“The geniuses in the state legislature just turned down a request for more caseworkers and the counties are already severely shorthanded. Meaning no one checks anything. A couple more things about the Daneys: They always foster teenagers with learning disabilities. What I found really interesting is that all their wards have been females. Which is unusual, there’s no shortage of boys in the system.”

“Can foster parents pick and choose age and sex?” I said.

“There’s supposed to be mutual consent between the agency and the caregiver. In the best interests of the child.”

“So you can ask for a girl.”

“Alex,” she said, “right now, if you’re white and middle class and don’t have a criminal record, you can ask for just about anything and get it.”

I thanked her and asked for a list of the Daneys’ wards.

She said, “All I’ve been able to find is the last few years. I’ll fax it to you soon as I get off. Regards to Allison. I hope I wasn’t too cheeky with the Snow White stuff.”

“Not at all,” I said. “Brilliance has its privileges.”

“You flatter me, darling.”

* * *

The only Martin Boestling I found listed in the phone book was a “confectionery dealer” on Fairfax Avenue. Unlikely, but it was an easy drive over Laurel Canyon.

The Nut House turned out to be a double storefront a block north of the Farmer’s Market/Grove complex. The Parking in Rear sign kept its promise and I found a space next to a green van with the store’s name, address, and website under a giant cashew that resembled an eyeless grub. A locked screen door covered an open delivery arch. I rang the bell and a heavy, kerchiefed woman in her sixties peered out, turned the bolt, and trod back wordlessly toward the front of the store.

The space was one big room lined with bins of candy, coffee, tea, rainbow-hued desiccated things, equally garish jellied morsels, and nuts. At least a dozen varieties of almonds. A sign said No Peanuts Here, Allergic People Don’t Worry.

The shoppers, all female, strolled the aisles and scooped goodies into green bags rolled from overhead spools. The green-aproned man at the register was mid-fifties, round-shouldered, and stocky with dark wavy hair. His face looked as if it had argued with a wall and lost. His hands were outsized and blocky and he bantered easily with two women checking out. In the Internet photo I’d found, he’d been tuxedoed, arm in arm with Sydney Weider. She’d changed a lot. Martin Boestling hadn’t.

I scooped smoked almonds into a bag, waited until the shop was quiet, and approached.

Boestling rang up the sale. “You’ll like these, an Indian family in Oregon does the smoking themselves.”

“Great,” I said, paying. “Mr. Boestling?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I’m looking for a Martin Boestling who used to produce films.”