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The next morning, Mason got up early and went to a meeting before heading back to Julia’s house. Skipping a day here or there wasn’t going to kill her, but the combination of not going to meetings and dealing with Julia just might.

She found Julia in the kitchen with Will, Ben and Archie. They were taste testing cinnamon rolls, while Claudia looked on and made notes on a recipe card. The smell of coffee made her mouth water; the smell of frosting over warm dough made her tummy ache. She reached out and snagged a half bun and leaned against the sink to eat it.

Will was judicious. “This one is the best. Number three. The perfect amount of cinnamon and some other…Is it nutmeg?”

“Mace.”

Mason frowned. “You pepper sprayed the cinnamon rolls? What the hell did they do?”

Will shook his head. “Mace is the gentler version of nutmeg. It’s actually the soft skin that covers the nut.”

“Ground-up nut skin?” Mason wasn’t sure if she was getting punked or not, but she decided life would be easier if she just went with it. “Do you want to hear my report about Jason Reed?”

“Yes,” said Julia, “but first Will has something to share that has been causing him to struggle to contain himself. I told him he could tell it as soon as you got here, so if he’s peed his pants, it’s your fault.”

“My pants are entirely dry,” said Will, “but this case is starting to get really fucking weird.”

Julia made a face at him. “Spit it out.”

Will did. “So, you asked me to follow up on Jack Simon. He is indeed living in Palm Springs, or he was.”

Julia sighed. “Was? You lost him?”

“We all lost him. He died.”

“Natural causes?”

Will shook his head. “Nope. Suicide. The night of Tony’s funeral.”

There was a long pause, and Julia’s face got a little sad, then a little angry. “Right,” she said. “This Codex Curse is starting to piss me off.” She got up and went to wash the frosting off her fingers. “If Gen Z can bring herself to work an overnight, it’s time for a road trip.”

“That’s not a good idea.” Archie was using his serious voice.

“Why not?” Julia didn’t sound like she was going to give a shit about his answer.

“Because the police already warned you to keep your beak out of their business, and another death is their business.”

“Not if they think it’s suicide. No one’s paying attention.”

Julia’s phone rang. She hesitated, looking at the caller ID, then answered.

“Larry, I’m not…”

Silence. She hit speaker and put the phone on the table, dangerously close to a slick of frosting.

“…now Jack’s dead and it’s on the news and the phone’s been ringing off the hook. Jason Reed, Christine…Oprah again. The curse claims another victim…” He fell silent. “You still there, baby?”

Julia leaned over the table and spoke clearly into the phone. “Larry, I’m still here. I’m not doing Cinespia, I’m not putting on that catsuit, I’m not going to be in the movie, or any other movie, I’m not going on Oprah, I’m not doing any of it.”

“Baby…”

“You know,” said Mason, leaning over a little, too, “you need to respect her boundaries. She has firmly established them, repeated them—which she shouldn’t have to do—and is asking you politely to back the fuck away. You and I have never met in person, Larry, but you’ve edged onto my list.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Which list is that?”

“My list of people who have no respect for my boss. Everyone around her wants her to say yes to things she’s already said no to, and it’s starting to piss me the fuck off. Not going to lie.”

There was a long silence.

Then Julia spoke. “Like she said, Larry. Talk soon.” She hung up. Then she turned to Mason. “I appreciate the support, Mason, but I can speak for myself.”

“I understand that. Sorry. I’m not good at impulse control.”

“I understand that, too.” For a split second a smile deepened her dimples, then it was gone as quickly as it had arrived. “Now go get your shit together. We’re hitting the road.”

Mason had never been to Palm Springs, despite the fact that it was only a two-hour drive from Los Angeles. It was the playground of another group of people: the wealthy, the famous, the sons and daughters of both. And, of course, once a year, the festival crowd. Luckily, there was no festival right now, and traffic on the freeway wasn’t too bad.

Mason was happy to be driving, and as they were driving a 1968 Daimler 250 V8, she liked it even more. The car wasn’t as comfy as a modern car, but it certainly wasn’t a rough ride. Julia had picked it because it had a reclining front bench seat, and she was currently out like a light, emitting the occasional little soft snore. The windows were down, the GPS was making sure they didn’t get lost, and as they entered the San Gorgonio Pass, Mason saw hundreds of wind turbines stretching and spinning like toys.

