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   And our urgent call for help was answered by a patrol officer named Kaitlin Sands, Tyler's current fiancée.

   Bad enough, yes? But wait! As they say in those hokey commercials, there's plenty more.

   After it was determined that the man was murdered and didn't die of natural causes, Tyler himself—in all his egotistical glory—showed up at Très Bonne Cuisine and looked down his roman nose at us when Eve and I told him we thought we knew who'd done it.

   Then there was the little matter of how he took it when he found out we'd been right (at least about some things) all along.

   Do I need to point out that Tyler was not a happy camper when we solved a case he couldn't?

   The fact that he held Eve and me in the highest possible professional disdain paled in comparison (at least in Eve's eyes) to the fact that throughout our investigation and the (unfortunate) amount of times we bumped into him because of it, Tyler never so much as gave Eve a second glance.

   Hell hath no fury, and Eve wasn't just a woman scorned. She'd been rejected, spurned, and told right to her face that she wasn't as smart/pretty/young/clever as Kaitlin. That had to hurt. I knew it for a fact, because I'd been told pretty much the same thing about Mandy (or Mindy, I never could remember) by Peter.

   It was certainly ammunition enough to account for the fact that Eve's top lip curled before she said any more about a date with Senator Mercy.

   "Men," Eve said, "are disposable. Even rich, powerful, handsome men like that senator of yours. No thanks, sugar. I'm not interested."

   Sarah didn't know Eve as well as I did. She took the statement at face value. I, who had been Eve's best friend since the day in first grade when we were assigned to be each other's bathroom buddy, knew that sooner or later, she'd change her mind and be back in the hunt.

   I knew it would be sooner.

   I prayed it would be later.

   I already had six unreturnable matron of honor gowns— never worn—hanging in the deepest, darkest recesses of my closet. I didn't need another one.

   "Well . . ." Sarah sat up a little straighter. She had eyes as brown as acorns, and they sparkled with excitement. "I'm glad I had a chance to stop in. I didn't have these pictures with me when I saw you at the grocery store the other day." She reached into her Coach bag and held a small stack of photos to her heart. "I have something really exciting to tell you about: Doctor Masakazu."

   News of the romantic sort is usually greeted with interest by Eve. But this time, I watched as her brow furrowed. In a pretty way, of course.

   "Doctor? What happened to that hunky news anchor you were dating? Dylan What's-His-Name? You know, the one with the great hair and the really white teeth? You didn't—"

   "Break up with him? You bet I did. But this isn't about a new boyfriend." Sarah's grin was as bright as the sunshine that played hide-and-seek with the November clouds outside. "It's about him. Doctor Masakazu."

   She flipped the photos around and proudly held them in our direction. Because Eve was still staring, widemouthed, I sat down and took the pictures from Sarah's hand.

   "It's a dog," I said, stating the obvious since I was looking at a picture of a tiny puppy with a thin brown face and dark eyes. "This is Doctor Masa . . ."

   "Doctor Masakazu." Sarah laughed. "I don't know what it means for sure, but it sounds right, doesn't it? His breed originated in Japan and it's a Japanese name, at least the Masakazu part. We had a trade delegation visit from Japan a couple months ago, and one of the men in it was named Masakazu. I put the
doctor
in front of it for no reason at all except that it sounds so cute. I got him from the breeder a week ago. Is he adorable, or what?"

   
Adorable?
I wasn't so sure, though I was willing to go as far as c
ute
. Not that I'm not an animal lover. Furry and cuddly are very good things. But the very good things that are furry and cuddly can also be very bad things, and they often do even worse things to furniture, not to mention carpeting. My hunger for predictability precluded me from ever letting a creature into my life. After all, I'd already had one cuddly thing to call my own—Peter—and at the same time he proved himself a dirty dog, he also proved that my theory was right. No matter how cute, no matter how cuddly, they can be unpredictable, uncontrolled, and unrepentant when they're bad.

   Eve, on the other hand, had no such reservations. About men or animals. But then, Eve has a heart as big as a Texas ranch. "He's the sweetest little thing I've seen in a month of Sundays," she said, snatching the pictures out of my hands for a better look. "My goodness, Sarah, is that a diamond bracelet he's wearing for a collar?"

