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million.”
    So she knew. “No, this is not one of the better parts of my job.”
    Her three friends, also dressed in oversize robes, gathered around us. They all looked flushed, as if they’d been enjoying the hot tub.
    “Goodness.” She laid a hand on my arm. “Don’t worry yourself. I knew I had only played two quarters. I’d been playing six most of the evening, but then, about a half hour before I hit, I switched to two quarters per pull.”
    “How much did you win, Velma?” asked one of her friends.
    All eyes swiveled to me.
    “Three hundred and sixty-five thousand,” I said.
    “That’s wonderful!” Mrs. Paisley positively beamed. “After taxes that should be almost enough to get my grandson through Harvard.”
    “You have a grandson at Harvard?” I asked.
    “Not yet. He’s applied, but hasn’t heard. He’s wanted to go there practically forever.”
    “You don’t seem upset about hitting the big one, but not winning the eighty-five million.”
    Mrs. Paisley held onto my arm as she directed me to a couch in the great room.
    I took a peek at the fabulous view. The lights of the Strip stretched off into the distance. For some reason I felt like shouting, “I’m king of the world,” but that had already been done.
    “Sit, Ms. O’Toole. May I offer you a drink?”
    “Please call me Lucky. Perhaps a small one.” I was entitled to a drink; I’d spent the better part of the last sixteen hours at work—above and beyond by anyone’s definition. But I hadn’t eaten in a while, so the drink had better be small or I’d find myself sleeping it off in a stairwell just like our naked guy.
    At the clap of Mrs. Paisley’s small hands, a buff blond guy dressed in a loin cloth appeared.
    “Chad, bring Ms. O’Toole whatever she wants.” Mrs. Paisley sounded imperious and impish at the same time. Who wouldn’t enjoy having buff-body Chad waiting to grant their every wish?
    “Scotch, neat.”
    Chad nodded and disappeared.
    Mrs. Paisley settled in next to me. Her friends took the chairs across from us.
    “Eighty-five million is a life-changing amount,” Mrs. Paisley announced. “Some lives don’t need that much changing. Mine’s one of them. Mr. Paisley left me well taken care of. After he passed, I was bored, so I started baking pies for the local restaurants back in my hometown of Griffin, Indiana. Do you know of it?”
    I shook my head. “Sorry, no.” Chad reappeared with my drink. I took a long sip, gasping as the liquid burned down my throat.
    “It’s a small town, mostly farming folk, but we’re on Interstate 70, so we get a fair amount of traffic.” Mrs. Paisley wiggled like a puppy, clearly enjoying her moment in the spotlight. “My pies were pretty popular and then Margaret over there . . .” She pointed to one of the ladies sitting opposite us. “Well, she was taking names of the out-of-towners who would call asking for us to send them a pie. After the names started adding up, she convinced me, and Paisley Pies was born.”
    “Paisley Pies?”
    “We’re small, but growing. All my kids and most of my grandkids, at one time or another, have worked with me. My friends process the orders and handle all of the shipping. According to my grandson, I even have a ‘Web presence.’ I’m not sure what that means, but he seems thrilled. And the orders are increasing almost faster than we can keep up. So, Lucky, what more could I possibly want?”
    “You’re a real glass-half-full kind of woman, aren’t you?” I took another sip of my scotch enjoying the warmth—as much from Mrs. Paisley as the alcohol—spreading through me.
    “Most folks only think about what they don’t have. I know what I’ve got. Eighty-five million wouldn’t make it any better.”
    I patted Mrs. Paisley’s knee. “You are a breath of fresh air. And you have made my night.” I pulled one of my cards out of my pocket and turned it over. “Does anyone have a pen?” I put my drink down on the side table.