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said
dismissively as she turned off the ignition. Molly saw a flicker of sadness
surface in Borris's eyes as he watched Jessica exit the car.
    Inside Casa 'Rita, long tables covered by vinyl cloths
decorated with red chili peppers were crammed in a haphazard pattern on top of
a perspiring terracotta floor. Waitresses, who all seemed to be local college
students, wore tight citrus-colored T-shirts bearing the text, Milk stinks,
got Margaritas? Festive piñatas shaped like chili peppers, donkeys, and
sombreros dangled from the ceiling. Jessica was hailed by Tony the Toy Man and
the threesome moved forward to join the other head appraisers.
    Molly sat down at the end of a table with Jessica, Borris,
and Tony. She waved to Garrett who was seated next to a middle-aged Asian woman
with glistening, ebony hair and an unlined face. The woman broke off her
conversation, smiled warmly in Molly's direction, and called out, "Hi! I'm
Alicia. I'm art." Alicia gestured to the man seated on her right.
"This is Patrice. He's porcelain."
    Patrice turned a bearded face toward Molly and smiled
thinly. He had a prominent nose, sunken eyes, a long chin, and pointy ears.
"My pleasure," he drawled in a French accent. Molly thought he
resembled an elf.
    Jessica kneed Molly under the table. "That accent is
totally fake," she whispered. "But it works on TV."
    Frank was seated at the other end of the long table, talking
animatedly with a homely-looking woman in her late fifties. Her brown hair,
woven with gray, was falling out of a low bun. She continuously poked at a pair
of owl-like glasses as they slid down her small nose. Next to the owl-lady,
Victoria was taking deep drinks of margarita on the rocks and looking about the
restaurant with her usual indifference.
    Borris and Molly ordered frozen grande margaritas, chili con
queso, and sizzling chicken and steak fajitas. Jessica chose a vegetarian
appetizer of bean quesadillas followed by a spinach and cheese enchilada.
    "Who is that lady Frank is talking to?" Molly asked
Borris.
    "That's Lindsey. She's linens. Kind of ditzy, but a
real doll. Knows her stuff, too."
    "There's an empty chair next to Tony. Is anyone else
coming?" Molly asked. "I don't know if I can remember any more
people."
    Jessica snickered. "That chair is for Alexandra
Lincoln. She'd prefer a throne, however. She appraises coins, stamps, and
clocks. She'll be fashionably late and make a grand entrance, even in this
setting."
    "But her name doesn't have the alliteration everyone
else's does," Molly pointed out.
    "No, she refused to play along.
Apparently"—Jessica broke out into a haughty British accent—"she is
from the Lincolns of Lincolnshire . Her father is a baron. A broke
one, but still, a title is a title. Alexandra said it was insulting to have a
television pseudonym," Jessica said dismissively as she bit off the comer
of a blue tortilla chip. "The rest of us peasants don't mind. A paycheck
is a paycheck. You can call me Penelope Pitstop as long as the money's
good."
    Just as their margaritas were delivered, a stunning woman
walked through the front door. Wearing a tailored designer suit in crisp white
with an expensive Gucci bag and matching pumps, the woman tossed a shiny wave
of copper-colored hair professionally streaked with glints of gold over her shoulder.
As most of the men in the restaurant looked in her direction, she turned a
carefully made-up face toward the appraisers. Molly noted the woman's shapely
legs, the alluring sway of her hips as she walked, and the poise of her
movements as she approached Tony and issued him a smile that was not reflected
in her cold eyes.
    "Save me a seat?" she asked Tony. Unlike
Garrett's, Alexandra's British accent lacked charm. It simply elevated the air
of condescension about her.
    Alexandra turned golden eyes toward Molly and gave her a
queenly nod. Molly felt instantly snubbed. Over the rim of her margarita glass,
Molly watched Alexandra suddenly brighten as she spoke to