Riley pulled a translucent sliver of tomato off her burger. “What does that mean?”

“It means it’s only like itself.”

Riley thought it over. “Sort of like you.”

“Thanks. You, too.”

Riley stuffed a French fry in her mouth. “I’d rather be pretty.”

Riley had left on her FOXY T-shirt, but exchanged the dirty lavender cords for a pair of too-tight denim shorts that squeezed her stomach. They’d settled into a cracked brown vinyl booth that afforded a good view of a bad collection of western landscape art displayed on nauseating pastel blue walls along with some dusty ballerina figurines resting in shadow box frames. A pair of blond, fake wood ceiling fans stirred the smell of fried food.

The door opened and the lunchtime buzz stilled as a formidable-looking older woman limped in, supporting herself with a cane. She was overweight, overpowdered, and overdressed in bright watermelon pink slacks and a matching tunic. Multiple gold chains accented a plunging V-neck, and the stones in her dangling earrings looked as though they might be real diamonds. She’d probably once been beautiful, but she hadn’t permitted herself to age gracefully. The sprayed mass of teased platinum hair that curled, waved, and swooped around her face had to be a wig. She’d drawn in her eyebrows with a light brown pencil but abandoned restraint with thick black mascara and frosted blue eye shadow. A small mole, which might once have been seductive, sagged at the corner of her bright pink lips. Tan orthopedic oxfords supporting badly swollen ankles were the only concession she’d made to her age.

None of the lunch crowd seemed happy to see her, but Blue regarded her with interest. The woman surveyed the crowded restaurant, her disdainful gaze flicking over the regulars, then settling on Blue and Riley. Seconds ticked by as she openly studied them. Finally, she bore down, her pink tunic molding to a formidable set of breasts held high by an excellent bra.

“Who,” she said, when she reached their table, “are you?”

“I’m Blue Bailey. And this is my friend Riley.”

“What are you doing here?” The faintest trace of Brooklyn colored her speech.

“We’re enjoying a little lunch. How about you?”

“I have a bad hip, in case you haven’t noticed. Were you planning to ask me to sit?”

Her imperious manner amused Blue. “Sure.”

Riley’s panicky expression suggested she didn’t want the woman anywhere near her, so Blue slid over to make a place on her side of the booth. But the woman shooed Riley aside with her fingers. “Move over.” She placed a big straw purse on the table and lowered herself slowly into the booth. Riley plastered her body against her backpack, sliding as far away as she could.

The waitress appeared with silverware and a glass of iced tea. “Your regular’s coming right up.”