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moist lips closer to my ear. I stiffened as she said, “That Yul is one gorgeous guy, isn’t he? I mean, Charlotte didn’t do bad, dumping Chad and winding up with all this and Yul, too.” She gestured with her empty glass around the glitz- and glamour-filled room.
    “Maybe she’s also got Chad,” I said.
    “No way!” Tilla sounded scandalized. “To prevent someone in Charlotte’s position from getting it all—the guy and the money—it’s a condition of her keeping the prize that she never see Chad again.”
    “Interesting,” I said. “Then why . . . ? Never mind.” I stifled a yawn. Chad’s visit wasn’t my business, and Tilla’s dose of reality programming was now enough to last me a lifetime. “You know, I’m a little tired. I think I’ll head to my place.”
    “Well . . . Okay.” Tilla stood when I did, blinking as she scanned the room for my replacement. The obvious one would be Lyle, but he was slipping out the door, followed by Hal and Phil.
    I guessed where they all headed: the kitchen, which served as the makeshift bar. I joined them, hoping to find my host and hostess to make my farewells. They weren’t there.
    That gave me a good excuse to meander about my house, hunting for them. And if I happened to spot something not being taken care of well, well . . . I already had to put them on notice to get rid of the ferrets. Adding more to it would be no trouble.
    And maybe I’d see that Chad again, too. I was curious why he was there.
    I went upstairs to case the bedrooms. Everything looked fine—except that the tasteless decorating had expanded to the second floor.
    I headed back downstairs and along the hall between the living room and kitchen.
    As I reached the door decorated with police-type tape and dire warnings, I heard voices. Startled, I stood still. So did the few other guests who traversed the hall with me.
    “Someone’s getting ugly,” commented a pretty starlet-sort who kept going.
    “Not me,” said the blond Viking whom Tilla had ID’d as the reality also-ran Sven Broman. He followed the star.
    My neighbors, just returning from the kitchen, glanced toward the closed door. Before any of us said anything snappy, the door banged open. Charlotte burst through it backward, but she continued staring into the room.
    “Get out, Chad,” she screamed. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing by coming here, but I want you gone.”
    Uh-oh.
    “Get your lapdog away from me,” shouted a male voice from inside the den. Lapdog? At least he wasn’t howling about ferrets.
    “I’ll get away when you’re out of here!” I recognized that voice, too, though the bellow and the high number of words in one sentence were unusual. Yul.
    The Chad I’d strode in with erupted from the room. He plowed through the interested crowd in the crowded hall—me among them—with no sign of recognition on his furious face. “This isn’t over, Charlotte. Like it or not, you’ll see me again.” He shouldered his way into the kitchen, and I heard the outside door slam.
    Charlotte’s usually perky face was pasty, and her white-toothed grin was as false as her measurements probably were. “We have something else to celebrate now, everyone,” she said a lot too brightly. “Chad’s gone.”
    I didn’t know until a few days later how prophetic those words would be.
     
I WAS EXHAUSTED that night, so sleepy that I dropped off fast despite the din still pealing from next door.
    The following morning, though, I woke up early and took Lexie for her walk. Though a couple years old, she was full of puppy energy, and I figured she was primed for more attention than a few fast minutes. I took her along on my rounds. It was Saturday, after all. A lighter day than the norm, since some of my professional pet care involved dog walking on days my human clients were at work. Unfortunately, Jeff was on a stakeout for one of his human clients that weekend, so we weren’t getting together.
    Same thing on