Her husband, Herman, the love of her life, had developed a critical heart problem that racked up tens of thousands of dollars of medical bills. As a result, Lottie was forced to sell Bloomers to pay down the debt, so I decided to buy it, with the bank’s help, of course. Having just flunked out of law school and been jettisoned by Pryce, I needed a reason to get up in the morning, other than to stick pins in a rag doll with Pryce’s name on it. Now I had that reason-a mortgage the size of Texas.

“What are you doing back so early?” Lottie asked. “Did something happen?”

“You could say that.”

“Is that why you’re grinning from ear to ear?”

“No,” I said, and giggled. Giggled? Was I actually giddy at the thought of getting engaged? Was I twelve?

“You want to tell me about it? I’ll bet you didn’t have lunch yet, did you? Come on back to the kitchen and I’ll heat up some of the stew I brought in this morning. Grace can handle the front. The shop’s been quiet all morning.”

“Would you like coffee with your stew?” Grace asked, breezing into the workroom. I could always count on Grace to know exactly what was going on, mostly because she loved to eavesdrop. “I’ve got a fresh pot on. It’s got a touch of vanilla and a pinch of cinnamon in it today. And I made a batch of blueberry scones that will knock your socks off.”

Coffee and scones were two of Grace’s many specialties, along with her incredible instincts and her ability to keep our coffee-and-tea parlor humming along.

“I’d love both. Thanks.”

Grace Bingham was a sixtysomething Brit whom destiny kept throwing in my path. I’d first encountered her when she was the nurse at my elementary school. Later, she’d worked with one of my brothers as a surgical nurse at the hospital, and then as Dave Hammond’s secretary when I clerked for him. She finally retired last year, for about ten minutes, then grew bored and jumped at the chance to work at Bloomers.

I’d added the coffee-and-tea parlor as a way to draw in more customers, locating it in an unused storage room off the main shop, but Grace was the one who had created the Victorian theme that had become a hit on the town square. She brewed the best tea in town, had a secret recipe for coffee, and made fresh scones daily, the flavor depending on her mood.

We removed ourselves to the parlor so both women could hear about the Home and Garden Show mishap while I tucked into the steaming stew. I decided to save my news about our engagement discussion. They could process only so much information at a time.

“What a shame your mum’s red candy spoiled your stand against tyranny,” Grace said. She assumed her lecturer stance, holding the edges of her cardigan as though they were lapels. “As Thomas Jefferson said, ‘Enlighten the people, generally, and tyranny and oppressions of body and mind will vanish like spirits at the dawn of day.’ ”

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” I said with a sigh, “enlighten the people.”

“Sweetie, are you sure you want to go up against a giant food corporation?” Lottie asked. “You’re just one little gal.”

“PAR is behind me, Lottie. They’ve stopped Uniworld before.”

“But just how aggressive did Uniworld get those other times?”

“Why?”

Lottie left the room and returned with a letter-sized white envelope. “This was pushed under the door this morning.”

“Not another one!” As with the previous letters, my name was typed on the front in bold caps, with no stamp or return address. Inside would probably be the same demand for me to stop harassing the “poor farmer” so he could get on with the opening of his new dairy farm, which was how Uniworld was portraying their new operation. Except that this so-called poor farmer was actually a skilled manager who would be overseeing a large operation that in no way resembled a small dairy farm.

I tore open the envelope and unfolded a piece of plain white paper. Unlike the others, this missive had only one line on it: PLAY WITH FIRE, EXPECT TO BE BURNED.

Well, that was different.

CHAPTER FOUR

Both women, reading the letter over my shoulder, gasped. I wasn’t exactly delighted myself, but because of my brave speech, I made a show of marching over to the waste can and letting it fall inside.

“Um, sweetie, you might want to let the cops see that one,” Lottie said. “You know, in case someone tries to burn down the building.”

“I agree with Lottie, dear,” Grace said. “Not to alarm you unduly, but the tone of this communiqué is rather dire, isn’t it? It sounds as though they’re growing exasperated with you. I wouldn’t casually dismiss it.”

“With no identifying marks of any kind, how would it help the cops?”

“Fingerprints. DNA. Matching the printer ink and font,” Lottie listed. She watched way too much CSI. Our police force didn’t even have a unified computer system, let alone the technology to match printer ink. And DNA? Forget it. The state lab was usually backed up two months or more on serious criminal investigations. An anonymous letter would rank somewhere around zero on their to-do list.

They gazed at me, waiting expectantly.

Fine. If it made them happy. I retrieved the letter and put it in my purse. “I’ll give it to Sergeant Reilly next time I see him.”

A knock on the front door made us all jump. It was the FedEx driver, signaling he had a delivery. I waved at him, mouthing, Meet you at the back door.

“I’ll go let him in,” Lottie said, and headed for the curtain that separated the display area from the workshop. “I know you have trouble with that door.”

“That reminds me,” I said. “I’ve got to find out why my door request is being ignored.”

“Which reminds me,” Grace said. “I’ve got to get a new key made. Mine is bent.”

Not to be outdone, Lottie paused to say, “And that reminds me. I forgot to tell you about the UPS guy that showed up this morning.”

I picked up the phone at my desk in the workroom and dialed the city attorney’s office. I’d punched in those numbers so often I had them memorized. “Peter Chinn, please,” I said to the woman who answered.

“He’s not in right now. May I take a message?”

This was the game we played every time I phoned. “When will he be in?”

“Your name, please?”

“Abby Knight, and don’t pretend you don’t recognize my voice. You’ve got a stack of messages with my name on them and I have yet to receive a return call from your boss.”

“All I can do is leave a message for Mr. Chinn.”

“Will it do any good? Does he ever read them? Does he actually work there?”

“Will there be anything else?”

“Don’t you feel bad taking messages, knowing Mr. Chinn will ignore them?”

“He doesn’t ignore every message.”

“Oh, I see. Just mine. Wonderful. You know, all I want to do is replace a back door and put down a ramp. Is that such an unreasonable request?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Why would she? She only worked there. “Would you give Mr. Chinn one more message from me, then? Tell him I’m tired of being ignored, so I’m going to talk to a reporter with the New Chapel News.”

“I believe he’s in now. Hold, please.” All of a sudden I was listening to a Billy Joel song. Amazing what a hint of bad publicity would do.

When she came back on the line she said, “You’ll need to resubmit your request.”

“Wait. What? Resubmit it? Why?”

“We have no such request on file.”

“Yes, you do.”

“We don’t.”

“You have to have it. I delivered it myself.”

“We don’t.”

“You just now discovered that? You didn’t notice all my letters, e-mails, and voice messages asking about the status of my request and wonder what they were all about? How is that possible?”

“I don’t know.”