“Not at all,” I said. “It’s good to see a man in touch with his emotions.”

“I’d better get going,” he said. “I hate leaving you alone with those vultures outside, Rochelle, but Mr. Nevin’s molar is abscessed and he’s in a lot of pain.”

“That’s okay,” Rochelle assured him. “I’ll be fine.”

“I won’t be long,” he said.

Then he bent down and kissed her on the forehead.

“Very nice meeting you,” he said to me, smiling sheepishly. “Forgive the dramatics.”

“Nothing to forgive.”

He clomped out the door, and when he was gone, Rochelle turned to me.

“Are you sure you don’t want a sticky bun? They’re nice and gooey.”

“No, I couldn’t. Really.”

But you know me. Two minutes later, I was sitting in Rochelle’s sunny yellow and blue French provincial kitchen, sipping fresh-brewed coffee and scarfing down a warm sticky bun studded with cinnamon and topped with a thick layer of creamy icing. I’d died and gone to Pastry Heaven.

“It’s ironic,” Rochelle said, as she watched me inhale my bun. “Now that our marriage is back on track, I’ll probably be carted off to jail.” For the first time since I walked in the front door, she looked worried. “I know the cops think I did it. The only fingerprints on the bottle of peanut oil were mine.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Whoever doctored the guacamole probably held the bottle with a dishtowel, or an oven mitt.”

“I know, but the police still think I did it.” She shook her head and sighed. “Lieutenant Clemmons advised me to get an attorney. Marty’s already lined up someone. He says he’s the best around.”

I sure hoped he was. Something told me she’d be needing a very good attorney, indeed.

“You’ve got to believe me, Jaine,” she said, “I didn’t kill Marybeth. I could never do a thing like that.”

“I believe you.” And I did. There was no doubt in my mind. Rochelle simply didn’t have it in her to be a killer. It’s funny. I’d started the case to get that job at Union National. But now, sitting here with Rochelle, I felt a sudden urge to protect her.

“Actually,” I said, licking the last of the icing from my fingers, “that’s why I’m here. I’m investigating the murder.”

“I don’t understand. I thought you were a writer.”

“Yes, but I do some investigating on the side.”

“That’s so wonderful,” she sighed, brushing a stray wisp of hair back into her ponytail. “Everybody has such exciting careers, and I just sit around baking things.”

“You’ve got to stop putting yourself down, Rochelle. You’re an extremely talented woman. I could never do half of what you do.”

“That’s awfully nice of you to say,” she said, blushing with pleasure.

“I mean it.”