'This is the cosmetics department,' Joyce shouted. 'You can't just go around being a lunatic, chasing people through the cosmetics department.'

'I was not being a lunatic. I was doing my job.'

'Of course you were being a lunatic,' Joyce said. 'You're a dented can. You and your grandmother are screwy tunes.'

'Well, at least I'm not a slut.'

Joyce's eyes got as big as golf balls. 'Who are you calling a slut?'

'You.' I leaned forward in my purple pumps. 'I'm calling you a slut.'

'If I'm a slut, then you're a tramp.'

'You're a liar and a sneak.'

'Bitch.'

'Whore.'

'So what do you think?' Mary Lou said to me. 'Are you going to get these shoes, or what?'

By the time I got home I wasn't so sure I'd done the right thing with the shoes. I shifted the box under my arm while I unlocked my door. True, they were gorgeous shoes, but they were purple. What was I going to do with purple shoes? I'd have to buy a purple dress. And what about makeup? A person couldn't wear just any old makeup with a purple dress. I'd have to buy new lipstick and eye liner.

I flipped the light switch and closed the door behind me. I dumped my pocketbook and new shoes on the kitchen counter and jumped back with a yelp when the phone rang. Too much excitement for one day, I told myself. I was on overload.

'How about now?' the caller said. 'Are you scared now? Have I got you thinking?' My heart missed a beat. 'Kenny?'

'Did you get my message?'

'What message are you talking about?'

'I left a message for you in your jacket pocket. It's for you and your new buddy, Spiro.'

'Where are you?'

The disconnect clicked in my ear.

Shit.

I plunged my hand into my jacket pocket and started pulling stuff out . . . used Kleenex, lipstick, a quarter, a Snickers wrapper, a dead finger. 'YOW!' I dropped everything on the floor and ran out of the room. 'Shit, damn, shit!' I stumbled into the bathroom and stuck my head into the toilet to throw up. After a few minutes I decided I wasn't going to throw up (which was kind of too bad since it'd be good to get rid of the hot fudge sundae I'd had with Mary Lou).

I washed my hands with a lot of soap and hot water and crept back to the kitchen. The finger was lying in the middle of the floor. It looked very embalmed. I snatched at the phone, staying as far away from the finger as was humanly possible, and dialed Morelli.

'Get over here,' I said.

'Something wrong?'

'JUST GET OVER HERE!'

Ten minutes later the elevator doors opened and Morelli stepped out.

'Uh-oh,' he said, 'the fact that you're waiting for me in the hall is probably not a good sign.' He looked at my apartment door. 'You don't have a dead body in there, do you?'

'Not entirely.'

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