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leaving it parked by the foul line of the practice fields. A quick glance at the sign-up board told her that there would be several teams practicing over the next few days. With a little luck, they could all have a close encounter with the 545.
    Maybe she should look into a rental car while she was in town, she thought, as she shifted her briefcase to her left hand and began the three-block walk to her new office. If she left Lyle’s car all over the place, how would she get around? Not that there were all that many places to go in Los Lobos.
    The morning had dawned cool and clear, which was good. Fog was death on her hair. She’d blown it dry, used the flatiron and her forty-seven products to pro duce a sleek, smooth cascade of stick-straight hair be fore coiling the whole length into a neat knot at the base of her neck. In deference to working in the more casual setting of a small town, she’d put on a pantsuit instead of a skirted suit, but the label still read Armani even though she knew the elegance would be lost on her clients. No matter, it was really all for her. When she dressed better, she felt better about herself. And today she would need all the help she could get.
    The law offices of Dixon and Son were on Maple Street—a road with plenty of trees but no maples. Trendy antique stores leaned up against old bookstores. There were coffeehouses, cafés and the chamber of commerce on the corner. It was quiet, picturesque and pretty much as it had always been for the past fifty years.
    Jill tried to convince herself that it wouldn’t be so bad—but she knew she was lying. She’d only been in Mr. Dixon’s office a couple of times, but the details of his building were firmly etched in her brain. She didn’t mind that the place was old, musty and in serious need of paint. What she most objected to was the fish.
    Mr. Dixon had been an avid fisherman. He’d gone all over the world, fishing his heart out and bringing back trophies for his office. The fish he’d caught were often stuffed, or whatever it was one did with dead fish one did not eat, and mounted onto plaques. These plaques hung in his office. Everywhere.
    They stared down at clients, frightened small children and collected dust. They also smelled.
    â€œPlease God, let them be gone,” Jill whispered to her self as she opened the glass door that led into the foyer and reception area and stepped inside.
    God was either busy or chose not to oblige. Jill stopped on the scratched hardwood floor and felt dozens of eyes focus on her. Small, dark, beady fish eyes.
    A huge swordfish hung up by the beamed ceiling. Midsize fish about ten or twelve inches long mounted on dark wood plaques circled the room just above thebookcases. There were fish by the light switches, fish along the wall leading upstairs, even a fish mounted on the front of the reception desk.
    The smell was exactly as Jill remembered it—an un pleasant combination of dust, pine cleaner and old fish. The lone piece of toast she’d had for breakfast flipped over in her stomach.
    A chair squeak jerked her attention from the large multicolored, large-toothed creature on the front of the desk to the woman sitting behind it.
    â€œYou must be Tina,” Jill said with a warmth she didn’t feel. “How nice to meet you at last.” Tina—her assistant/secretary/receptionist—stood up with a reluctance that made Jill think she wasn’t the only one not happy about the change in circumstances. Tina was in her midthirties, with short brown hair in a sensible cut. She looked efficient, if not particularly friendly.
    â€œYou’re in early,” Tina said with a tight smile. “I thought you might be, so I had Dave get the kids off to school. I don’t usually get here until nine-thirty.”
    Jill glanced at the old grandfather clock in the corner. It was 8:25 a.m.
    â€œThis is about when I start my day,” Jill said. In