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problems over the last couple of months.”
    “What kind of problems?”
    Another silence. Clearly, Mrs. Winchell was not someone who spoke before she was ready, a trait I’ve always admired in others but never quite mastered in myself. I checked my watch, then my appointment calendar. The name Donna Lokash was scribbled through the one o’clock slot.
    “I’m sure you know your mother loves to bake …”
    “Yes, of course. She’s a wonderful cook.”
    Mrs. Winchell ignored the interruption. “And she’s always been very sweet, making things for her friends and neighbors …”
    Get to the point, I wanted to shout, but didn’t, locating an errant cookie on my desk and stuffing it into my mouth instead.
    “But I’m afraid that the last few times she’s baked anything for anyone, they’ve gotten very sick.”
    My eyes creased toward the bridge of my nose. What was this woman trying to say? That my mother was deliberately poisoning her neighbors, as Mr. Emerson had accused? “I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at,” I said.
    There was another lengthy pause. I imagined the woman looking around her office, patting her tight dark curls, rubbing the tip of her nose. “It’s probably just a case of old stomachs becoming increasingly delicate and not being able to tolerate such rich foods,” she offered gently, “but I was wondering if you could suggest to your mother that she not bake anything for anyone for a while.”
    Already I could see the wounded look that would ambush my mother’s features when I relayed Mrs. Winchell’s request, and it broke my heart. “I’ll talk to her,” I said.
    “There’s something else,” Mrs. Winchell continued.
    I held my breath, said nothing.
    “It’s about the charges your mother has made with regard to one of our staff.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “She’s never said anything to you?”
    I shook my head, then realized I would have to do more. “No, she’s never said a thing.”
    “I think this might be too complicated for us to get into over the phone. It’s probably better if we meet in person.Perhaps we could get together sometime soon, you, your mother, and I. Oh, and you have a sister, don’t you?”
    My mind instantly replayed Jo Lynn’s message on my voice mail.
You have to see this man in person, Kate. He’s even better-looking than his photographs, and I’m absolutely convinced he’s innocent.
“Yes, I have a sister,” I said.
    “I think she should probably join us as well. We can talk things through, hopefully get to the bottom of everything.”
    My mother, Jo Lynn, and I, I thought, picturing Jo Lynn sitting in the courtroom, a one-woman cheering section, probably skipping lunch so she could get a seat closer to the accused for when court resumed in the afternoon. She’d be wearing all white, as usual, to highlight her honeyed complexion, and a short skirt to show off her legs. Not to mention the tightest of little tank tops. There was no way Colin Friendly was not going to notice Jo Lynn Baker. She’d make sure of that.
    “The only day I have free is Wednesday,” I told Mrs. Winchell, wondering how I was going to persuade Jo Lynn to come along.
    “How’s Wednesday at two o’clock?” Mrs. Winchell offered immediately.
    “Fine.”
    “I look forward to seeing you then.”
    She hung up. I sat cradling the phone against my ear, wondering what was going on. My mother wasn’t a troublemaker, and she’d never been one to complain, even when she had just cause. She’d suffered years of abuse from my stepfather without saying a word, trying to protect my sister and me from things we already knew. Was that what she was doing now? Still trying to protect us?
    I shook my head, inadvertently dislodging Sara from therecesses of my mind. Did a mother ever really stop trying to protect her child?
    I returned the rest of my calls, then quickly exchanged my blue dress and flats for a gray sweat suit and sneakers, and stepped on the