Mason realized she hadn’t felt depressed in a while, which was a pleasant surprise. Depression was something she’d grown to accept as just part of her life. She’d have times when she couldn’t even feign interest in life, where making AA meetings was more important than ever, and less appealing than anyone could imagine. Since meeting Julia she’d felt…useful, challenged, interested. True, she’d had her face bashed in, which sucked, but she’d also visited strip clubs, met thieves and verbally sparred with a true professional. She wondered what her mother would say if she became a private investigator. She’d be able to support herself, be able to use her skills to help people, work with Julia…She realized suddenly it was something she wanted. Maybe. Possibly. She smiled, then stopped smiling because it hurt like a motherfucker.

Julia woke up and stretched, winching the split bench seat back up and gazing out of the window.

“Oh, look,” she said. “The Village People are playing the Morongo Casino.”

Mason frowned at her. “I didn’t peg you for a Village People fan.”

“I’m not,” Julia replied. “I was just commenting. Do you think in thirty years the musicians you listen to will be playing the Morongo? Will Taylor Swift be telling the audience not to miss the early bird special?”

“Doubt it,” replied Mason. “I don’t think Ms. Swift is going to be hurting for cash. Besides, why would she play the Morongo after headlining stadiums?”

“For the love of performing?”

Mason took her eyes off the road and gazed at her. “Really? Die-hard fans throwing their incontinence panties up on stage?”

Julia shrugged. “Why not? Think how many musicians end up not playing anymore at all. I’m telling you, kid, I’ve seen the far side of celebrity, and it’s not pretty. Famous and gorgeous one day, utterly ordinary and old the next. These aren’t people who’ve developed a lot of fallback skills, or at least not often. Nothing sadder than a matinee idol with a walker, baby.”

Mason flicked the indicator and started to exit to Palm Springs. “You’re a deep thinker, Julia. I had no idea.”

“I’m frequently underestimated,” the other woman replied. “It’s part of my arsenal of sneaky tricks.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Mason said, as her phone told her to take a left. “It shouldn’t be much longer. Do you want to stop at the hotel first and drop our stuff, or go straight to the house?”

Julia looked at her watch. “Hotel. We’re meeting a friend for some help before we start investigating how Jack Simon’s death factors into everything else.”

“You have friends in Palm Springs?”

“I have friends everywhere, Mason. I already told you.” She pulled out her phone. “High places, low places and everyplace in between.”

Julia’s friend’s name was Mikki, and she had a box of noses.

She’d come into the hotel room and burst out laughing at Mason’s face. “Is that why I’m here? Are we covering up?”

Mason was slightly affronted. “I earned these bruises fair and square. No need to cover them up.”

Mikki, who had pink hair cut in as razor-sharp a bob as any Mason had ever seen, shook her head, sending her bangs dancing. “Don’t be offended, honey. I’ve covered up way worse. And created way worse, too.” She leaned in close and looked at Mason’s neck. “Nice pointy weapon scab. Hang on…” She pulled out her phone and took a picture. “Thanks.” She turned to Julia. “Mrs. Mann, it’s a pleasure to hear from you. It’s been a while.” She looked around the room and spotted a chair that suited her. Dragging it into the bathroom, she indicated Julia should take a seat in front of the mirror. Then she opened several cases she’d brought with her, and swirled a cape around Julia’s shoulders. “What are you looking for?”

“Unrecognizability. Complete.”

Mikki laughed again; amusement was clearly her default setting. “It won’t take too much. You’d be surprised. People will just think they met you somewhere before. It’s how the brain works.” She pulled out brushes and powders and the aforementioned box of noses. She had another one of wigs and hairpieces, earlobes and eyebrows, which looked like a little caterpillar commune.

She prepared Julia’s face with creams and foundation that darkened her skin a little. Then she considered her noses and selected one with a shape very different from Julia’s patrician profile. “Also, if we use a distinctive enough nose that’s all people will see. Add heavier eyebrows and we are cooking with Crisco, I promise you.”

When she was done, Mason could see she was as good as her word. Julia looked like someone she might have met sometime, or seen at a meeting. Slightly familiar, but at the same time, totally different. It was amazing.

Julia looked at herself in the mirror and grinned. “You unwittingly gave me my grandfather’s nose. Now I look like I inherited that instead of my mother’s. Weirdly, I like it.”

She shook off the cape, quickly changed her clothes and crooked a finger at Mason.

“Come on, kid. Let’s go investigate shit.”