Jane had originally decided not to get anyone, thinking she could do it herself and save money. Then she found out what sort of housekeeper she really was. Within two weeks it looked like a band of cossacks had been using the house.

“I could come over and keep an eye on your Ramona, I guess. If you're worried about leaving a stranger in the house," Jane said.

“And what reason would you give for hanging around here all day when you live just next door?"

“There is that."

“Don't worry, Jane. It'll be fine. If she goes off with the silver, I'll worry about it later. The Happy Helper people are supposed to be bonded. Wouldn't you eat some of that tapioca?"

“Not if you set my hair on fire.”

Jane cleaned up the kitchen when she got home, a slap-dash dean because the great Edith—or a substitute—would be along soon to take care of the residue. Max and Meow all but clung to her legs, howling pitifully for cat food while she worked. Willard simply sprawled, snoring, underfoot. She got them all fed, then started looking around for the ingredients for the carrot salad. Shelley had given her the recipe, but she'd lost it twice already and was afraid to admit to such chronic domestic carelessness. Not that Shelley would be surprised, of course.

Jane was fairly certain she remembered it, though. Sliced carrots ("Fresh and cooked just to tenderness, Jane. Not those orange plastic circles they sell in cans."), some onions ("Sliced paper-thin, not hacked-up chunks like you do in meat loaf. Your meat loaf always looks like Attila the Hun had a part in fixing it."), and some sort of sauce. That was going to be the tricky part, faking a sauce. To the best of Jane's recollection, it was based on some sort of salad dressing—Italian, most likely—and had some strange liquid added. Orange juice, Jane thought. Or maybe lime.

Well, she didn't have any carrots, so she'd have to hit the grocery store before she could begin. Who gave Shelley that recipe anyway? Jane closed her eyes, trying to remember where she'd had the dish. She could visualize the yellow bowl with the scalloped edges that the salad had been in . . . the tablecloth with the leaf motif ... ah! She'd had it at Mary Ellen's! Surely she'd know the recipe.

She dialed, and on the third ring, a soft, husky voice answered.

“Mary Ellen? Jane Jeffry. Hope I didn't disturb you. I wondered if you had that carrot salad recipe. Shelley gave me orders to make it for tonight, but I've lost the recipe."

“I've got a recipe, but it might not be the same. Why don't you just get it from Shelley?"

“She's gone for the day, or getting ready to go if she hasn't left yet," Jane said, unwilling to admit she didn't want to face Shelley's wrath.