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   "Eve!" I put a hand on her shoulder. "What's going on? What's wrong?"

   "It's that man!" Eve spun around in my desk chair. Her eyes were red. So was her nose. She was breathing hard, and her shoulders shook. But remember, I know Eve well. I knew she wasn't as upset as she was just downright mad.

   She proved it when she popped out of my chair. The

office door was open, and from where she stood, she could see into the restaurant. And our students, just sitting down to eat, could see her, too.

   "It's him," Eve shouted. "It's Brad. I'd like to kill that man!"

          Even before Eve's words faded, I saw the mother of all PR catastrophes looming in front of me, as chilling and awful and every bit as undeniable as the looks of shock on the faces of the students who stopped what they were doing and turned to stare. Their mouths gaped. Their eyes bulged. I don't think I need to point out that along with his share of the gaping and the bulging, Brad's expression included a whole lot of outrage.

   Now remember, I've 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 available to take the job here at Bellywasher's. This place wouldn't be the same without you."

   Just as I hoped, the compliment made a smile blossom across Eve's face. Unfortunately, even the fact that I was

100 percent sincere wasn't enough to make her smile last. Though the incident with Brad had happened nearly eighteen months before, some hurts were too painful to be forgiven—or forgotten—so quickly.

   The waterworks started again, and Eve plucked a tissue out of the box that sat on one corner of my desk. Her words bubbled with tears. "I'm glad I work here, too. But that doesn't make what Brad did any easier to live with. He lied about me. There's no excuse for that. And you know, I could never prove it, but I think that whole story about me stealing . . . I think he said that to cover up some shady dealings of his own. If there was money missing from the cash register, I bet it went right into Brad's pocket." Eve's cheeks, usually a delicate shade of pink, got dusky. Her eyes hardened. "There's no reason a guy like Brad Peterson should even walk the earth," she said.

   It was a surprisingly severe statement, even for Eve, who never bothers to hide her feelings. Uncomfortable with her anger, I did my best to soothe her.

   "I'm sorry," I said. "If I knew this Brad was the same Brad you worked with, I never would have let him sign up for the cooking class. I can give him a refund and ask him to leave. I know Jim wouldn't mind. Would that make you feel better?"

   "Oh, don't worry about me." Eve touched the tissue to her eyes. "I'm over my own personal hurt, Annie. Honest, I am. I mean, I'd still like to see the guy boiled in oil. Or burnt to a crisp on our grill. Or eaten by sharks. But, honest, it isn't me I'm thinking about. Not anymore."

   I sat up, interested. "You mean—"

   "He's done it to other women. Sure." Eve blew her nose. "It happened to Valerie Conover not two months ago, and she's been down in the dumps ever since. And before that it was Gretchen Malovich. It's not fair, Annie. None of it. Brad Peterson runs over people. He ruins their lives. He's a real Weasel."

   "I have no doubt of that." I nodded in sympathy. "Any guy who treats women like that is a scumbag."

   "Not just a scumbag." Eve looked me in the eye and pronounced the words slowly and carefully. "Brad Peterson is a Weasel."

   There was something about the way she emphasized that last word. We weren't talking lower case. Brad Peterson was a Weasel with a capital W. As for the other women Eve had mentioned . . .

   "Valerie and Gretchen . . ." I looked at her carefully. "I don't know them, and you've never mentioned them before. Who are they, Eve? And how do you know them?"

   It wasn't my imagination—Eve's cheeks got even redder. She looked up at the ceiling. She looked down at the floor. She folded her hands in her lap.

   "I'm not supposed to betray confidences," she said.

   "And I'd never expect you to. But—"

   "Well, I have been dying to tell you." Eve scooted forward in her chair, her eyes suddenly shining not with tears but with excitement. "I wouldn't have said a word," she made sure she added, "if you hadn't talked me into it."

   I didn't argue the point. What good would it have done, anyway? And besides, by this time, I was more than just curious. I gave Eve my full attention.

   "It's what I couldn't tell you about before. You know, earlier this evening when you were checking students in for class," she said. Now that she was divulging everything she'd been holding back, the words tumbled out of her in a rush, along with a hiccup of excitement. "I mean, not the part about seeing Brad here because, of course, I hadn't seen Brad here yet. I didn't even know he would be here. But Brad and Valerie and Gretchen . . . Yeah, that's exactly what I was talking about."

