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from my hand. Luckily, I caught it in time, since I couldn’t afford to clean the couch or take Horatio to the dogwash.
    â€œWhat?” I said.
    â€œYou did it. I know,” sighed Geoff.
    I was appalled. So Geoff, my pal of twenty years, was putting me on a suspect list. Surely he knew I wasn’t into murder.
    â€œOut!” I shouted. I didn’t get up, but pointed my arm dramatically toward the door, which should have given him a hint.
    â€œAw, Lu,” he said.
    â€œOut!” I said, and I meant it. Sure, I might have been prone on the sofa, but my arm had a lot of energy in it.
    â€œOut!” I said.
    Finally duh Geoff picked up on the fact that I was not happy with him and hauled himself to his feet.
    â€œI’m your friend, Lu,” he said lamely.
    â€œSure,” I said. “A friend who thinks I could kill somebody.”
    â€œWell, okay, maybe you just hired somebody. And I could understand that, you know? I’m so on your side.”
    â€œOut! Out!” How bright do you have to be to get this message?
    Geoff ambled to the door, opened it, then turned and said to me, frowning. “This lock is loose. I’ll come by and fix it for you, okay?”
    â€œYeah, yeah, yeah. Out!”
    Then I realized he shouldn’t be driving. I pushed Horatio away, heaved myself out of the couch cushions and stomped to the door. I grabbed my purse on the way, and reluctantly rummaged inside.
    â€œHere’s twenty for a cab,” I said, stuffing a bill in his hand. “Don’t drive, you rat.”
    He looked at me reproachfully.
    â€œCould you call me a cab?”
    â€œOut!” I said, still in fine form. “You can hail a cab on Ryerson. Just get out of here. And don’t forget that you owe me twenty.”
    He gave me one of those reproachful looks (from that soap he did years ago), but I wasn’t falling for it.
    He fell out the door, and I kicked it shut after him. All this turmoil, and he lands on my carpet and accuses me of murder? I reached for the deadbolt, then was distracted by Horatio gnawing on my loafers. This dog was so hard on my wardrobe.
    I was pulled back into the room by Horatio’s slobbery ministrations and fell back onto the sofa, allowing myself to be comforted by Horatio’s heavy head vibrating slowly on my foot, as he breathed the deep and comfortable sighs of a large dog who knows nobody is going to push him around. I wondered what really went on in dogs’ heads as they zoned out and drooled and dreamt, while cutting off circulation to their owner’s appendages.
    What a life. A dead body. Loads of suspects. Geoff showing up with accusations. And, ironically, this after I had defended him to Gretchen, who had simply ignored my aria about friends and loyalty and wandered up to her door.
    I idly wondered if Geoff had a drug problem. Not that I had noticed. But then, I wasn’t the best judge of character. Just look at my cast list of former boyfriends, and one could see in a flash that I didn’t have a clue about spotting addictions, mental conditions or closets.
    Horatio reached up and smooched my face, which felt like a large wet washcloth (quite smelly) moving across my cheek, but I wasn’t in a position to get choosy.
    Suddenly, he stopped. His ears went up like large fluffy slippers. He slowly turned his head toward the door, and a rumble started in his throat. Maybe those vocal exercises I had tried to teach him, in the hope of increasing our income, had finally caught on.
    Something hit the door hard enough to make it shake. (And this was a good-quality door, bought in the Bow Wow days). Horatio proceeded to try to squeeze himself under the sofa, while I tried to keep my balance.
    Great. Geoff wanted reassurance. I knew him. He had come back and wanted to know that I wasn’t really, really mad at him. Well, of course, I wasn’t really, really mad at him. I was just mad at him. I would get over