“You’ll just have to make it clear from the beginning that the work could be temporary.”

“All right, fine. But how am I going to make the time to interview these people, let alone train them to cook?”

Alice let the costume rest in her lap. “Dear, dear, you are frazzled. You simply call the junior college. They have a culinary program, you know. Ask them to send over a few prospects. I’ll do the interviewing for you, if you’d like, right in my shop. If any seem promising, I’ll send them on to you.”

“You’re brilliant,” Shay said, bending to plant a kiss on her grandmother’s forehead. “How in the world did I ever get along without you?”

Alice chuckled and went back to her sewing. “What are you wearing to the Reeses’ Halloween party?” she asked over the whir of Shay’s portable machine.

Shay was mixing tomato sauce to pour over a layer of ricotta cheese. “I’m not going.”

The sewing machine stopped. “Not going? But it’s going to be marvelous, with everyone in costume.…”

“I plan to drop off the food and then leave, Alice, and that’s that.”

“You’re no fun at all. Where’s your spirit of adventure?”

Shay remembered a few of the “adventures” she’d had with Mitch Prescott and felt sad. “I’ve never been the adventurous type. Besides, I don’t have a costume.”

“You’ve got that bee suit. Wear that.”

“Wear it? When I’ve been all this time trying to live it down? No way. I’ll stay home and greet the trick-or treaters, thank you very much.”

“Party pooper.”

Shay laughed. “What are you going to wear, by the way?”

The sewing machine was going again. “I’m dressing up as a punk rocker,” Alice answered placidly.

Shay shook her head. It seemed odd that her grandmother was so full of life and she herself could think of nothing but work. She should wear the bee suit for Halloween after all, she thought. It was a costume that suited a drone.

Mitch was tired from the flight and sick to his stomach. Meetings with unrepentant serial killers tended to have that effect on him.

Mrs. Carraway was busy carving an enormous pumpkin at the kitchen table. “Hello, Mr. Prescott,” she said, beaming. “Welcome back.” She started to get up and Mitch gestured for her to stay put.

The last thing he wanted was food. He rummaged through a cupboard until he found a bottle of Scotch and poured himself a generous helping. “What are you doing?” he asked, frowning at the pile of pumpkin pulp and seeds on the table.

Mrs. Carraway arched an eyebrow, either at his drink or his question; Mitch didn’t know which and didn’t care. “Why, I’m making a jack-o’-lantern. It’s Halloween.”

Mitch lifted his glass in a silent salute to the holiday. He needed a shower and a shave and about eighteen hours of sleep and he’d just spent two days talking to a man who was a whole hell of a lot scarier than your run-of-the-mill hobgoblin. “How fitting,” he said.