Everything had gone wrong that week. On Monday, my computer caught a case of "Tourette’s virus"—a nasty little program that seeded my outgoing reports with four-letter words, causing my clients to think I’d lost it. On Tuesday my car was vandalized and the jerk I hired to fix it tried to rip me off, not realizing that this was one woman who knew as much about bodywork as he did. On Wednesday, I came down with a head cold that settled in my sinuses, making my forehead pound and my thoughts go muzzy. And on Thursday I received a notice from the Internal Revenue Department via telecom, announcing that last year’s return was going to be audited. Again. It was clear that the accountant who kept the books for my one-woman detective agency needed to be fired. Or burned at the stake, with my tax returns as fuel for the flames.