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this. “What do you mean?”
    The vendor folds a black velvet flap over the stones. “We can accommodate whatever you wish, Mona. You know that.”
    “Then it’s settled,” Aunt Weeby’s cohort says, satisfaction in her voice.
    No way. Nothing’s settled. Not like this. Not until she puts out on the table whatever she’s cooked up. “Whaddaya mean, it’s settled?” I ask. “You haven’t even told us what you’re thinking. And, knowing you, it could be . . . it could be as insane as . . . as . . . well, as crazy as that trip to Kashmir—”
    I stop. As soon as I mention the sky-high land we recently visited, I know what her wacky mind has settled. “Nope. No way. Nuh-uh. Not this girl. I’m not going.”
    Miss Mona waves. “But, of course, you’re going to Colombia, Andie, dear. Who else is going to know whether Rodolfo’s emeralds are . . . are 65s or 23s or Ms or Ls or As, Bs, Cs, or Zs. You, my dear, are headed for the Muzo mine country. And I won’t hear another ‘no’ about it, you hear?”
    Up until I took Miss Mona’s offer of a job, I’d loved to travel. Who wouldn’t?
    But since then, I’ve known nothing but danger, fear, guns aimed my way, and the inside of grody foreign jails. Not my idea of jet setting, know what I mean? And there are guerillas and drug lords in Colombia. I do not want to step into that kind of trap again.
    I glare at Miss Mona. “If you think it’s such a great idea, then you go. I’ll give you charts and photos to take with you, and before you leave, I’ll teach you everything I ever learned about emeralds. But I’m not going. I’ve had it up to here with traveling to strange places where nobody knows we wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
    My boss turns to Mr. Cruz. “Don’t pay her no never-mind, Rodolfo. Of course, she’s going. She won’t be meeting with strangers when she’s there, either. You’ll take care of her, and she’ll be fine, right?” She winks my way. “It’s time for you to use your negotiating skills. And you’ll be taking my credit card with you.”
    What negotiating skills?
    Yikes! I’m sure you’ll understand why I feel the waters on the deck of the Titanic licking my ankles.
    I’m sunk.

    Okay. I must confess. Six hours and forty-five minutes after that crazy meeting this morning, including a two-hour show with Mr. Magnificent, who doesn’t blooper once, but does do his charming best—be still, my heart!—when I gather my briefcase and purse and close my dressing room door, I’m not all that upset about the trip to Colombia any more. How could I be? After all, the Muzo mines there are just as legendary as those in Burma and Kashmir. Since I started my job at the S.T.U.D., I’ve visited both. Now I’m being given the chance to see the operations in Colombia, which is pretty cool.
    What’s not so cool is all the criminal activity that goes on in that country. Not only is the place notorious for its drug violence and anti-government guerilla warfare, but also the land of its emerald mines is bathed in the blood of murdered miners.
    “Good night, Nellie,” I tell the S.T.U.D.’s new receptionist on my way out of the building.
    The rustle of magazine pages precedes her “See ya.”
    Nellie is unique. She’s only been with the S.T.U.D. for three months, and in that time I’ve watched her voraciously consume every monthly issue of every health magazine known to mankind. And that’s in between reading titles such as Regularity Through Colonics in Sixteen Days, Iron Out Your Wrinkles , and the inimitable Halitosis Gone .
    I shake my head and push on the glass door. “A little knowledge’s a dangerous thing, Nell.”
    She peers up at me through her bottle-bottom thick glasses. “Oh, I couldn’t agree with you more. That’s why I’m determined to educate myself.” She waves a prodigious tome entitled Digestive Disorders Digest . “I’m telling you, girl, I know I’ve come down with . . . with—wait a sec while I look it up