2:45 p.m., Wednesday, May 6

Limo outside Olivia’s school

Cranbrook, New Jersey

Rate the Royals Rating: 7

Well, that did not go as well as I’d hoped.

When we pulled up outside Olivia’s aunt’s house—which was a lovely split-level—I saw that, along with a perfectly respectable Mercedes minivan, there was a yellow Ferrari parked in the driveway that had a vanity plate that said Hers on it.

“A Ferrari?” I shook my head. “I don’t even have a Ferrari.”

“You never got your license,” Tina pointed out.

“I’m helping to stimulate the economy,” I explained, “by keeping professional drivers employed.”

“There’s another Ferrari that matches that one exactly sitting in the manager’s parking space in front of O’Toole Construction and Home Design,” Lilly said. “Did you guys notice? But it says His on the vanity plate.”

I had not noticed. We’d gone to the O’Tooles’ place of business first, as planned, only to be told by the wide-eyed receptionist (she’d been reading a copy of OK!, so might have recognized me, as I frequently appear on the cover of OK!) that Mrs. O’Toole was “working from home today,” and Mr. O’Toole was “at a site.”

He’d evidently taken a different car to the “site.”

“Two Ferraris?” I cried. “They have two?”

“Of course it’s entirely possible that Olivia’s uncle’s construction business is doing so well financially that he bought those Ferraris with their own money and not the child support money your father meant for your sister,” Tina said.

It’s amazing how she can see the best in everyone, including her boyfriend (the fact that he may have cheated on her aside).

“I saw their tax returns from the last five years,” Lilly said. “The business is doing well, but not that well.”

I got out of the limo without even waiting for François to open the car door for me, then stalked up to Olivia’s aunt’s front door and rang the bell.

After a moment or two, a nice-looking lady in yoga pants and a cowl neck sweater opened the door and said, “Yes?” expectantly.

It only took a second for her eyes to open very wide as she recognized me and then noticed the limo.

“Oh, my God,” she said, in an entirely different, much less welcoming tone. She’d evidently seen the OK! magazines with me on the cover, too.

“Hi,” I said, putting on my best smile and holding out my right hand. “Are you Catherine? You can call me Mia. I’m here to see your niece, Olivia. Is she at home? Or is she still at school?”

Catherine O’Toole didn’t reach out to shake my hand. Instead, she tried to slam the door in my face.

I, however, had learned a thing or two in my years working on Lilly’s cable access TV show, Lilly Tells It Like It Is (and also volunteering for various political campaigns, both here in the U.S. and back in Genovia), and that is that if you don’t want someone to slam a door on you, you should insert your foot between the jamb and the door they are attempting to swing shut. This makes it impossible for them to close it all the way.

What I had forgotten is that you should only do this if you are wearing combat boots with reinforced toes, not faux-suede platform Mary Janes.

“Ow!” I yelled as Catherine O’Toole slammed her door on my foot.

“Sorry,” Catherine O’Toole cried. “There’s no one here by the name Olivia!”

“Help,” I cried, certain many of my metatarsals were being broken or at least sprained. “Help, help!”

“Oh, my God,” I heard Catherine say again, probably because she’d gotten an eyeful of Lars, who was already hurling himself at us with a considerable amount of speed.

Lars can look intimidatingly large to people who’ve never seen him before, even when he’s a dozen yards away. He is well over six feet tall and weighs two hundred pounds (“most of it muscle,” as he is fond of saying). He can bench press my weight several times over (he claims. I’ve been spared the sight of him doing this, thank the Lord).

But hurtling toward you at close range, with his face contorted in rage, he’s an even more intimidating sight, sort of like a bull charging at an anthill.

The next thing I knew, Lars had crashed through the O’Tooles’ front door and pinned Olivia’s aunt Catherine to one of her living room walls.

“Princess was attacked, but suspect subdued,” I overheard Lars murmur into his headset. I had no idea who he was talking to. Probably Royal Genovian Guard headquarters back at the consulate. “Repeat, princess was attacked, but suspect has been subdued.”

“Lars,” I said, as I hopped around, holding my injured foot in one hand. “I was hardly attacked.”

I couldn’t help thinking, though, that if I’d actually been wearing diamond shoes, my foot would be hurting a lot less.

Meanwhile, Lilly was standing there with a large grin on her face, her camera phone up and on, having filmed the whole thing.

“Don’t worry,” she said, when she saw my disapproving expression. “I’m not going to post it anywhere. This is for my personal collection.”

Oh, God.

“What’s going on?” Tina was crossing the lawn with Halim in tow, both of them looking bewildered. “Mia, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I said, even though my right foot was throbbing with pain. “There was just a little misunderstanding.”