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other. “You are one smooth talker, my friend.”
    “That’s what you like about me.” Bill held out his arm and Grandma put hers through
     his.
    “Take care, kiddo,” Grandma said, squinting through a haze of smoke. “Lock your door.”
    “What about Tim?”
    “He knows where the key is.” Grandma leaned heavily on Bill as they walked down the
     ramp my responsible brother, Richard, had built on one side of the porch stairs.
    I watched as they made their way slowly across the dying grass to Bill’s big Lincoln.
     The giant elms in the small front yard were nearly bare, and the wind whipped the
     branches about in a good imitation of a scary movie.
    I waved as Grandma got in the car and rolled down the window to stick her cigarette
     out.
    “Lock the door!” she ordered before starting another coughing fit.
    “Always,” I called back and rubbed my arms against the sudden drop in temperature.
     I waited until they pulled away, then went inside and locked the door behind me. But
     it didn’t matter much. Everyone in town either had a key or knew where we kept the
     spare. That was the joy and the curse of living in a small town. Everyone knew everything.
     So why didn’t anyone know who the flour bomber was?
    “It was a prank,” I muttered and cleaned up the dishes. The clock chimed midnight
     and echoed through the big house. For the first time since I moved in, I was glad
     for the dead bolt I had put on my bedroom door.

CHAPTER 4

    T asha called me at ten the next morning. It was unusual for her to call during work
     time. I grabbed my cell phone at the sound of her ring tone. “Hey, you okay?”
    “I’m fine,” she said, sounding strangely breathless. “How are you?”
    I glanced around at the small crowd in the bakery enjoying seconds on coffee and whispering
     about yesterday. I turned my back on them and dropped my voice. “Minimal health effects,
     nothing I can’t handle. What’s up?”
    “I have a date.”
    Was that glee or terror in her voice? “That’s good news, isn’t it?”
    “Yes . . . I think so . . . yes.”
    “Then that’s really great—”
    “I’ve been lying to you,” she said quickly. I waited but she didn’t elaborate.
    “About what?” The mirror on the kitchen door told me people stared. I turned to face
     them and they all looked down. I reached over and turned up the peppy music, which
     was supposed to make them all buy more pastries.
    “Do you have time for lunch?” Tasha asked.
    “Carrie doesn’t come in until 3:30 P.M. ,” I reminded her. Carrie Panken was a second cousin who was still in high school.
     She was a cute little thing with curly blonde hair—the pretty kind—and baby-doll blue
     eyes. She was also smart as a whip and more responsible than anyone else in the family.
     She worked in the bakery, as cashier and server, four hours every day after school,
     which gave me time to work on Internet orders.
    “No problem. I’ll bring lunch.”
    “Okay,” I caved.
    “Super! See you then.” Tasha had gone out of her way yesterday to be helpful. Listening
     to her explain why she’d lied to me was the least I could do.
    My therapist in Chicago would have said something about slipping boundaries. Thankfully
     she wasn’t here, and I wasn’t about to tell her.
    Two hours later, most of the customers had decided nothing as exciting as yesterday’s
     flour adventure was going to happen and had gone on to other things. The display counter
     was now half empty, proving I’d done a steady business. Maybe there was an upside
     to that awful picture.
    “The only bad publicity is no publicity,” I reminded myself as I wiped down the tables
     and refilled the remaining patrons’ coffee cups. Someone asked why I didn’t offer
     Cokes. The main reason was that soda of most varieties had gluten in it. Anything
     with artificial flavors usually meant malt or wheat or barley. Instead I offered coffees,
     sparkling and plain waters, and juices. I