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investigated—and solved—a few murders. I've been cool and calm in the face of a nasty poisoner. And an arms smuggler. I've withstood an attack by a humongous vase of flowers (it's a long story), and I even kept my head when a member of the U.S. Congress tried to off me. Did I panic?
       Of course I did!
       We were talking Bellywasher's here. Bellywasher's reputation. Bellywasher's standard of customer service. Even as I stood there, furiously scrambling to come up with the magic words that would fend off the nasty publicity and the bad-mouthing we were sure to get from students who weren't used to having one of their number threatened with bodily harm, I pictured Bellywasher's good name circling the drain.
       And Bellywasher's, don't forget, is Jim's dream.
       In a moment of pristine clarity, I knew there was no way I could let disaster befall the place. Not just because Eve had decided . . .
       Well, whatever it was Eve had decided.
       I gulped down my mortification and grabbed the proverbial bull by the horns.
       "Oh, Eve, you are just too emotional!" I laughed when I said this and hoped it didn't sound as hollow to the folks out in the restaurant as it did to me. A smile firmly in place, I strolled to the door. Right before I pulled it closed, I pretended to notice the stunned faces of our students out in the restaurant. I rolled my eyes and shook my head when I addressed them. "That Eve! Just when she's finally starting to get over it, she reads another tabloid story and she gets worked up all over again. You know what I'm talking about, that whole thing about how Brad chose Angelina over her."
       And before anyone could see that I was lying, insincere, or just plain nuts (maybe not in that order), I closed the door.
       With that barrier firmly between me and our audience, I stood with my back to the door and took a deep, unsteady breath.
       Eve didn't notice. She was too busy sniffling and sobbing and staring at the door as if she could see beyond it and out to the restaurant where Brad was seated. "You want to tell me what that was all about?" I asked her.
       "It's him. Brad." Eve's words teetered on the brink of tears. "Don't you remember him, Annie? Brad? Brad the Impaler?"
       The fog cleared. Or at least some of it did. The way I remembered it, it all happened just about the same time Peter, my soon-to-be-ex-but-I-didn't-know-it-yet, decided that he never really knew what love was all about until he met the girl who worked at the dry cleaner's. That would explain why I'd forgotten about Eve's troubles. A best friend is important, sure, but divorce trumps just about anything.
       Now that Eve mentioned it, I did remember the job she once had at the cosmetic counter of a department store, and a boss who was known as the Impaler because of the notso-nice way he treated his employees. He had made Eve's life a living hell. His name was—
       I let go a shaky breath and dropped into my guest chair.
       "Brad Peterson is that Brad? The guy who—"
       "Came on to me like gangbusters. That's the one."
       "And when you told him you weren't interested, he's the one—"
       "Who had me fired. You bet he is."
       "And when you applied for another job, he—"
       "Well, he never came right out and said it." Eve har rumphed to emphasize her point. "But he just about told the woman who called for the reference that I'd been stealing from the cash register and that's why he had to get rid of me. He's the reason I didn't get the job at that designer clothing boutique in Georgetown. You remember that, Annie. I really, really wanted that job."
       "I do remember," I said, and because I also remembered how mortified Eve was when she found out Brad was talking trash about her—and how angry she was, too—I leaned forward and patted her arm. "But look on the bright side, if you'd gotten that job you really, really wanted in Georgetown, you wouldn't have been