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amusement. “We want everything to be perfect.”
    “Shall we, then?” Norman sniffed. “But first I’d like you all to sign confidentiality forms.”
    Maggie almost burst out laughing. Now I’ve heard everything, she mused. I don’t get the feeling we’ll be serving the crowd you see at the Oscars. This guy is delusional! I can’t wait to talk to the others about this. A sudden thought gave Maggie pause.
    But if he’s not delusional, what is he hiding?

5

    R egan awoke with a start, breathing hard. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. Then she realized—the hotel in Beverly Hills. Thank God, she thought. That dream was crazy.
    The clock next to the bed read 6:15.
    Regan got up and headed for the shower, feeling oddly unsettled. She always appreciated Jack, but at times like this she appreciated him even more. If he were here I’d be fine. I can’t wait to see him later.
    There were four different light switches for the spacious bathroom. Regan played with the dimmers until she found the right setting. This bathroom is unbelievable, she thought, admiring the marble flecked with tones of apricot, white, and beige. There were two sinks and lots of counter space, a large bathtub, a separate shower stall, and a toilet behind a closed door.
    It’s so civilized, Regan thought. And it sure beats the outhouse at camp. What made me think of that? Suddenly Regan turned and went to the door of the room, pressed the DO NOT DISTURB button next to it, and secured the chain. That should keep the bogeyman away, Regan said to herself, remembering the scary stories she and her fellow campers told each other lateat night, tucked in their sleeping bags, freezing to death. After three days of roughing it, ten-year-old Regan couldn’t wait to get home. She’d had enough of campfire stew, watered down fruit drink, and bug bomb spray.
    Even though Regan had already used the shower, she still had trouble figuring out which faucet was connected to which spray. There were nozzles everywhere. After a few minutes of trial and error, the water felt great. By 7:30 Regan was dressed and ready to leave. She’d chosen a pair of black dressy pants, a silk top, and high-heeled sandals.
    She’d called for the car. When she got downstairs, the valet was pulling it into the driveway. He opened the driver’s door, and wished her a good night as she handed him a tip. Here we go, Regan thought, as she buckled her seat belt, then programmed the address into the GPS. Twenty-five minutes later she was turning into the driveway of the Scrumps mansion.
    She didn’t know that she’d been followed.

6

    I n a small house set back from a rural road forty miles north of Los Angeles, Clarence and Petunia Hedges sat down to dinner. Both in their mid-fifties, they’d been married for thirty years. The first night they laid eyes on each other at a singles bar in San Diego, they knew they were made for each other. It takes one to know one. People with no moral compass, that is.
    Petunia, a statuesque woman with blond highlighted hair, and a voice that on occasion tended toward grating, favored black stretch pants and boots and colorful tops. She wore big earrings and lots of jewelry.
    “Pass the fries,” Clarence grunted, his eyes glued to the large television screen on the wall.
    “They’re closer to your plate than mine,” Petunia remarked as she pushed the dish sideways until it grazed his hefty forearm. She picked up a bottle of ketchup, and started to do battle with it. “You didn’t want a vegetable, did you?”
    Clarence knew better than to say yes. He shook his head, taking a bite of meat loaf. A big burly guy, his reddish hair was parted in a perfectly straight line, and combed into a stylebefitting an altar boy. “Fries are enough of a vegetable for me. What’s for dessert?” His eyes never left the TV screen.
    “Cake from a box.”
    Clarence started clapping wildly. “Yes!” he cried, raising his arms in the air. “Way to