I said, "In answer to your question, Beth, yes, you will still get new stuff. You always did get new stuff. But we don't have to spend as if we own the store."

"About that fun money, Amanda?" Jack said. "There was this bottle of cabernet . . ."

"Oh, let him buy the wine, Mom," Toni broke in.

"I'm not his mother. He can do what he wants."

Toni said, "He wants your approval. Stop being so withholding and enjoy life!"

She was right. I said, "I love cabernet."

"A bottle a year," Jack announced. "I propose we put twenty percent of the newfound money into our savings, twenty percent in a fund for the kids' education, ten percent for fun stuff, and the rest goes for those who truly need it. A great idea, Amanda."

Toni said, "But Beth came up with the idea of keeping a little for fun. And a great idea it was."

Beth beamed golden rays at her older sister's approval. I smiled, too.

There were still things that money couldn't buy.

SMALL.

MIRACLES.

"Small Miracles" was from a best-

selling anthology of everyday

coincidences that truly seemed directed

by divine intervention. My

contribution, reprinted here, shows

that I'm not only a mama lion when it

comes to my children but that I'm also

equally protective of my mother, Anne

Marder, who's about five feet tall and

tips the scales at 100 pounds after a

hearty dinner. This story should have

been ent.i.tled: "You Mess with My

Mom, You Mess with Me." In all

seriousness, this incident taught me a

lot about myself.

UNRELENTINGLY LOGICAL, I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN a math-science person. I graduated from high school in 1970 as a math major and went to UCLA, where I received a bachelor of arts in theoretical mathematics in 1974. Then, being a practical sort who aspired to employment, I entered UCLA Dental School and graduated with a doctorate of dental surgery four years later. At that time I fully intended to pursue a career as a dentist. One doesn't usually attend dental school for self-actualization.

That was twenty-two years ago. And during those past twenty-two years, I've never picked up a drill-euphemistically known as a handpiece-nor have I sc.r.a.ped a single tartar-coated tooth. Instead, I am now a writer of detective fiction, choosing to explore the human condition instead of oral hygiene.

I couldn't pinpoint the metamorphosis, but I am glad it worked out that way. I could list several factors that steered me toward mystery writing-a desire for justice, a suspicious nature, an overactive imagination, and, of course, a penchant for the bizarre. All of the above can be summed up by what transpired the day I nabbed a mugger.

On that particular morning, my then-four-year-old son-now a strapping lad of eighteen-had chosen to come down with a high fever and a burning sore throat. I suspected strep throat. My mother was at the house, lending a comforting hand while caring for my year-old daughter, Rachel. Rather than drag the entire crew to the pediatrician, I suggested that my mother take a walk with the baby to the corner bakery while I ran my preschooler to the doctor's. It was a fine L.A. day-sunny but not too hot. Yes, I thought, a walk would be refreshing for both Grandma and baby. Not to mention the fact that the softhearted bakery lady was always good for a couple of extra cookies for my tyke.

Grandma, baby, and stroller left first. I followed a few minutes later, and I could see them easily about a half-block up. As I pulled out of my driveway, I noticed a car near them but on the opposite side . . . slowing . . . then stopping. A young man got out of the front pa.s.senger's seat and started walking. And walking. And walking. Across the street from my mother and daughter, about twenty feet behind them.

But keeping pace with them.

I straightened the wheel of my automobile and shifted into drive. The car up the street was still there . . . creeping by . . . slowly.

And the man kept walking. Still across the way from my mother and child, still keeping pace.

That is odd, I thought. When I let someone out of the car, that person usually goes into a house. He doesn't keep walking for a block or two.

I'm being paranoid, I decided. Nevertheless, this was my daughter, this was my mother. I drove down the street, pointedly behind the creeping car. And then it drove away.

Just like that.

And I felt a little better.

Meanwhile, the man across the street kept strolling aimlessly, not doing anything suspicious. I waved to my mom and she waved back. Then I drove off.

But something nagged at my gut.

I turned the corner, made a series of right turns, and circled around the block. Then I caught up with my mother, who was blithely ambling in the sunshine. Again we exchanged waves, although she did have a puzzled look on her face. It said, Why did you come back?

And the man across the street continued to keep pace with my mother.

Too much TV, I chided myself.

Too many detective novels.

I drove off. One block, then another.

But this was my daughter, this was my mother.

Again I retraced my route.

By the time I returned, my mother was down on her knees, her hand gripping her head. The stroller had been tipped over. My heart raced as I pulled over, screaming, "Are you all right?"

"He took my purse," she shouted hysterically. Frantically, she pointed around the corner.

Again I asked if she was all right. Was the baby all right?

Yes, my mother answered. Despite the fact that she had two sc.r.a.ped knees from her fall, she was fine.

Anger coursed through my body. This was my baby, this was my mother!

With my son firmly ensconced in his car seat, I gave chase. Admittedly, not the brightest decision I've made. But I reacted rather than considered.

The French Connection it wasn't. I was in a car and he was on foot, so I caught up rather handily. Leaning on the horn, I rolled down the window and screamed at the top of my lungs, "Drop the purse, you son of a b.i.t.c.h!"

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h!" my son imitated from the backseat.

But the sucker kept running. In retrospect, I think it was more in fear than in obstinacy. He pumped his legs hard and fast, racing with the wind. Chariots of Felony. But even Jesse Owens wouldn't have had a chance against a V-8 engine. I kept honking the horn, shrieking at him to drop the G.o.dd.a.m.n purse.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n purse," my son aped.

Up ahead was a pedestrian. Two of them. I don't remember much about them. Except that they were male and one of them was wearing a yellow plaid sport coat. I don't know why that particular fact registered, but it did. And it was the one in the plaid coat who pulled out the gun . . . pointed it at the runner, and yelled, "Freeze!"

And the man froze.

Just like in the movies.

I jerked the car into a driveway, not really understanding what was going on.

Plaid Coat instructed the runner to drop the purse. "Drop it," he shouted. "Drop it, drop it, drop it!"

The runner had that deer-in-the-headlights look on his face. He dropped the purse.

Plaid Coat told him to hit the ground.

Just like in the movies.