The call came late on a Saturday afternoon. “I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes, and we’ll go get Jill,” my sister-in-law Donna said breathlessly. “Remember, cash or checks only; they don’t take credit cards.”

When the number of women carrying Dooney Burke, Louis Vuitton and Chloe clones exceeded the population of a developing country, Donna began trying to hook up with a hot, local purveyor of handbag knockoffs. Finally, when her connection called, the three of us dropped everything and headed for Boca Raton.

While Donna drove, Jill had her cell phone glued to her ear in the backseat, and I navigated. “You know, Nance, we’re very lucky this woman called,” Donna explained. “Everyone I’ve talked to is waiting to be invited to one of her private showings. She only sees so many customers a week, and I’ve heard she’s got a great selection.”

We cruised along dreaming of affordable leather clutches and alligator totes, catching up on work and family, when the directions got a little murky. “What did you mean here, Donna?” I asked. “It says, ‘Wait for SUV in the parking lot.’”

“That’s what the woman said,” Donna confirmed. “Pull into the parking lot and wait for the SUV.”

We parked in a spot, left the AC running (after all, we can’t let them see us sweat) and waited.

“So, how are we supposed to know which SUV is ‘our’ SUV?” I ask, beginning to wonder if I should call my son to just let him in on my last-known whereabouts.

“Don’t worry, Nance—they asked what kind of car I would be driving.” Now I was really starting to wonder whether I actually needed my thirtieth purse.

A few minutes later, a loud slap on the trunk and rap on the roof scared the daylights out of us. Quickly regaining her composure, Donna lowered her window just enough to hear what the very large man on the other side had to say.

“You have appointment with Miriska?” he asked in a thick accent.

Donna smiled warmly, lowering the window further. “That’s us! This is . . . ,” but before she could properly introduce us, the man was rapping on the roof and slapping the trunk, saying, “Follow me.”

“Geez, this is quite a production,” Donna said, echoing my thoughts as Jill took another call. Feeling like aging Charlie’s Angels, we pulled into the driveway of a trendy McMansion and parked next to a well-appointed Mercedes. As we made our way up the short walk to the front door, the thought of calling my son popped in and out of my head again.

Before Donna could ring the doorbell, Jill could take another call, or I could conjure up images of crime-scene tape, the double doors swung open and a voice boomed, “Hello, darlinks, please come in. I am Miriska.”

With a flair for the dramatic, Miriska swooped us into the foyer and announced, “Welcome to my home. Treasures await you.”

We blinked a few times as our eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior with cavernous ceilings. There before us was table after table after table of every imaginable color, shape and size of knockoff handbags, clutches and fine silk scarves—hundreds of them. Like birds of prey, we circled before making our move.

“Oooh, Nance, look. Isn’t this beautiful?” Donna swooped in and picked up a deep-red, ostrich shoulder bag.

“This is so cute!” I exclaimed over a finely embroidered silk clutch.

“These prices are unbelievable!” Jill cooed, turning her cell phone to vibrate. “Look . . . ”

We lost track of time, touching and styling something from every table until Miriska’s voice echoed from beyond. “Well, darlinks, you have found beautiful treasures, no?”

“Yes!” “Yes!” “Yes!” The Three Musketeers responded in unison.

“Well, let me see what you have selected,” Miriska instructed. I showed her one of my choices, a “Louie Vittoun” classic tote.

“Oh, yes! Beautiful. But you must have these also if you are to wear that bag well,” offered Miriska, my accessories mentor, as she handed me a matching cell-phone cozy and lipstick holder.

“Yes, yes, I’ll take them,” I sputtered, as Miriska turned her attention to Donna and Jill.

Once satiated, I began to notice our surroundings. Curiously, nowhere in the five-thousand square feet of marble opulence did I see a single piece of furniture, not even around the zero-gravity pool. A buzz in my head started, and a little voice was whispering—my voice: Yes, son, that was dear, old mom on the eleven o’clock news at the knockoff bust. Oh, by the way, does the camera really add ten pounds?

“Hey! Nance!” Donna’s voice interrupted. “Are you finished? Miriska has another appointment. Let’s tally up.”

“Cash or check, darlink?” Miriska asked, as I reached for the last time into my straw and leather bag from Macy’s.

“Check, if that’s okay,” I reply.

 “Oh, yes, darlink. Check is fine. I just need to see your driver’s license,” Miriska purred.

After the cloak-and-dagger routine, our ride home was uneventful. We chattered on about what a great deal we got and how stylish we would look next Sunday at the Pittsburgh club watching the Steelers.

A few days later, I got together with my son and daughter-in-law and showed off my new friend “Louie.” Careful not to leave out any of the details, I regaled them with our exploits of the secret meet, the empty mansion, the Mercedes outside and the hundreds of handbags inside. When I got to the end of my story, I did my best impression of Miriska, “Oh, yes, darlink. Check is fine. I just need to see your driver’s license.”

It was at this point in delivering my dramatic replay that my daughter-in-law and son shared a look that gave me pause.

“Ah, Mom, you gave her a check and your driver’s license number?” my daughter-in-law asked.

“Well, yes, she didn’t take credit cards, and I didn’t bring enough cash with me. If I had known what a selection . . .” Pause. There was that look again. “What? What’s wrong?” I asked a bit more emphatically.

“Well, Mom, I think you might want to call the bank and close out your checking account,” my son offered.

“And it might be a good idea to start getting a copy of your credit report every few months,” my glum daughter-in-law suggested.

And then it dawned on me: Miriska, with her expensive car, her bodyguard, her mansion without furniture and her inventory of hundreds of knockoff handbags had everything she needed to become “Nancy Sullivan Peluso.” But something told me to sit tight. For all of the trappings, Mariska struck me more as an ambitious entrepreneur than a thief. I decided to put my faith in a woman who seemed to appreciate the concept of owning a trendy handbag even more than I. And, despite the dire warnings of my kids that afternoon, I’m very pleased to tell you that Miriska turned out to be just what she appeared to be on the surface—the finest purveyor of knockoff handbags Boca’s ever seen, and not an identity thief.

Now, if she’d only return with a house full of “Jimmy Choos” and “Prada,” we’d be back in business.

Nancy Peluso as told to Theresa Peluso