   I leaned in close for a better look at the picture. The puppy was wearing what looked like diamonds, all right, two rows of them stacked one on top of each other and mounted on a thin band of black leather.

   "Diamonds?" Sarah laughed like she was embarrassed, and I couldn't blame her. Leave it to Eve to think of pampering a pooch she'd never even met. "Don't be silly, Eve. Though believe me, if he wanted diamonds, I'd buy him diamonds. He's my little sweetie pie."

   The last sentence was delivered in the kind of highpitched, singsong voice women use when they're talking to babies. I didn't begrudge Sarah this eccentricity, but I have to admit, I didn't fully understand it. Not that I don't love babies. My biological clock was ticking as loud as any other mid-thirties single woman's. I guess I just found it hard to understand translating that kind of affection to a dog.

   "Sorry!" As if Sarah could read my mind, she made a face. "I know I sound like a complete nutcase, but I'm head over heels in love with the little guy. I had to wait just about forever for him. The breeder had a waiting list a mile long. But now that I've got him . . ." Her bosom heaved beneath her silk blouse. "He's so tiny and so affectionate! He's my best buddy."

   Eve patted her hand. "I think it's adorable. You'll have to bring him in to meet us one of these days real soon."

   "I don't think so." I disabused her of the notion before she allowed it to take on a life of its own, as Eve's ideas often do. "Something tells me the health department wouldn't be happy about us having a dog in here. Even a dog as cute as Doctor Masa . . ."

   "Masakazu." Sarah grinned. "Don't worry about not remembering his name. It's my fault. I should have named him Rover or something easy to remember, but he's just so special, I wanted him to have a special name."

   Heidi appeared, take-out bag with Sarah's order of orange and fennel salad in hand. After Sarah paid and left a generous tip, she slipped into her raincoat and popped out of her seat. "I'd better get moving. Like I said, I've got that meeting. I'll tell you what . . ." She pulled on her gloves. "Why don't you two come over and meet Doctor Masakazu sometime? I know the little darling would love company, and you just won't believe how adorable he is."

   I was about to say no, for no other reason than I couldn't imagine where I'd find the time. But Eve, of course, had already said yes.

   "How about Wednesday?" Eve suggested before I could blurt out the fact that I had a meeting at work on Thursday (my o
ther w
ork) and I knew I had to be at the bank early. When I knew I had to be up early, I never allowed myself to stay out late the night before. "We'll bring dessert. Jim makes a flourless chocolate cake with hazelnuts that is to die for."

   We set a time, and Eve scratched Sarah's address on the back of one of the business cards we kept in a stack on a table near the front door.

   She was ready for me even before she turned around after escorting Sarah to the door.

   "You need to take an evening off sometime in this century," she said. "You're tired and stressed out. And don't tell me that's not true."

   "It is true, but—"

   "And you don't have to be here every minute when you're not at the bank, Annie. You can handle the business end of things and walk away. Jim knows what he's doing when it comes to everything else. The staff is great, and besides, Wednesday is my night off."

   "I know that, but—"

   "But nothing. It will be fun." The front door opened, and two men in suits walked in. "Come on, Annie," Eve said right before she went over to welcome them. "You could use a little R & R, and I can't wait to meet that sweet little dog. You're such a worrywart. What can possibly go wrong?"

   It was the second time that day that I'd heard the question.

   I tried not to think about it, but even as I did, I saw Heidi take another carafe of coffee over to Larry, Hank, and Charlie.

told, though, it wasn't exactly the same Arlington.

   I live in a modest apartment in a building that was erected the same year I was born. Don't try to do the math. Let's just say it makes my apartment building older than I care to say.

   Age aside, it's a nice place. My neighbors are (for the most part) quiet, the building is always clean, and the landscaping, though it isn't inspired, is neat, trimmed, and brightened with minimal displays of seasonal flowers and Santas/ menorahs/Kwanzaa candles when appropriate.

