“We thought of that,” Mel says. “Anything else. I mean, like you or I have ever bought a car, but we’re extremely intelligent and sophisticated for our age.”

“I never should have told you that,” Rose says, angling the signal mirror, trying to see if her hair is sticking up in a duck’s tail on the top of her head.

“‘T. Brevard.’ Maybe a seller or buyer in Brevard,” Royal suggests, handing the pages back to Mel.

“That’s the town a couple of hours from here in the mountains I told you about,” Mel says to her grandmother.

“‘T. Brevard’ is in script,” Rose says. “A handwritten note. That made it stand out for me. An item Carter—the used car sales guy—could have noticed scanning the page on the fly, as it were. If you can think of how one might chase that wild goose, Royal, please join the hunt.” Rose glances at the screen of the cell phone on the cushion between her and Mel. “Two minutes. Gray Volvo. Sharon driving. Once more unto the breach.”

“Gigi likes being abstruse and recondite,” Mel says to Royal. “See ya.”

Given the cost of Longwood, Rose guesses Charles Franklin Boster is well-off. How well she is beginning to grasp as Sharon of the gray Volvo drives them past mansion after mansion in Eastover.

“I hope she doesn’t live in a gated community,” Rose worries. “That could louse up our nifty surprise.”

“It’s not gated,” Sharon says. “Some homeowners have been trying to get that passed, but there are too many public thoroughfares to get it by city government.”

“Good to know,” Rose says.

“This is it.” Sharon eases the Volvo into a wide curved driveway. In the half moon of earth between the street and the house, screening it, is a stand of ornamental bamboo at least forty feet high. An answering arc of startlingly white marble steps runs down from outsized double doors with gold-tone—or maybe solid gold for all Rose knows—handles in their middles.

The house is all of brick, painted gleaming white, with white shutters and white trim. There are three stories and a White House–themed circular balcony over the front door. Rose prices it at three or four million, and five thousand square feet minimum.

“Mr. Got Rocks,” Rose says, unhooking her seat belt.

“And money,” Mel returns.

“Don’t forget your flowers,” Sharon reminds them.

To ensure Mrs. Boster’s goodwill, Rose—technically Marion, since it was her ATM card—has sprung for a dozen soft pink roses, the petals edged with crimson.

Mel precedes her up the steps, past the urns planted with ferns and trailing vincas. She stops just short of the welcome mat, an incongruous thing of rough brown straw-like material. The mat is decorated with fat, childish yellow daisies, and the words WELCOME Y’ALL in lawn-green capitals.