   I remembered our conversation from earlier in the evening, and suddenly, it all started to make sense. Don't ask me why I thought it was important to double-check, but I looked at the door, just to make sure it was closed good and tight. I lowered my voice. "You mean that whole thing about wearing disguises? About following somebody? That all has something to do with Brad?"

   "It all has something to do with Weasels. And Brad is a—"

   "Weasel. Yeah, I know. But how does all that figure in with—"

   "Women Opposed to Weasels." Eve sat up straight, her shoulders back and rock steady. "It's a group I belong to, Annie. Women Opposed to Weasels. We're women who have taken control of our own lives. 'A Weasel-Free World.' That's our motto. We're tough, and we're strong, and we're tired of having our lives manipulated and turned upside down by men who don't care about anybody but themselves. Hey!" This was, apparently, a new thought. Her eyes lit. "You should join. Peter qualifies. He's a weasel, too."

   I had no doubt of this, but I wasn't about to commit. Not yet, anyway. "And this Women Opposed to Weasels—"

   "WOW, that's what we call ourselves. We get together once a month," Eve explained. "You know, at a coffee place or a martini bar. And we talk about different ways to cope with the men in our lives and how to handle what they've done to us. I heard about the group and joined last winter. You know, after . . ."

   I did know, and I wasn't about to make Eve talk about it. It's one thing breaking up with a guy like she had done a dozen or more times. It's another going through an ugly divorce like I had. But it's something else altogether to have the man who says he loves you try to kill you and your best friend.

   I guess I understood why Eve was a woman opposed to Weasels.

   She didn't want to talk about it, either. She shrugged off the memories. "I heard about WOW and joined. Then at one of our meetings, I realized that I wasn't the only Brad survivor there. Gretchen had the same thing happen to her. And then Valerie showed up at last month's meeting with the same story. Thanks to Brad, she lost a chance for a job at the Department of Labor. All because she wouldn't sleep with the creep, and he gave her a bad reference."

   "So you joined forces, you and Gretchen and Valerie." This made sense to me. The disguises did not. Until I thought about it for another minute. "You're not going to follow Brad, are you?" I asked her, even though I knew Eve well enough to know this was exactly what she was planning to do. "I hardly know the guy, but I'm pretty sure he isn't someone I'd want mad at me."

   Eve lifted her chin. "We're willing to take our chances. We have to. For the good of women everywhere. And the downfall of all Weasels. Before tonight, I thought following Brad was the only way we could finally get some proof about what he's up to. But this is great, really. Now I know where he'll be every Monday night and I can really keep an eye on him. Nobody believes us when we tell our side of the story. We need some concrete evidence. You know, photos of Brad's hand in the till. Something like that."

   It was exactly the sort of thing that had nearly gotten us killed last winter, but I didn't bother to bring that up. Eve was long past listening. I could tell by the way her eyes gleamed. It wasn't her passion that worried me. Like I've said, Eve is never shy about her emotions. But there was a ring of militance in her voice, and this was very un-Eve-like.

   As if she knew what I was thinking and was eager to prove me right, Eve's voice hardened with conviction. "We've got to put this Weasel in his place," she said. "We owe it to the sisterhood of women everywhere. Especially since we've found out that even giving in to Brad's demands doesn't get a woman anywhere. Those of us who told him we weren't interested . . . well, he trashed our reputations. But we found out that he's done the same thing to the women who caved. You know, the ones who slept with him. He keeps them around until he gets bored, then he dumps them and tells lies about them and ruins their lives, too. I'm telling you, Annie, this guy deserves an ugly, painful death. He's—"

   "A Weasel. I know. What are you going to do?"

   "Poison his brownies?"

   The way Eve said it, it wasn't funny. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair and carefully rephrased my question.

   "What are you going to do about Brad?"

   "Wear disguises. Follow him. Teach him a lesson."

   I'd leave the discussion of the whole cloak-and-dagger thing for another day, ideally when Eve's emotions weren't running so high. Maybe then she'd listen when I explained that, in my opinion, the best way to deal with a man as arrogant and belligerent as Brad wasn't to antagonize him, it was to simply ignore him.

   I cleared my throat. "I mean about Brad and Bellywasher's. About Monday nights. Maybe you should stay home on the nights Brad comes here for class."

   "Or maybe I should come after class starts and wait for him outside." As if a bolt of lightning had zapped her, Eve sat up. "I could follow him home from Bellywasher's. You know, see where he goes, what he does, who he talks to. I could slip in and out of the shadows and wear one of my disguises and—"