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again.”
    I bang my forehead against the lobby door as she rustles through the book. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I know better than to get Nellie going. “Tell me tomorrow. I gotta go.”
    “Irritable bowel syndrome! That’s it. You see, I . . .”
    I let her go on for a few minutes, but when she starts in on the high cost of toilet tissue, I wave and sail out. I voice a prayer for her, that the Lord will bring her peace about her health, and head for my rental car. Our now-jailed gem thief bombed mine not so long ago.
    Like a heat-seeking missile, the image of those lovely emeralds zips into my head as I pull out of the parking lot. They were beautiful stones, but at Mr. Cruz’s $11,000 per carat, way overpriced. They weren’t absolutely top-grade virtually perfect pieces. I’m not going to let anyone take Miss Mona to the cleaners like that. Not if I can help it. I’m going to have to be extra sharp when I face the vendor again.
    Just pray the guy doesn’t have something equally sharp aiming back at you when you get there , the overactive little voice in my head pipes up.
    GULP. No doubt about it. There is a touch of danger involved in my upcoming trip.
    And it’s all about the money. Colombian emeralds are the most prized in the world. Their price tags do come with a lot of zeros on them. I rarely offer emeralds on the show for that reason. If we can’t give our viewers a better price than they can get at their friendly neighborhood jewelry store, then I can’t see why they’d be willing to buy anything sight unseen.
    I’ve never thought of myself as a wheeler and dealer, but I held my own in Miss Mona’s office, if I do say so myself. I suppose I’ll find out how good I really am when I face off with Mr. Cruz on his turf. I’m looking forward to that.
    That’s kinda scary. Maybe Peggy is right about me. Maybe
    I’m only an emotional chicken— cluck-cluck . Maybe I do like the adrenaline charge I get from teetering on the edge of danger.
    Who’d a thunk a boring old rock hound would have a . . . a—oh, I can’t believe I’m going to say this—a hidden-below-the-surface Indiana Jones streak to her? Maybe my former boss’s crook of a wife got it right. She dubbed me Andi-ana Jones and made the dopey name public during her trial. I’ve fought that label like a bunch of politicians in DC fight over a handful of votes.
    “Lord? Was Peggy right? Am I kidding myself here?” At the continued silence, I shake my head. “Okay, Father God. Show me those parts of me I haven’t really met yet—or haven’t gotten to know so well after the introduction.”
    At the red light, I drop my forehead to the steering wheel. Oh boy. I better brace myself. I know a dangerous prayer when I pray one, especially since God has been showing me a lot of unattractive flotsam inside me after I came home. But I really have to, as Peggy said, grow up. Thirty definitely makes me a grown-up.
    I pull into my driveway, slip my garage door opener gizmo from the visor where I keep it clipped, click it, and then park my car inside the dim structure behind my house. I gather my purse and briefcase from the backseat where I’d dumped them, then head outside.
    But I come to a complete and abrupt halt when I look up. I blink and blink, thinking my eyes have gone wonky because of the change from the dark garage to the sunny outdoors. There, however, on my driveway, sits a U-Haul truck that seems to have materialized since I parked. As I stare, the engine coughs itself to silence.
    A second later, before I can nudge myself out of my frozen state of shock, Josh and Max jump from the two sides of the cab and slam the doors in their wake.
    “Hey, you’re home,” Max says. “Miss Mona wasn’t sure you would be when we got here.”
    “What are you guys doing here?” I wave at the truck. “And what’s that thing for?”
    The two guys swap conspiratorial looks.
    You know that alarm-o-meter of mine? Well, it’s wee-uh-wee-