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just trying to get our ducks in a row, in case he starts looking in your direction.”
    Norma crossed her arms over her chest and stared at Claire. “Well, it was personal. I can’t say what it was about.”  
    Claire sighed. “So you can’t tell me what you argued about or what was on that paper. Not even a hint.”
    “It’s not for me to say what we talked about.”  
    “Well, if you could just tell me the general subject—“
    Norma shot out of her chair. “This is getting tiresome. I don’t have to tell you what we talked about and I’m not going to.”
    “Yeah, I get that. But if you don’t tell me, I can’t help. And where did you run off to—“
    “Enough!” Norma came out from behind the desk, took Claire’s shoulders and turned her toward the door. “Now, I need you to leave. I have business to tend to.”
    Norma opened the door and pushed Claire out. Claire turned to face her friend. “But I’m only trying to help.”
    “I don’t need any help. Now, shoo.” Norma made shooing motions with her hand, shut the door in Claire’s face and snapped the lock.
    Claire stood on the steps, boiling over with anger, a seed of doubt sprouting in her gut.
    What was the big secret Norma had with Zoila?
    She stared through the glass window at Norma, who stood with her back to Claire, apparently inspecting a piece of art she had hanging on the back wall. Claire’s fists clenched in frustration. She didn’t know what the big deal was, but she knew Norma hadn’t killed Zoila, and if her friend wouldn’t help clear herself by telling Claire what the argument was about, then Claire had only one course of action.
    She’d have to find the real killer before Norma ended up in jail for a crime she didn’t commit.

Chapter Six

    Dom laid down his fork with a satisfied sigh as he finished the last bite of a small sampling of Sarah’s ricotta pie. It was creamy and sweet—just the way he liked it. He leaned back in his chair, remembering how his Nonna would sometimes add lemon or chocolate chips to the batter.
    He closed his eyes, an excitement building inside him as he reflected on the morning’s events. The fact that he wasn’t on the police force or being called in as a consultant didn’t dampen his enthusiasm. He felt more alive than he had in a long time—he had a real case to work on, and he knew exactly how to go about finding the killer.
    Opening his eyes, he absently watched Romeo and Juliet twitter and preen in their cage while he mentally constructed a ‘to-do’ list. First off, he’d have to compile a list of suspects. But how would he do that without the authority of the police behind him? He couldn’t very well commandeer Zoila’s customer list to find out who she spoke to yesterday.
    Romeo flew to the side of his cage to sharpen his beak on the cuttle-bone Dom had clipped inside. He peeked over the oval, chalk-like bone at Dom and let out a loud squawk.
    “Squabin!”
    “Good thinking.” Dom nodded at the small bird. Zoila had talked to both Kenneth and Shane about renovating the cabin yesterday. Even though they weren’t clients, Dom figured that was as good a place to start as any. Over the years, he’d learned to never leave any stone unturned. Even the most routine interview could reveal a vital clue.
    A tap at his back door interrupted his thoughts, and he looked over to see Mae Biddeford, holding up a jar filled with something green.
    Dear Lord, not another jar of jam . Dom glanced at his cupboard, already full to the brim with the jams that Mae forced on him almost every day. He pasted a smile on his face and opened the door.
    “Hello. I thought I would bring you a jar of my famous zucchini relish.” Mae shoved the jar toward him hopefully.
    Not jam. Relish. As if he didn’t have a dozen or so jars of those, too.
    “Why, thank you.” Dom took the jar, then upon noticing how Mae was hovering in the doorway, he opened the door and gestured to his kitchen. “Won’t you