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freezes over, whichever comes first. Making a point not to look her way, I pull the last of yesterday’s leftover baked steak from the fridge, pop it in the microwave, and wait the requisite minutes until the ding. Sliding the meat onto a plate, I add a handful of potato chips and head for the couch and TV. Yeah, it’s ten at night, but when you’re a news reporter you get used to odd meals at odd times.
    “Muwhp.”
    The weird sound comes from over my left shoulder, where Miss Priss has settled in. She gazes at my plate with the lustful stare of a knickknack collector at a twenty-family yard sale. I ignore her, just as I vowed.
    The next “muwhp” is louder and accompanied by a claw delicately sunk through my t-shirt and into my flesh. Miss Priss takes advantage of my shock and pain to launch herself at my lap, snag the steak, and tear toward the kitchen. I am left with a scattering of chips on the couch and the undeniable knowledge that I have once again doomed myself to becoming a creature’s servant.
    Miss Priss hisses as I walk into the kitchen. I give her a wide berth as I search for a substitute supper. The quest is interrupted by the ring of my cell phone. I dive for the blamed thing, which has buried itself under a couch pillow, because that ring tone is reserved for my beloved.
    That’s right. Whenever Carson calls, my phone chimes the Beer Barrel Polka. Not that he’s particular fond of beer or even knows how to polka, but because one of our first almost dates was at this charming German restaurant. Okay, it wasn’t that charming. And someone was after me there. But doggone it, I want my memories anyway.
    “Hi, babe,” he answers my hello with that warm, sexy voice of his, and I get a little melty inside. “Miss me?”
    “Of course,” I say. “Every minute you’re not with me.”
    “But you didn’t call at the precise time my favorite sci-fi show comes on to say you can’t live without me.”
    He’s right. I don’t call during his sci-fi show; he doesn’t call during my reality shows that has all those hunks in skimpy duds on the island.
    “It’s Luther,” I begin. Before I can complete the sentence, a chuckle comes from way up in Columbus, Ohio.
    “If you’re calling to let me know you’re eloping with Officer Gross, you’d better tell me where you’re registered,” Carson says. “Otherwise I’m assuming the gun department at Wal-Mart.”
    “Ha, ha.” I push the syllables out fast so he can’t interrupt easily. “Luther is requesting your assistance here in Fortuna.”
    “Another body?” I can see Carson sitting forward on his couch, elbows on his knees and all cop-like.
    “Missing, but not dead as far as I know. Miz Waddy who has the dry good store seems to have disappeared.”
    “The one with the gray bun, glasses on a chain, and the killer cat from hell?”
    “Yeah. And about the cat…”
    Silence, but not the good kind. As the moment lengthens, I anticipate his next question.
    “It’s there with you, isn’t it?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Don’t let it catch my scent. It already hates me.”
    That reporter instinct in me is pushing hard against the gooey part of me that’s Carson’s lovey-dovey. Trying for an offhand approach, I say, “I didn’t realize you knew Miz Waddy.”
    “Barely acquainted,” Carson hastens to say, as if I might be jealous of a bird-legged sixty-something, who everyone knows has a crush on the postmaster.
    “But acquainted.”
    “I met her when I first came to Fortuna. You know, the dead wife of your first boyfriend.”
    Ah, yes, I remember it well. Good times, good times. Sort of. I met Carson, I fell in love with him when he complimented my appetite, and we had glorious times back in my old hometown of Clovette. I mean if you ignore the being threatened, being shot at, and the mixed pain and pride when poor Precious took the bullet for me and went on to the great beyond.
    Some people go out to dinner on their first date. Or a movie,