Anyone who has seen Brad on the show knows how ridiculous-looking he is, but to see him when his face turns bright red and he is unable to control his heart-attack-like fits of hysteria is worth playing any practical joke on anyone. He immediately starts contorting his body and grabbing his head, and his face turns into the exact color of his ridiculous orange hair. Basically the same way a person would react during an earthquake, minus the laughter. "How can he believe you?" he bellowed as he started writhing on the couch. "How can he believe anything you say anymore? A dog autopsy?! Who the hell gets a dog autopsy?!"

While Brad was going into what anyone walking by the office would perceive to be seizures, Tom was as cool as a cucumber.

"This is excellent work, Chelsea. I like what you've done here."

"You have to call him on speakerphone and let us listen!" Brad sobbed.

"Cool your heels, Tinker Bell," Tom told him. "This has to be thought out very carefully. You need to call all the other people that were there last night and tell them the deal. There's a lot of potential here. What's your weekend looking like?"

"Wide open."

"Well, why don't we stage a little dog funeral somewhere and have our little producer, Mr. Johnny Kansas, film the whole episode. You're on Leno Tuesday night. You know how much Ted likes to be on television."

This was true. As much as he pretends he hates it, Ted loves to be talked about or displayed on television.

"Johnny!" Tom yelled.

Johnny walked in, and Tom asked him what his plans were for this weekend.

"I've got a christening on Sunday," he told us. "I'm free Saturday."

"Then Saturday it is. Where can we have the funeral?" Tom asked me.

"Well, it would have to be somewhere on our side of town, because there's no way I'm going to drive forty-five minutes for a fake funeral. How about the Santa Monica Pier? We can say we're spreading Dudley's ashes because he wanted to be cremated."

"The Santa Monica Pier!" Brad was now slamming his head on the arm of the sofa. "I can't take it! I can't take it! Dog ashes at the Santa Monica Pier!"

"Brad, pull yourself together, you fucking idiot. This is business," Tom told him.

"Okay, okay, okay, wait! You have to do the funeral after five so I can come."

"No, you can't come. You'll give it away before he even finds out," I admonished him.

"No! I have to be there."

"Brad is not coming," Johnny said, looking at him in disgust. "He'll ruin everything."

"Brad, you're not coming," I told him again. "But I will call Ted on speakerphone to tell him about the funeral, and you can listen."

"Not on my watch," Johnny said as he walked out. "I will not be a party to this other than videotaping the funeral."

"Hi, sweetie," Ted said in his very melodramatic way when he picked up the phone.

"They're having a funeral on Saturday at the Santa Monica Pier."

Brad jumped off the sofa and buried himself under Tom's desk, which had been vacated when Tom stood to shut the door.

"A funeral? I just got off with John, and he didn't say anything about a funeral."

"You just got off with John?" I asked, thinking I was screwed because I hadn't even spoken to John yet. "And?"

"And he sounded awful. I don't think he suspects anything. He just sounded terrible."

I looked over at Tom, who was standing by the door rubbing his goatee, and his eyes widened.

"Well, did he say anything about what might have caused it?"

"No, he says they just had open-heart surgery on the dog a few months ago, so he doesn't understand what happened."

The amount of fluid that you could hear coming out of Brad's body was unsettling. Luckily, the desk muffled his fits of laughter enough for Ted not to hear. I walked behind the desk and kicked him.

"He didn't say anything about a funeral, Chelsea. I don't think we have to go."

"No, his assistant is e-mailing everyone at the party. They want everyone who was there when he left the world to be there when he enters the ocean."

That was the only line I actually had trouble delivering with a straight face, and I fumbled a little but made a quick recovery. "It's Saturday."

"Saturday?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, my God. I have to go to a dog funeral on a Saturday?"

"It's at the Santa Monica Pier."

"Well, at least that's not too far."

This was just like Ted, to have a problem with the event as a whole but not take issue with the idea that the dog's ashes were basically being spread off a circus fairground into the Pacific Ocean.

By now the desk was vibrating, and I knew that Brad wouldn't be able to hold out much longer, so I ended the conversation with a final sniffle. "I'll call you later," I said, then hung up the phone.

"Did you tell John that you were faking his dog's death?" Tom asked.

"No, but he's familiar with the inner workings of this office, so he must have put two and two together."

"Pretty impressive work on John's behalf. I didn't know he had it in him. I think your next move is to have Eva call John's assistant and have her send out an e-mail asking everyone at the party if they saw Dudley eat any of the hors d'oeuvres at the party. And make sure you e-mail Claire and Jake just in case Ted starts calling the whole town."

"Exactly," I replied while looking over at Brad, whose face had turned two shades darker than a lobster.

"After that little desk performance, you are definitely not going to the pier," Tom told him.

"Pleeeeeease?"

I walked over to Eva's desk to give her instructions on the next phase of Operation Dudley Is Dead.

The next e-mail was sent by Eva a few minutes later:

Hey guys. Did any of you see Dudley ingest or eat anything last night that maybe he shouldn't have? The animal doctor that is doing the autopsy asked John's assistant to find out. It's a little awkward so she asked me if I could help.

Before I even finished reading the e-mail, my phone rang. "Did you get the e-mail?" Ted asked me.

"Yes. They know it's me."

"No, they do not!"

"They're gonna find out when they do the autopsy. They're gonna find the crab right next to that black napkin in Dudley's belly."

"Yes, but they aren't going to know who did it."

"I have to come forward."

"No, Chelsea! We don't even know if the dog is allergic to shellfish. It could have been something else."

"Was allergic to shellfish. Dudley is dead, Ted."

"We don't know that it was the shellfish. It could've been anything. Just wait until we get the autopsy results."

I took a deep, loud, dramatic breath.

"Chelsea," he said in the voice that a grief counselor would use with a patient attempting to do bodily harm to herself. "I have to go into a meeting now. Please don't talk to or call anyone who was at the party. Did you tell Tom?"

"Yes."

"Anyone else?"

"Brad."

"Why did you tell Brad?"

"Because he saw me crying."

"Oh, honey. You poor thing. Sweetie, you have to remember, this was an accident. The dog could have had another heart attack. We don't know it was the crab. It might just have been his time."

"I'm fine. I have to go, Ted. This is all too much."

A little later Eva walked into my office to tell me that Ted had called her and made it very clear to her that she saw nothing unusual at last night's party. "He also said that you were in a very fragile state and that I should keep an eye on you." Eva told me all this with a straight face and then turned on her heel and laughed all the way back to her desk. I was impressed with this side of her and her skill set in dealing with an unexpected dog homicide.

Luckily for me it was Friday. The spreading of the ashes would be Saturday, so I would have to go through with this charade for only one night and a morning.