebody please shut me up???

“Well, the reason I’m calling,” Andrew said, “is that I wanted you to come back for another interview.”

He wanted me back! In spite of my cotton crotch on his desk!

“I’d like you to show your writing samples to our CFO. Do you think you could stop by around eleven?”

“Absolutely!”

“Just ask the receptionist to show you to Sam Weinstock’s office.”