MARCIA MULLER
THE IMPOSTOR
The house was in Daly City, a suburb abutting San Francisco to the south, which had been developed with an eye for practicality rather than style. There was nothing to distinguish this dwelling from its neighbors to either side: All were beige stucco with a garage on the ground floor, a picture window above, and stairs to the front door rising on the right. But inside, the resemblance to a conventional suburban home stopped.
For one thing, the living room was full of balloons that bobbed and stirred on the breeze that followed me inside. Gold lamé balloons, no less. Costumes in satin and sequins and velvet were crammed onto a rack in the foyer. Gigantic bags of confetti were stuffed behind the sofa; a rubber octopus leered from one corner; mouthwatering aromas emanated from the kitchen. In the cramped office to which my new client, Barbara Baldwin, led me, the computer screen showed a spreadsheet with substantial totals.
Baldwin cleared the screen and shut the machine off while motioning me toward a chair. She was a short, plump woman with frizzy red hair that looked as if it could radiate sparks; laugh lines around her mouth suggested she smiled often, but right now her brow was creased in a frown.
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