I woke up to Pandora digging her razor sharp claws into me. In my dream, I swore she was talking. Get up now. Now. Now.

“Meow. Meow. Meow.”

“Ouch!” Pandora was crouched on my chest. I swatted her away before her claw ripped a hole in my black knit turtleneck.

I glanced at my watch. Noon! Had I really fallen asleep in my bookstore?

I sat up and wiped the drool off my cheek. Good thing no customers had come in. Or maybe they had come and found me sleeping.

Pandora trotted over to the large front window, hopped up onto the wide ledge where one of her overstuffed cat beds sat and stared pointedly down the street.

My eyes followed her gaze straight to the coffee shop—The Mystic Cafe. Come to think of it, I was getting a little hungry. The cafe had a great selection of sandwiches. I could close up for lunch, get something to eat and drink … and ask Myrna if she saw anyone this morning.

I pushed up from the couch and wiped the cat hair off my sweater, then grabbed my wallet, locked the bookstore and headed down the street. I was halfway to the cafe before I realized my leg wasn’t even hurting anymore. I felt thankful that the pain was slowly lessening with time.

The Mystic Cafe was abuzz with activity. Almost all the local merchants came here for lunch. It was off-season now—too late for the crowds that came for skiing and too early for summer tourists, so the cafe wasn’t quite as crowded.

I made my way to the counter, nodding at the locals I knew, which was most everyone in there, seeing as I’d grown up here and most people didn’t leave Mystic Notch. Ever.

I was the exception, going “down south” as they called it, to become a journalist. I felt a pinch in my chest at the thought of my former life. Best not to think about that now. Fate had stepped in and I was happy to be home again and starting a new life at the age of forty-eight.

As I walked through the cafe, I caught myself sneaking a peek at people’s hands to see if anyone was wearing a large ring. What was I doing? These were my friends and neighbors. A shiver went up my spine as I realized that anyone could be the killer—even someone I trusted and had known my whole life.

Myrna Littleton stood behind the counter, her gray hair piled in a bun, her vintage red cherries apron barely covering her plump figure.

“What can I get’cha, Willa?” Myrna pulled a pencil out of her bun and poised it over the long pad of paper she held.

“I’ll have a tuna on rye … and if you have a second, I’ve got a few questions.”