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go!” One of the San Francisco Giants had hit a home run.
    Petunia rolled her eyes. The last time they had a romantic dinner was before cell phones were invented. But she was happy. Happy but restless to make more money.
    Out in public this twosome gave the impression of being your average middle-aged couple. Clarence drove a truck, Petunia was a manicurist. They had raised their children in a San Diego suburb, and had moved north after their youngest graduated from college. With the kids gone, the time was ripe for Petunia to put her schemes in motion, far away from her nosy old neighbors. She had rented a PO box in a large post office half an hour away from their new home, and hoped that all the packages she received would not raise suspicions.
    Working in the nail salon as a manicurist, Pet loved to listen to her clients’ problems, all the while honing her vast knowledge of the weaknesses of the human condition. Weaknesses she could seize upon. Tsk tsking, she applied polish with the precise skills of a surgeon, peppering the conversation with her standard remarks. “Such a shame.” “It’s just not right.” “Who needs a friend like that?” “I can tell you’re special.” “Someone like you deserves much better.”
    She always got a good tip.
    The best customers were the men and women from out of town. They didn’t worry about what they told Petunia because they figured they’d never see her again. Hint to those customers—the world keeps getting smaller.
    “You should be a shrink,” a New Yorker said admiringly justthis afternoon. “I’ve never told a stranger so much personal information.”
    Petunia sighed contentedly. “I’d never make it through medical school. I was born to do people’s nails and listen to their problems at the same time. I’m so grateful I found my calling.”
    Cha ching!
    Finally a commercial came on. Clarence turned his attention to his plate. “So how was your day?”
    “Good. I went to the post office after work.”
    “Yeah.”
    “And I got a lot of great stuff from celebrities for the ‘fundraiser.’” She laughed. “If they only knew the fruits of their labor were going up on the Internet for sale. I’m telling you, I worked hard on that letter! And it looked so official.”
    Clarence sipped his beer. “What kind of stuff did you get?”
    “CDs, signed photos, books. Some of the celebrities wrote little notes wishing me luck and saying how wonderful I am for taking the time to raise money for needy children.”
    “Oh, brother,” Clarence said. “Not that I care, but I look at it this way. It makes them feel good to think they’re donating for a worthy cause. Let’s leave it at that. Because it is a worthy cause!”
    They both laughed and clinked their drinks. “To a worthy cause,” they said at the same time.
    Petunia sipped her wine. “One thing I might keep for myself is a signed book from the author Nora Regan Reilly. No matter what, I definitely want to read it first.”
    Clarence wasn’t listening. The commercial was over and the game was back on. “LET’S GO SAN FRANCISCO!” he bellowed. “LET’S GOOOO!”

7

    A pproaching the top of Zelda’s driveway, Regan could see that it looped into a wide circle on the side of the house. A valet signaled her to pull forward. When she reached him, she rolled down the window. “Not much room for parking, huh?”
    “That’s why I’m here. We’re parking the cars on the street.”
    “Oh. I didn’t see any out there.”
    “We’re taking the first cars all the way down to the dead end while we have the time. In twenty minutes people will all be arriving all at once. We save the spaces nearer the house for those cars so we don’t keep people waiting as long.”
    “Makes sense,” Regan said, putting the car into drive and securing the emergency brake. “How far down does the road go?”
    “Maybe a quarter of a mile.”
    “It looks like nothing but woods ahead. Are there are any other