As she approached the girl at the counter—Southeast Asian, as were all the manicurists in the salon Alison had gone to shortly after her arrival in D.C.—she realized that she had caught a huge break. There were four manicurists in A Place for Nails. Two were starting work on the woman and the girl, and one was chattering in badly broken English with a blue-haired woman in her eighties. The fourth was at the counter, welcoming Alison with a cheery smile.

"You have time for me?" Alison asked, holding out her nails.

"Oh, bad, very bad," the woman said, her speech nearly identical to that of the girls at the salon in D.C. "What you do? Wash dishes? Build houses?"

From her spot in the first chair, the girl from Beechtree Road peered up to check out the newcomer. Clearly Hispanic, she was even more stunning than Alison had appreciated through the binoculars. It was difficult to tell if she wore any makeup, but there was certainly no need. Her light mocha face was smooth and stress free, with dark, doelike eyes, long lashes, and full, sensual lips. Beneath her ochre tank top, her breasts were already diverting, though not, Alison guessed, nearly as exciting to men as they would be in another year or so.

The girl's older companion was seated with her back to the counter and so missed the brief connection that was taking place. Her charge, if, in fact, that was their relation, smiled somewhat demurely, then lowered her wonderful eyes and turned her attention back to the manicure.

"Actually," Alison said to the manicurist, still totally uncertain as to what was going to follow the word, "I run a day care. Children."

Alison could tell by the woman's expression that she was not the least bit interested.

"Choose color," the woman said, motioning to a rack of perhaps eighty small bottles. "Choose, then come."

Alison noted that the chair in which she would be done was catty-corner from the older of Griswold's females. Funny, she mused, that she should think of them that way, even though she had absolutely no clue as to how they and the legendary agent were connected. She hurried over to the rack and quickly selected Marooned on a Desert Isle. She had only a limited time to insert herself into the lives of the two women, and if she made a poor choice in colors, there was always the salon back in D.C.

"Soak. . . . Soak here," the waiflike but clearly controlling manicurist ordered. "What you do to nails?" she mumbled to herself, shaking her head in utter dismay. "What you do?"