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survey the back of my skirt. A huge wet spot was quickly spreading across my butt. In a second I knew what had happened. Rachel had accidentally on purpose spilled her iced coffee all over my favorite pink-fringed vintage skirt! It was dripping down my legs—and into my cowboy boots!
    “I’m so sorry, Lulu.” Rachel snickered. “I can be such a klutz sometimes. Don’t worry, though, the iced coffee blends right in with the pattern.”
    Marisol was standing behind her friend, looking amused but sort of embarrassed.
    No time for arguments. The clock was ticking. I beckoned urgently to Daisy.
    Daisy took one look at the sludge dripping down the backs of my legs and flew to my rescue. “Quick,” she said, shooting Rachel and Marisol a reproving glance. “If we work fast, we might be able to salvage your skirt!” We rushed to the bar, where she swiped a pitcher of water and some napkins and got to work cleaning.
    It was a lost cause; I could tell from the start. I loved my poor little fringed skirt. I’d bought it at a flea market for only five dollars. Now it was gone.
    A small part of me realized that maybe I had it coming.
    “Sorry, Lu,” Daisy said after a valiant effort. “I don’t think there’s much more I can do. If only I could remember that Swedish trick with the egg whites and tonic water that my mother taught me. . . .”
    “It’s fine.” I shrugged. “Just clothes, right?”
    “That’s the spirit,” Daisy cheered. “Let’s go. We are so done with this place.” She made a move for the door.
    “Wait!” I exclaimed, patting myself down. “What did I do with my purse?”
    “Don’t panic,” Daisy said. “You probably left it on the stage.”
    “Right,” I answered. “Follow me.”
    We waded against the exiting crowd toward the area of the stage where Alfy Romero first fell under my spell. We were nearly there when the girl we’d dubbed Sally Hansen emerged in front of us.
    She narrowed her eyes when she caught sight of me.
    “Cow,” she murmured under her breath, leaning close to whisper in my ear. Then on her way by she slammed her shoulder into mine, coming close to knocking me over.
    “Whoa,” Daisy breathed.
    Then as quickly as she appeared, Sally Hansen was gone—lost in the crowd.
    “Weird,” I said, disconcerted to say the least. “What did I ever do to her?”
    Daisy shrugged. “You’re just not making any friends tonight.”
    “Except Alfy!” I winked at her.
    We reached the stage and glanced around for my purse. There were a few discarded cups, some crumpled flyers, and a puddle of unidentifiable liquid but nothing close to a handbag anywhere in sight.
    I searched harder, looking for any sign of the telltale pattern. Still nothing. “My purse!” I yelped. “I know I left it here!”
    A terrible thought occurred to both me and Daisy at the same time. “Alfy Romero’s phone number!” we exclaimed together.
    We dropped to all fours and scoured the floor. Then we ran to our booth and dug into the seat cushions.
    But it was no use.
    The number, along with my purse, was gone.
     
    That was the beginning. If I was any sort of girl detective, I would have seen it coming.

TWO
    ON SATURDAY IN DAGGER PARK, the neighborhood where Rachel Buttersworth-Taylor lives, the jammed tree-lined sidewalks were filled with little dogs and fifty-something ladies wearing tailored black suits. Everywhere you looked, the place glittered with platinum-streaked coifs, huge, garish pins, and the glinty eyes of silver-haired men.
    It was noon, the morning after my purse was stolen. Daisy and I had jetted up there, to the northwest corner of Halo City, to give Rachel the shakedown. After what had happened the night before, I was more than positive that she’d taken it, either for revenge or because she wanted Alfy Romero’s phone number for herself.
    It was probably a combination of the two—though I don’t know what she would have done with that number. If Alfy had wanted to give his