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women nowadays have kids well into their forties.”
    May muttered something about old eggs not producing a good omelet, then stared out the windshield. After several minutes of icy silence, she spoke as if nothing had happened. “Did any of the other finalists look sort of familiar to you?”
    Deciding to let the Simon/Wally marriage issue go, at least until the contest was over, Skye teased, “Besides you, Vince, and Charlie?”
    “Yes, smarty-pants, besides us.”
    Skye pictured the other twenty contestants, then shook her head. “No, I can’t say anyone stuck out. I take it one did to you?”
    “Sort of, but I couldn’t place her. She’s the one with short black hair that looks like a wig, and glasses with rhinestone frames. Her name is Imogene Ingersoll. I was only able to speak to her briefly—she was on the way to the bathroom— and she said we hadn’t met. I didn’t get a chance to talk to her again.”
    “Well, we’ll all be together for the next couple of days, so maybe it will come to you, or she’ll remember something.”
    “Maybe.” May frowned. “But it’s like a sore tooth. I keep poking at it.”
    “I hate when that happens.”
    May sighed, then asked, “What did you think of the other contestants?”
    “It’s hard to tell. I never got to speak to most of them.”
    “Yeah, we should have had a plan.” May stomped on the brakes as the only stoplight in town changed from green to yellow. “We could have divided them up into four groups and gotten the scoop on each of them.”
    “Why would we want to do that, Mom?” Skye thought about the mysterious conversation she had overheard coming from the teachers’ lounge. That person had wanted informationon a contestant too; maybe May could explain why that data was so vital.
    “It gives you a psychological advantage.” May flipped down the visor and checked her hair.
    “How does that help in a cooking contest?” Skye turned slightly so she could study her mother.
    May eased off the brake and made a left. “Because if you can psych someone out, they might get so rattled they forget to add an ingredient, or they overcook their dish, or do something else that ruins their recipe.”
    “But that’s not fair.” May’s primping prompted Skye to smooth her own wayward curls and apply a fresh coat of apricot gloss to her lips.
    “All’s fair in cooking and baking.”
    Her mother’s attitude of “anything goes” made Skye wonder whether she should mention to someone in charge that one of the finalists had bought her way into the contest. After a few minutes’ consideration, she realized that she had no idea who either of the two people she overheard was, and she could end up reporting the incident to the very person who was involved. She had been trying to learn that every problem was not hers to solve. This seemed a good place to start.
    May eased over the bump leading into the restaurant’s lot, then abruptly put on the brakes. “Shoot. The lot’s full.”
    “Where are we going to park?” Skye asked. Her gaze swept the double rows on both sides of the building. All four were solidly packed.
    May frowned. “We might have to park at Vince’s salon and walk back.”
    Great
. Skye looked down at her new Ann Taylor zebra-striped pumps. She had splurged during a recent shopping trip in Chicago. Loretta had talked her into getting them, even though Skye knew there were limited places she could wear them without crippling herself. Now their pointy toes mocked her. Talk about shoes that
weren’t
made for walking. She’d do better taking them off and carrying them than trying to hike a mile in the three-inch heels.
    Skye was about to suggest her mother double-park—afterall, everyone at the restaurant would be leaving at the same time—when she spotted a police car backed into a space right next to the restaurant’s door. As she watched, Wally unfolded himself from the driver’s side and approached the Olds. He had muscles in all