At 7:30 on Friday morning, I woke in my own little condo and unbent myself inch by inch, still groggy from the four Motrins and three Tylenols with codeine I'd needed to sleep. After two cups of coffee, some failed yoga, and a stiff email from my last hope of an agent, Ivy Liygh, dumping me and my book and recommending serious therapy, I limped into the Rancho Santa Margarita Library with two bags of frozen peas, since all my ice packs were leaking blue gel. At this point in October, we were between travel season and the science fair. So my morning work was full of information searches about Santa Ana winds, hurricanes, the World Series, elections, real estate booms and busts, ghosts, and Halloween. During my break, I found out Pala was an Indian casino. Hmmm. Which made G. A. Gamblers Anonymous and wholesome Marian quite the card shark, although I'd pegged George for the gambler in the group. I called Henrietta Smith and got a phone number and address for Manuela's sister, Concepcion, in Santa Ana.
