After showering, I walked into my storeroom refreshed and ready to get back to work. I trailed my fingers along the soaps stacked neatly on the shelves, lingering on the pretty pastel labels, the colored glass bottles. A plethora of scents whirled around me.

I'd recently developed a soap especially for children and babies. It was superfatted with avocado, almond, and jojoba oils, meaning there was more oil in the recipe than the chemical reaction between the oil and lye-saponification-used. This left some of the oils in the soap in emollient form. The result was a mild, moisturizing bar the color of heavy whipping cream. I didn't add any scented oils or colorants, so parents didn't have to worry about allergic reactions with their little ones.

Soon my work island was covered with huge bottles of oil, granulated lye, bowls and measuring cups and scales, as well as stirrers, thermometers, and my safety equipment. I donned the apron, rubber gloves, and goggles and began mixing and pouring. The oils melted together in a big kettle on the ancient stove while I measured water into another giant stainless steel kettle, this one with a pour spout. Gently, I stirred in the lye pellets, careful not to splash any of it outside of the container.

The thing about making soap was that it was just dangerous enough that it demanded my full attention. My worries evaporated, and I found myself engaged in the magic of the soapmaking process yet again. I doubted I would ever become entirely blase about it. At least I hoped not. And right now it made me feel better to create something both beautiful and useful.

Of course, that didn't mean I knew what I should do when I could no longer immerse myself behind the wall of work. The thought of a confrontation with Hannah gave me butterflies the size of dragons.

Talk about overreaction, Sophie Mae.

I pushed the thoughts out of my head and reached for a thermometer.

The lye had heated chemically when mixed with water. When it had cooled to the temperature I needed, I poured the warm oils into the industrial-sized mixer I'd bought from a bakery in Seattle when it went out of business. Then I very, very carefully added the liquid lye and started the beater turning on the lowest speed. The liquids swished sluggishly together.

I moved away from the mixer and removed my goggles, hanging them nearby for easy access for the next stage of the process.

"Are you busy?" I nearly dropped the wooden soap mold I was holding when Meghan spoke from the bottom step.

"Don't sneak up on me like that," I said with one hand over my racing heart. "What if I'd been handling lye?"

"Sorry. I guess you are. Busy, I mean."

I removed a glove and pushed back a tendril of hair that had flopped over my eyes. "What's up?"

"Ruth's upstairs. Looking for you."

"Can you entertain her for a few minutes? I'm almost done here."

"You got it." Meghan returned upstairs.

I could tell by the texture and viscosity of the soap that it had reached trace and was ready to pour. Donning my glove and goggles again, I turned off the mixer and, with a grunt, removed the bowl and carefully took it to the work island where the wooden molds, each of which held two dozen bars worth of soap, sat waiting. For the first couple I climbed onto a step stool and carefully ladled the thickened mixture into the molds. The last two I was able to pour directly.

It took a little muscle, though. I thought of Chris wielding her hammer and tongs in the forge. She'd be able to pour the whole lot, I bet.

When I had finished, I covered the soap with a light cloth to let it set up, cleaned up my workroom and myself, and headed upstairs.

"How did it go?" Ruth asked.

She, Meghan, and I sat in loungers in the strip of shade that ran along the back of the house. Erin was still at math camp, but Meghan would be leaving soon to pick her up. Out in the yard, the sunshine fell relentlessly on the garden beds. I could almost hear the plants reaching and stretching toward it, determined to procreate. Their biological imperative would benefit our table for the rest of the year. The hens clucked at each other in their pen, and in the neighbor's yard a pair of spotted towhees called to each other. A squirrel ran along the top of the cedar fence, pausing first to twitch his nose at us, and then his tail.

The squirrel let loose with an irritated chatter, then flipped his tail at us one more time and scampered down the fence, out of sight.

I felt kind of funny telling them what had happened in La Conner before I told Barr, but he'd had his chance. Besides, it seemed to fall under his gossip mandate.

Taking a sip of lemonade, I said, "Rocky, Ariel's brother, is twenty-eight, has a wife and twin boys, an inherited tulip farm that doesn't make enough money to survive on, a side business as a car mechanic, prematurely thinning hair, and a lifelong blindness to who his sister really was. Gabi, his wife, is a competent, creative, family-oriented farm wife, doing her best to make do with what she has. She resented Ariel's hold over her brother and the money Rocky gave his sister."

"She's the spinner?" Meghan asked.

Ruth perked up at that.

I nodded. "She has a fabulous stash, and she quilts and sews, too."

"No wonder you like her so much," Meghan said.

Hmmm. "I do like her," I mused. "She's one of those people who, on paper, you have a ton in common with, but there's a lot we don't, as well. Still, I think we could grow to be good friends."

"It's too bad she lives so far away."

"True," I said. "I did find out a few interesting things about Ariel herself, though."

Ruth leaned forward.

"For one thing, she had an affair with a teacher in high school."

"Oh, that poor little thing," Ruth said.

"Ariel's friend from high school would agree with you. Her sister-in-law, on the other hand, said it was all Ariel's fault and that she deliberately seduced the teacher in order to get a good grade."

"Her friend from high school?"

I told them about my conversation with Lindsey Drucker, including what I'd learned about Ariel's eating disorder.

When I'd finished, Ruth gazed at me with sadness. "She was one messed-up kid, wasn't she?" Her eyes welled, and she looked away, blinking rapidly. Ruth was one of the most tender-hearted people I knew.

Meghan, another bastion of sympathy, nodded her agreement.

"Gabi suspects Ariel was also responsible for the accident that killed her and Rocky's parents," I said.

Both women looked surprised. "Gabi sounds like a very bitter woman," Meghan observed.

Ruth murmured her agreement. "At least when it comes to her sister-in-law."

"Like I said, I think she's doing the best she can."

"This whole situation must be very hard on all of them," Ruth said. "I, for one, think it was very nice of you to take that little girl's artwork up to her family, and I'm glad you met another spinner."

"Say, Ruth?" I asked.

"Yes, dear?"

"You were over at Chris' house the night Ariel was killed, right?"

She met my eyes and slowly nodded. "Along with Irene. Her husband's funeral was the next day, and the three of us have become quite close through the co-op."

"Jake was there, too?"

"For a little while. As her friend and her doctor. She'd asked him for something to help her sleep, and he brought over some samples."

"So he didn't stay long?"

"He left a little after seven-thirty."

Plenty of time to provide Felicia with an alibi.