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colors and so sophisticated at the same time. Sarah liked her things to be a reflection of herself, and she liked to think she was cheery and sophisticated.
      Breakfast over, she stopped herself from giving her daughter a kiss on her way out the door, and stopped herself from asking Ben for another one as he disappeared into his offi ce. She cleared the table and did the dishes, dried them and put everything away. Vacuumed the floor—should she mop it, too?
      No. No reason to keep putting this errand off. Just get to the house, give Vivian the cake, and be gracious and polite so Vivian would know Kettle was a warm and forgiving town, Sarah most especially, being the first to welcome her. Then Sarah could come home and try not to think about having a murderess for a neighbor for who knew how long.
      She glanced at the cake on the counter, carefully frosted to
    a smooth, perfect finish, nestled in a loaf -sized basket lined with a red -and-white checked cloth. She'd decorated the handle of the basket with sprigs of thyme from her garden and a calendula blossom. The basket really looked lovely.
       So. She took off the apron Amber bought her at age seven—with Ben's financial help of course—that said Mom Is Queen of the Kitchen in green embroidered letters. The M of Mom was decorated like a crown. She adored the apron and had actually hesitated to use it in case it got stained, but that disappointed Amber so much that Sarah gave in.
       Okay . The apron went back on the hook in her broom closet. She smoothed her olive -colored cotton knit pants from LandsEnd.com, slim fit they called them—and she still had the body to pull off slim fit, unlike some women who seemed to think stretch pants gave them license to stuff—and carefully redistributed the folds of her cream -colored turtleneck under the waistband.
       Well. She picked up the cake and walked to her foyer, holding herself tall. Out the door—which she'd had trouble leaving unlocked after all those years in New York, but why bother here in Kettle—south three houses, across the street, and up to the Harcourt house's front door. No one else used front doors in Kettle, but Vivian was new, and using the front door was a measure of respect. Which was always a nice thing to show, even if one didn't necessarily feel much of it.
      She fluffed her hair, then tucked it behind her ears and rang the bell, astonished at how nervous she was. Sarah prided herself on maintaining poise and calm in the face of nearly any adversity. She and Ben had had one diffi cult neighbor in their building in New York, but Sarah had worn her down with kindness. Surely that would be the case here, too. Most people couldn't resist persistent kindness. A shame not many realized it was one of humanity's most powerful weapons.
      The dark green door remained firmly shut; Sarah leaned in to listen. Nine -thirty on a Wednesday morning, was Vivian still asleep? Or out? Her car was here. Sarah rang the bell again, tamping down the hope that sprang eternal. If Vivian wasn't home now, Sarah would just have to come back. Much better to get it over with while the cake was fresh and the day young.
      There. She heard footsteps up to the door, then a pause as Vivian no doubt peered through the peephole. Sarah put on a pleasant smile so Vivian would know she had a friendly visitor. Most likely Vivian hadn't encountered too many friendly people recently. Sarah would likely be a refreshing change. But then when you murdered an attractive and important man like Ed Branson, you couldn't expect a steady stream of admirers.
      The door swished open, Vivian appeared. For a second, Sarah was taken aback by the woman's sheer beauty. She looked like Catherine Zeta -Jones, only more so. She wore the same jeans she'd had on yesterday, and something resembling a laced -up corset, which made her breasts swell carelessly out of the top. Her long hair was perfectly tousled; she smelled expensive and rare