   But though it is where I live, my apartment will never really be home. Like millions of other little girls, I grew up dreaming of a house with a picket fence and a wide expanse of grass where my children (always clean, well-behaved, and—it goes without saying—in the gifted program at school) could play to their little hearts' content with their equally spotless friends.

   For the first years of our marriage, it was Peter's dream, too. At least the part about the house and the yard. (He was a high school chemistry teacher, after all, and so, a little more down-to-earth when it came to the well-behaved and spotless parts.) Real estate prices in the D.C. area are out of this world, but Peter was determined. Or maybe he was just trying to humor me. We were actually looking at (very small) houses when he was overcome with dry cleaning fumes and the perfume of the girl behind the counter. That's when he came to the realization that my dreams weren't his dreams. None of them.

   Our marriage wasn't the only thing split in two. So was our savings account. And there went any hopes I had of owning a home of my own. At least any time before I was so old, I couldn't make it up the front steps without help.

   Still, dreams die hard. Some nights I lie in bed and imagine how I'll decorate my very own house, what shades of beige I'll use in each of the rooms, which flowers will edge the path that leads from the sidewalk to my front door.

   Yes, it's a little delusional, but it is also fun, and call me crazy, but I know I'll go right on dreaming until I somehow make my dream come true. Nothing can shake me from my picket-fence fantasies.

   Unless, perhaps, if I had Sarah's address.

   The next Wednesday night, Eve and I stood side by side, our eyes wide and our mouths hanging open, in the lobby of Sarah Whittaker's apartment building. The fact that Eve was speechless should say a lot.

   Sarah lived in Clarendon, the same Arlington neighborhood where Eve and I had taken our ill-fated cooking class at Très Bonne Cuisine. The neighborhood is a mixture of funky old and trendy new, and from the looks of things, this building was one of the newest of the new, so brand-spankingnew, in fact, that the carpeting smelled as if it had just been laid.

   The architecture was, in a word, amazing. Clean lines, touches of chrome (or was it stainless steel?), and a lobby that featured a lofty ceiling and wide, high windows that during the day must have let in an amazing amount of light. It was airy and it was classy and it was spectacular. I tamped down a wave of lifestyle envy lest it get the better of me, and wished I'd listened to my high school guidance counselor who always said I should have attended college. Something told me a job on a senator's staff paid more than I made at the bank.

   Before the green-eyed monster could completely take over, I shook myself back to reality. I left Eve checking out a sleek sculpture of what looked like a vase of flowers (but might have been a mother and child) and asked the doorman to call and tell Sarah we were there.

   There was no answer.

   Convinced he'd called the wrong number, he tried again.

   Still no answer.

   I guess by this time, I looked a little confused and, by the way, the doorman looked suspicious. When he left the lobby desk to help an elderly lady with a boatload of packages, he raised an eyebrow and gave us a look that pretty much said we should get a move on. Eve came over to see what was up.

   "You called Sarah, didn't you?" I asked her. "You said you did."

   She nodded. "I called yesterday. Just like I told her I would. Sarah didn't answer, but I left a message. I reminded her we were coming tonight and that we were bringing dessert." As if to prove it, she lifted two bags. One of them was from Bellywasher's, and I knew it contained three larger-than-usual pieces of flourless chocolate cake. Though Eve hadn't told me what was inside the other bag, I had my suspicions the moment I saw that it came from an Old Town boutique called the Pampered Pooch. "She's got to be home. With all that traffic we ran into because of the water main break over near the Pentagon yesterday that they were still cleaning up, we're even a little late. She's had plenty of time to get home from work. She wouldn't invite us over and then not be here. She's dying for us to meet Doctor Masakazu."

   "Well, you try." Since the doorman had disappeared with the elderly woman, Eve leaned over the desk and grabbed the phone. She punched in the numbers. She had no luck.

   She replaced the receiver and harrumphed. "The buzzer thingy is probably broken. Sarah gave me her cell number. I have it with me. I think." She headed over to where a tasteful grouping of leather furniture was nestled in front of a gas fireplace where flames sparkled in the grate. She set her bag on the couch, flopped down beside it, and started rummaging.