“So,” I said. “Has there been a decision? About the show?”

Kristen scoffed. “Trock is never going to retire. That show is his life. What would he do with himself if he wasn’t gallivanting around the country half the year?”

The premise of Trock’s show had originally been solving common kitchen cooking problems by first making them on camera. His comic genius had caught the nation’s attention and quickly turned his show into a phenomenon. Over the years, the show had morphed to feature restaurants of every stripe, and each one creatively solved a “trouble.” Three Seasons had been featured on an episode two years ago, which was how Kristen and Scruffy met. The rest, as they say, was history.

“Are you even listening to me?” Kristen demanded. “Don’t waste your breath trying to deny it. You were a zillion miles away.”

“I was thinking about how you met Scruffy.”

She laughed. “Back then I thought he was an uptight corporate drone with no sense of humor.”

The ironic nickname had been bestowed upon him by his loving father. Trock could come out of a manufacturer’s clean room covered in dirt. His son could come out of a mud bog without a drop of muck on him, his pants still with a knife-edge crease.

“Where is he, anyway?” I asked.

She rested one hand on her stomach. “At the house, putting the crib together. I tried to help, but the Mini Cooper here makes getting down on my hands and knees more than awkward.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” I said softly.

“Well, I wanted to give birth here at home. My gynecologist back east has been talking to my gyno here, so it’s all good.”

Most of Kristen’s family lived in Chilson and Trock had owned a house on the outskirts of Chilson for years, but Trock’s signature restaurant and the show’s home base were in New York City. Warily, I’d been watching for signs that the bright lights would become “home” to her. So far, so good, but you never knew.

“How did Container Day go? What was the best thing Pam brought back?” Kristen asked. “I would have gone, but the drive from New York kind of conked me out.”

“Fun, like always,” I said. “But you’ll have to go see for yourself. Pam found this old-fashioned French baby buggy, a what-do-you-call-it, a perambulator. The thing is huge. She said it called to her.” I grinned.

“Yeah? What did it say? ‘Buy me and take me to Chilson for my pregnant friend to spend a fortune on’?”

Probably. Pam’s store was very successful for a reason. “You’ll have to ask.” I scraped the last bit of custard out of my ramekin. “Speaking of asking, do you know Ryan Anderson?”

She frowned. “Isn’t he the guy who robbed that bank downstate? And killed a security guard?”

“He did not!”