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know about Harold?”
    Harold? It’s awful when a caller says something out of left field, and I saw a flash of panic in Chantel’s eyes. She bit her lip uncertainly, and some of her flame red lipstick smeared onto her front teeth.
    Who was Harold? An illegitimate son? A business partner? A new romantic interest?
    “I think he does,” Chantel told her. “Yes, he’s nodding his head.” I resisted a ridiculous impulse to look around and see whether the ghostly Barney really was nodding in approval.
    “And he’s okay with that?” Sylvia asked breathlessly. “Because Harold’s sleeping with me now. I know it seems a little soon, but it was just one of those things.”
    Harold is sleeping with her, and Barney just passed last week? I felt like I was caught up in an episode of The Young and the Restless . Or maybe One Tree Hill .
    “I . . . Yes, I believe Barney is okay with that,” Chantel said. She swallowed, clearly flustered. “Barney seems to be drifting away now, so I’m afraid I can’t be more specific. . . .”
    “I never thought I’d get another Pomeranian, but I bought Harold from the same breeder that Barney came from.” Sylvia was talking in a rush. Pressured speech, the shrinks call it. “He’s got papers and everything. I may show him at Westminster next year.”
    Same breeder? Westminster? Suddenly it all made sense.
    “Barney’s a dog ?” I blurted out.
    “Of course he’s a dog,” Sylvia huffed. “A prizewinning Pomeranian. What did you think he was? I had to have him euthanized last week. His kidneys went. Dr. Harper said it was time. I just wanted to see if he was doing okay and to tell him about Harold.”
    I was speechless, but Vera Mae took up the slack. “And so the circle of life continues,” she muttered into her mike. “We’re coming up on a break, and we just have time for a quick word from our sponsor, Wanda’s House of Beauty.”
    The moment we went to break, Chantel and I whipped our headphones off and stared at each other in stunned silence.

Chapter 2
    “And we’re out. For two minutes!” Vera Mae yelled from the control room.
    Her cone of lacquered hair tottered a little as she leaned down to jam a cassette into the deck. An annoying jingle from Wanda’s House of Beauty flooded the studio, and Vera Mae motioned for me to read the live copy that was sitting in front of me.
    The thirty-second spot is called a “doughnut” because it opens and closes with music; there’s a “hole” in the middle for me to say my lines. This means there are ten seconds of music and ten seconds for me to read the ad copy, and then the music returns before fading out in the last ten seconds. It’s a good deal for the sponsor. It saves on production costs, and it’s very flexible; we can change the ad copy without recording a whole new commercial.
    “Don’t miss our midweek special,” I said into my mike. The music was jacked up too high, and I practically had to shout to make myself heard. I felt myself wincing as I read the lines. Vera Mae is supposed to lower the volume for the voice-over part of the commercial, but I figured she was still rattled from Sylvia’s call. I know I was.
    “Thirty percent off on highlights, this week only.” I was racing through the lines. It looked like too much copy for ten seconds, and the words were tumbling over each other. “Single-process color is only forty dollars, and that includes being blown out of this world.”
    Blown out of this world? Where had that come from? I felt like my brain had slammed into a wall. Chantel snickered, sitting back in her chair.
    “I mean, that includes a blow-dry ,” I said hastily.
    Music up and out. I saw Vera Mae bent over the control board, flipping dials, booting up the music for the end of the spot.
    “Nice commercial,” Chantel said in her Queen of Snark voice. “Did you write it?”
    “No, we have a copywriter.” I paused. “Well, she’s sort of a copywriter. It’s Irina, the girl at the