Though I’d heard that an indoor farmers market in the lobby of city hall had started this last November, running through April, somehow I’d always managed to miss every one. “Well . . .”

“This is the last Saturday,” Bianca said. “Won’t be much here, but there will be something. Always nice to have something fresh, isn’t it?”

A fresh-baked pizza delivered to our front door sounded really nice to me, but Bianca, sensing my hesitation, went into full-on sales mode. “Minnie, I know you’re not big on cooking, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but aren’t you curious about what our area growers have to offer?”

Because sometimes it’s just easier to go along—and besides, once inside, it would be easier for me to escape—I let Bianca tow me along. Three steps in the front door, I was glad she’d been so convincing.

“Wow, I had no idea,” I said, scanning the variety of vendors. Maple syrup, morel mushrooms, and honey. Fresh pasta, root vegetables, fresh fish, and I was pretty sure I smelled fresh cinnamon rolls. “This is fantastic!”

“Told you.” Bianca elbowed me. “I’m off to see if any of the hoop-house folks have spring lettuce. Talk to you later!”

Since I didn’t want to miss anything, I planned out a careful route through the spread of tables, shelving units, and booths. Once I had a path mentally mapped out, I turned right.

“Hi, Minnie.”

I looked up from a display of more hummus flavors than I’d ever imagined existed. “Hey, Sylvia. It’s good to see you.” And it was. “Coming along with reading Wolf Hall?”

“Not as far as I’d like,” she said, smiling. “I have good intentions, but . . .” She shrugged, her happy face sliding away. “Some days are harder than others, that’s all.” She half smiled. “I miss Pug. I really, really miss him.”

I touched her sleeve but didn’t say anything. Nothing I could say would help.

“Anyway.” She shook her head. “All this isn’t getting the jam made, as my grandmother would say. I had a list of things I wanted, but I left it at home on the kitchen counter.”

I laughed. “So glad I’m not the only one who does that.”

“You are definitely not,” Sylvia said firmly. “I’m trying to blame it on sleep deprivation, though. That man, I tell you!”

“What man?” I asked, then clued in. “Your neighbor? John Pinnock?”

“For my sins.” She harrumphed. “Now he’s up before dawn, running a leaf blower just outside my bedroom window. A very loud, gas-powered leaf blower. He must have purchased it for the high decibel level.”

Huh. So John Pinnock was continuing his annoy-Sylvia-into-leaving campaign. “Have you called the sheriff’s office, or talked to the township? Maybe there’s a noise ordinance.”