Actually, I wasn’t feeling the least bit nervous. I was still too busy feeling humiliated over my burrito fiasco with Andrew Ferguson.

“I wanted to talk to you first,” he said, “before I saw the other club members.”

“Oh?” I said, preening.

He must have heard about all the murders I’ve helped solve—murders you can read all about in This Pen for Hire, Last Writes, Killer Blonde, and Shoes to Die For, now available in paperback wherever fine books are sold. (Forgive the shameless plugs, but if I don’t toot my own horn, who will?)

“Oh, so you’ve heard about me.”

He blinked, puzzled.

“No, can’t say I have. Why would I have heard about you?”

“I’ve helped the police in several murder investigations.”

“Are you a private detective? According to my notes, it says you’re a writer.”

“I’m a detective on the side.”

“You have a license?”

“Well, no. Not actually.”

His brow furrowed in concern.

“You can’t be a P.I. without a license.”

Now I was nervous.

“It’s all very informal,” I stammered. “I mean, it’s not a real business. I just help people out.”

“It better not be a business,” he said, adjusting the already perfect lineup of his stapler, pencil sharpener and pencil mug. “That’s a violation of Code 286297B.”

“I promise,” I said, sweat beginning to form on my brow, “it’s not a real business.”

“Well, all right,” he said grudgingly. “Now let’s get down to the matter at hand.”

“Do you mind if I ask you something first, Lieutenant?”

“What is it?” There was more than a hint of impatience in his voice.

“I was just wondering. If you haven’t heard about me, why did you want to see me before the others?”

“Because your last name begins with A. And I always conduct my interviews alphabetically.”

Wow. The guy probably color coded his socks.

“Now can we get started?” He took out a tape recorder from his desk and clicked it on. “Be sure to speak loudly and clearly.”

I felt like I was back in sixth grade, in Ms. Martin’s Public Speaking class.

Then he took out a steno pad and reached for one of his pencils.

“You’re going to tape me and take notes, too?”

He nodded crisply. “Better safe than sorry.”

Quick. Somebody send this guy to Fussbudgets Anonymous.

“So,” he asked, sharpening his already sharp pencil. “How well did you know the deceased?”

“Not well at all. I just met her two weeks ago, when I joined the club.”

“Were you fond of her?”

“To be perfectly honest, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because she was an egotistical, cloying jerk.”

I didn’t actually put it like that. I figured I’d be a bit more discreet. What I said was, “She seemed a bit self-centered and insensitive.”