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hard to cast you as the pining spinster.”
    “I’m over forty, darling. That’s not just pine—it’s petrified wood.”
    Molly leaned against one of the ultrasleek kitchen stools that looked like elongated, inverted mushrooms. Modern and amusing, but frankly, another mistake. Other than a beetle, who wants to sit on a mushroom?
    “Maybe Cassie wasn’t poisoned on purpose,” Molly ventured. “Remember all those problems with products from China? Could be the same with Japanese imports. Easy enough to figure the Tokyo factory got mixed up and put in arsenic instead of sugar.”
    “Unsweetened tea,” I said mildly. “And besides, somebody placed those bottles in the refrigerator.”
    Molly closed her eyes briefly. “I’m so exhausted I can’t think anymore,” she said. “Actually, I don’t want to think anymore. I’m going to catch a couple of hours’ sleep and get to my office. Just pretend last night didn’t happen.”
    “Want to crash here?” I asked. “Nobody will bother you. The guest bedroom has a new handmade quilt and goose-down pillows.”
    “I’m allergic to down. The only pillows I can stand are cheap foam.” She rolled her eyes. “See? No way I’d need a billionaire to keep me happy. I’m more Ramada Inn than Four Seasons.”
    Just then Grant sauntered into the kitchen, wearing new Banana Republic jeans and a button-down shirt. He had on Top-Siders instead of Nikes and looked a little neater than usual for school.
    “Aunt Molly!” he said, seeing her. “What are you doing here so early?”
    “Having breakfast,” she said, perking up enough to give him a little hug. “Best places to eat before noon in LA are Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles or your mom’s kitchen.”
    Grant grinned. “Mom hasn’t figured out that nobody but us sits down to breakfast anymore. You know her theory: Life’s problems can be solved over cereal.”
    “Or made better with a bagel,” said Molly.
    “She’s a danger to Dunkin’ Donuts,” joked Grant.
    “A menace to McDonald’s,” parried Molly, and they both laughed.
    I rolled my eyes. They could make fun of me, but I firmly believed that family meals were the key to civilization. I had breakfast with the kids most mornings and insisted on family dinners at least a few times a week. I suspected that lively conversation at the kitchen table could add more SAT points than any Princeton Review course.
    Grant popped a piece of whole wheat into the toaster. “Can I make you some toast, Aunt Molly?” he asked.
    “No thanks. By the way, you don’t have to call me ‘Aunt’ anymore. That was cute when you were little, but you’re definitely all grown up.” She looked fondly at my six-foot-tall son.
    “Oh, come on, Molly, you’re the only aunt I’ve got. Even if you’re a fake one,” Grant joked.
    “He’s right. You’re family,” I said, going over and putting my arm around her. “Sorority-sister blood is thicker than water.”
    “Did I hear something about blood?” Ashley asked, flouncing into the kitchen. She had on a pink ruffled mini-dress (vintage sixties), purple leggings (forgettable eighties), and bright red Pumas (what decade would be willing to claim those?).
    “Blood as in bloodlines. I’ve apparently been adopted into yours,” said Molly. Then, taking in Ashley from head to toe, she added, “Your outfit is fabulous, darling. So retro you’re postmodern.”
    Ashley did a little pirouette. “I guess I got my style from you,” she said, her voice dripping sarcasm. “Very retro that you’re hooking up with a married man, Molly. But postmodern that he’s a billionaire.”
    The room fell as silent as if we’d been hit by a nuclear blast.
    “What are you talking about?” I asked finally.
    Ashley smiled smugly, pleased that her bombshell had landed. “I got up early to finish my history paper, and as soon as I turned on my computer, I heard everything,” she said. “Check it out, Molly. GossipGrrls.com says you and