Rose is wearing a tea-length watermelon-colored linen sheath dress and black ballet-style flats from Izzy’s wardrobe. Mel is disguised as her granddaughter in skinny jeans, with artful damage at the knees, and a floaty lime-green top longer in back than in front.

“Knock, knock.” Royal’s voice comes from beyond the entrance of the teepee.

“Enter at your own risk,” Mel calls.

Royal pokes his head through the flap. “Grandma’s gone,” he reports.

“Thank you, Royal.” After having laid eyes on Grandma, Rose has become more careful of attracting her notice.

“Sure I can’t come? I could be your other grandchild, the smarter, better-looking one,” Royal says with a grin.

Mel chucks a pillow at him.

“I will do my best to include you in any dangerous, unsavory, or illegal actions we take in the future,” Rose promises.

“Think about it. Old ladies love me,” Royal says.

“Gigi is so onto you,” Mel returns scornfully.

“Doesn’t matter. They can’t help themselves. No disrespect, Mrs. Dennis,” he adds, remembering his manners. He sits next to Mel. “I could hang out nearby, cell phone at the ready,” he suggests.

“I think both Mel and I could outrun Chuck’s wife, if it comes to that,” Rose says.

“Gigi thinks other old people are genuinely old, and she’s merely faux old, still has the strength of ten men and can leap tall buildings in a single bound,” Mel confides to her friend.

“Barbara Boster probably is old!” Rose protests. “Chuck is seventy-one.”

“So that would make his wife, what? Maybe seventy or sixty-nine?” Mel says. “And you are?”

Rose sighs. “Point taken. I will work on my predilection for ageism.”

“We don’t have a clue what we’re doing,” Mel whispers to Royal.

“I heard that,” Rose says. “I have the ears of a bat. We do know. We are going to the Boster house. We will be open and mindful of the composition. We will observe hues, tones, and nuances, and note those that cause disharmony.”

“Gigi is a painter,” Mel explains to Royal.

“You said,” he reminds her.

Mel gestures to a stick buffalo figure with mutant reindeer horns. “She really likes your work.”

“I was six!” Royal protests.

“No,” Mel says. “Seriously. She really does. Don’t you find that … disturbing?”

“Show Royal the purloined letters,” Rose says. “See if he sees anything we missed.”

Mel crawls over to where the papers on the sale of Eddie Martinez’s truck lie. She tosses them fluttering in Royal’s direction. He snatches them out of the air and scans them. “Mr. Martinez’s address.”

“Check,” Mel says. “Gigi already knew, but the used car guy told her, and about Jack Gaines and PayPal, all that stuff.”

“Maybe Mr. Gaines could tell you the buyer’s name, but on the internet, it could be anybody saying they are somebody else.”