By now, I was in an advanced state of panic. What if the police thought I was the killer? What if they arrested me? And worst of all, what if my parents saw the paper? They’d be on the first plane out here—moving into my apartment, putting crocheted covers on my Kleenex boxes, and making me wear my retainer at night!

And just like that, I couldn’t breathe. Yikes. I was hyperventilating. I had to force myself to calm down. I told myself to take deep breaths, but I couldn’t suck in the air.

What was it that you were supposed to do when you’re hyperventilating? Breathe into a paper bag! That’s it. I raced around my apartment looking for a paper bag, but all I could find was a Bloomingdale’s shopping bag. So there I was, trying to breathe into a Bloomingdale’s Medium Brown Bag when the phone rang.

What if it was my parents? For a minute I considered letting the machine get it. But then I figured they couldn’t possibly have seen the paper, not this quickly. And besides, I could ask whoever it was to call the paramedics and get me some oxygen.

Thank heavens, it was Kandi. I started breathing again at the sound of her voice.

“Oh, honey,” she said. “I just saw the paper. It’s awful.”

“I know.”

“I can’t believe they used that hideous picture of you. You ought to write an angry letter to the editor.”

“Kandi, I think you’re losing sight of the important issue here. I’m a suspect in a murder case.”

“Oh, foo. You couldn’t possibly have killed anyone. Anybody who knows you knows what a sweetie you are.”

“Unfortunately,” I pointed out, “the police don’t know me very well.”

“And I never knew you had PMS,” Kandi said, oblivious to my fears. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“But I don’t actually have—”

“I could’ve sent you to my gynecologist, Dr. Sobol. All the celebrities use her. She’s the Hormone Doctor to the Stars.”

“Honey, I don’t have PMS. The PMS Club is a women’s support group. I had the bad luck to join two weeks before the murder.”