PART 1 — THIRTY-EIGHT FRIENDS

“Come in, ladies.

Don’t be shy.

My daughter-in-law’s restaurant is practically family.

Today we are eating like queens, and I am paying for everything.”

My mother-in-law’s voice carried through Lumina at 1:30 on a Friday afternoon.

Every table in my San Diego restaurant was occupied.

Behind Beatrice came thirty-eight perfectly groomed women carrying designer handbags, wearing expensive perfume, and moving with the confidence of people who believed somebody else had already taken care of the bill.

Gavin, my head manager, hurried toward me.

“Camilla.”

His expression said everything.

“They don’t have a reservation.

We’re full.

Should I tell them we can’t accommodate a party this large?”

I looked across the dining room.

Beatrice was already removing a RESERVED sign from one of our tables.

“Push these together,” she ordered a busboy.

“We need the private room too.”

The busboy looked helplessly toward Gavin.