After thanking him profusely, I hung up and did a little happy dance.

“Guess what, Pro? He wants me back for another interview! Even after your scurrilous pantyhose trick! So there, you evil spawn of the devil!”

I scooped her up in my arms and planted a big wet smacker on her nose.

Forget it. I’m still mad at you.

Then she wriggled free from my arms and jumped back on the sofa.

“Be that way. See if I care. You can sulk all you want, but you can’t rain on my parade.”

With that, I tootled off to the bathroom, where I wiped bagel crumbs from the bottom of the tub and ran a bath.

I sat in the tub for a good twenty minutes, up to my neck in strawberry-scented bath bubbles, dreaming of what I’d do if I got the job at Union National and was bringing home forty thou a year. I’d buy a new car, that was for sure. Maybe even put some money down on a condo. I’d upgrade my computer and treat myself to a decent haircut which would magically transform me into a striking beauty, which would make me utterly irresistible to Andrew Ferguson, and before long we’d be locking eyeballs over a hot Xerox machine.

I was right in the middle of an X-rated fantasy of me and Andrew on our honeymoon in Tahiti when I remembered Marybeth’s murder. And just like that, my bubble burst. For crying out loud, they’d never hire me once they found out I was a murder suspect. Banks tended to be fussy about stuff like that.

I hauled myself out of the tub, in a deep funk. But then, as I dried my hair, I began to look on the bright side. After all, I reminded myself, nobody in the media had mentioned my name. Andrew and Mr. Weinstock had no way of knowing I was involved with the PMS murder. And technically, I wasn’t a suspect. The cops hadn’t accused me of anything. All they’d said was that they wanted to question me. And maybe even that wouldn’t come to pass. For all I knew, they’d already arrested Marybeth’s murderer and I’d never hear from them again.

It was at that moment, just when I was wiggling into my pantyhose and feeling hopeful again, that the phone rang. I hobbled over to get it. Wouldn’t you know? It was the police. They wanted me down at police headquarters for questioning later that afternoon.

Okay, big deal, I told myself when I hung up. Just because they wanted to ask me a few questions didn’t make me a murder suspect. All it made me was a witness. I forced myself to be upbeat as I finished dressing and put on my makeup. At last I was ready for my interview. Bathed, blown dry, shaved, plucked, and Prada-ed.