Fearful that her husband, Peter, is having an affair, Sara haunts the woman's street. When a white car like Peter's roars down the driveway narrowly missing her, she's had enough. Determined to face her rival, she enters the house and finds the woman sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood. Suddenly, she's the primary suspect, but what if Peter committed the murder? Chess Devon, Deputy Police Chief, thinks Sara's innocent, but Chess has romantic problems of her own. The man she dumped in San Francisco is now Chief of Detectives in Scranton, and he wants her help. More than murder is going on in Montbleu, and he's committed to finding out what it is.

Excerpt:

 Sara stopped the Audi at the intersection of Whitaker and Pine. The engine idled as she stared down the shadowed street. Either she could take Whitaker and see whether Peter's car was parked in front of Mavis' house or go home along Pine and up Main Street. The trunks of the maples cast shadows like a barrier across Whitaker. Shivers ran down her arms. She was behaving like a crazy person driving down a street that was out of her way trying to see if Peter's car was parked in front of the Wilson's fieldstone contemporary.

Her shoulder muscles ached with tension. They were having an affair. She knew it. Why did she keep torturing herself?

A car pulled up behind her signaling for a turn onto Pine. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened driving the imprint of the leather into her palms. Without stopping to think, she pressed the accelerator, and the car moved forward along Whitaker.

She tried to concentrate on the white Victorians lining the street, but her eyes sought Mavis' house. Interlocked hemlock boughs obscured her view of the parking area near the front door. Trying to peer through the green tracery, a glint of white caught her attention. A car hurtled out of the drive and slued into the road in a squeal of rubber. Jamming her foot hard on the brake, she narrowly avoided a collision. Her pulse jumped crazily. With shaking hands, she pulled to the side of the road and rested her forehead on the steering wheel. Peter drove a white Range Rover.

Her stomach churned at the near miss. She took slow deep breaths willing her heart rate to return to normal. Peter had nearly run into her. Anger surged through her. If Peter cared so little about her that he could almost run her down and drive off, it was time for a confrontation. She refused to chase him through town, but Mavis was there in the house.

With a deft twist of the steering wheel, she turned the Audi into the driveway. Sweeping hemlock bows reached out like fingers to grab the car. Sara parked beside Mavis' black Mercedes, slid out of the car, and stared at the house. Nervously, she scraped her sweaty palms down her trouser legs. Before she lost courage, she forced herself to mount the slabs of Pennsylvania Bluestone forming the steps leading to the front door.

The highly polished oak door glowed in the shadows cast by the hemlocks. Sara touched the brass knocker. As she lifted it, the door swung inward. With a little gasp, she stepped back. Although many people in Montbleu didn't lock their doors, it was strange to find one standing open. She fought an impulse to return to her car and forget about confronting Mavis. That would be the coward's way out. Taking a deep breath, she stepped across the threshold.

The house was eerily quiet. She called, “Hello . . . Mavis . . . anybody home?”

No one answered; Sara hesitated. Perhaps she should leave, but she'd come this far. Mavis might not have heard her. Clenching her hands at her sides, she crossed the foyer and started down the hall. Her footsteps rang hollowly on the irregular flagstones. She shivered. The house seemed empty, but the tingling sensation on the back of her neck made her wary. Perhaps something was wrong. Half way down the hall, she paused and called again. “Mavis . . . Mavis, are you home?”

Still no answer.

The smell of Scotch drifted down the hallway. It was strong more like a spill than a glass.

Sara paused at the entrance to the sun room that ran across the back of the house. Light from the wall of windows momentarily blinded her. “Mavis, are you there?” There was no answer. Sara hesitated. Mavis drank, sometimes too much. If she was drunk, Sara wasn't sure she wanted to meet her.

She took a step back then a resurgence of anger propelled her forward. She straightened her shoulders. If Mavis was there, drunk or sober, she'd find her and have it out.