CHAPTER 1

I was on my way to my friend Holly Kavanagh’s bakery when I first spotted Brigit Gundersen and her industrial-sized staple gun. She was making her way down Main Street at a furious pace, stapling flyers to tree trunks and anything else she could drive a staple through. When she reached Grove Coffee and its metal front door, she pulled a roll of duct tape from her purse, yanked out a foot-long stretch of it, and tore it from the roll with her teeth.

She glanced up and saw me half a block away, obviously watching her—I’d come to a full stop in the middle of the sidewalk—and acknowledged me with a slithery grin. Then she slapped a flyer to the cafe’s door and secured it with the tape.

“Rachel Stowe,” she called, heading my way. “Let me give you one of these.”

Whatever she was going to show me, I wanted none of it. I smelled trouble. The kind that drags you in with claws and won’t let you go. It was Wednesday, Valentine’s Day was on Friday, and I had a boyfriend for the first time in twelve years. I was in a cheery mood, and Brigit was not going to ruin it.

Boyfriend. A strange word for a forty-three-year-old woman to use, and I smiled at the unexpected sweetness of it. Brigit thought I was smiling at her.

“You won’t be smiley-faced when you see this.” She thrust a flyer at me.

Beneath a photo of her husband was the word “Cheater” in bold red letters.

“And that’s what he is,” Brigit said. “Big time.”

I was speechless.

“You didn’t think Wayne was the cheating type, did you?” she said, dropping the duct tape into her purse. She smelled strongly of stale cigarettes and less strongly of alcohol. Whiskey, maybe, but I was no expert.

“I’ve never really thought about it,” I said.

“That’s because you always think the best of people, Rachel. Even men. Save yourself a lot of trouble and stop it.”

“What happened, Brigit?”

“Just what the flyer says. Wayne is a cheater. Can you believe he admitted it? Twenty-one years of marriage and not an ounce of shame. You know how women say things like, ‘I wasted the best years of my life on you’? Well, it’s true. I’m forty-six, and I wasted my youth on him. I’ll never get it back.” She tottered slightly on her red high heels and steadied herself by grabbing my arm. “I don’t even have kids anymore. They flew the coop. Or the nest, is it? I think it’s the nest. Whatever it is, they’re off. They’re gone.” She let go of me and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

“I’m sorry.” What else could I say? I barely knew the Gundersens. We’d first met in mid-December at Juniper Grove’s annual spaghetti dinner for charity, and then in January I’d run into them at the bakery two or three times. That was it.

“He won’t tell me who it is,” she said through clenched teeth. “It’s two days before Valentine’s Day.”

“I know.”

“Rubbing salt in my wounds, that’s what it is. It’s deliberate. He knew I’d find out. He wanted me to.”

“I’m sorry.” I was a fount of wisdom.

“I could die. It’s so humiliating.”

Humiliation wasn’t her concern. After all, she was advertising her husband’s cheating ways up and down Main Street. “Do you think maybe . . . you know, the flyers. Maybe they’re not a good idea.”

“They’re not an idea, they’re a plan. And a very clever one.”

“Maybe they’re not the best plan.”

“He won’t tell me who it is,” Brigit said, ignoring my fainthearted attempt to stop her from plastering more trees and shops. “I found lipstick. Dark hairs on his suits, too. He’s been distant for a long time, but I ignored that. I should have known long ago. Do you know what I found when I came home early from—”

“Brigit, you shouldn’t be telling me this. Talk to your husband, or a close friend.”

“Or a lawyer.”

“If you want.”

She leaned in close, the alcohol on her breath more pungent. “I have to humiliate him like he humiliated me. First I called his boss at Mountain Real Estate, now I’m telling the rest of Juniper Grove.” Taking tiny, careful steps in her not-for-drinking heels, she turned and looked back up the sidewalk, surveying her extensive handiwork. Two or three people stood at every flyer, reading, gaping in wonderment, shaking their heads. “I’ve succeeded,” Brigit said. “Wouldn’t you say?”

That depends on what you mean by success. I bit my tongue. She looked back at me, expecting an answer.

“I taped one to the bakery door, too,” she said. “You and Holly are friends, right?”

“Yes.”

“She saw me taping it and didn’t look too pleased. She’s probably ripped it off by now.” Her expression became thoughtful. “Wait. Holly has dark hair. And she’s in her late thirties, right? Wayne would like that.”

“Hold on, Brigit. Don’t even start. Holly doesn’t cheat on her husband.” I wanted to quash Brigit’s budding suspicion before it blossomed. Pain was causing Brigit to behave irrationally, and if she got it into her head that Wayne was having an affair with Holly—she had no idea how laughable the idea was—she’d start spreading rumors.

“Rachel, I’m only running through all the dark-haired women I know. Just making a list in my mind.”

“Leave Holly off it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You have dark hair.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Brigit.”

“Though there’s gray in it, and Wayne isn’t into gray.”

“Please call someone to take you home.”

“My car’s two blocks down. As soon as I finish.” She waved the small stack of flyers.

“You drove here?”

She looked at me as though I were quite dense. “I live two miles outside of downtown. I’m supposed to walk?”

“Well, yes. Sometimes.” Although I was growing more impatient by the minute, I forced myself to speak as gently as possible. “Like today. I don’t think it’s safe for you to drive. I’d be happy to drop you off at your house. It’s no problem.”

“So you can what? Come back here and warn Wayne about what I’ve done?”

“It’s none of my business.” Why was I trying to reason with her? The police station was half a block ahead. If she insisted on driving home in her inebriated state, I’d tell Chief Gilroy or Officer Underhill. I wasn’t about to let her stumble off, putting herself and others in danger.

“It’s everyone’s business now,” she said. “Wayne’s little secret is a secret no more.”

“What is this?” a man shouted. “Brigit!”

Brigit froze at the sound of her name. She wobbled around and looked up the sidewalk, where small crowds still gathered about her flyers.

She didn’t have to worry about me warning Wayne—not that I’d intended to stick my nose in their messy business—because someone else had done the job. He was on the sidewalk near his real estate office, tearing flyers from every tree and storefront. As he shredded them in his shaking hands, his eyes shot daggers at her and he shouted her name.

Brigit smiled serenely.

A moment later, Officer Derek Underhill exited the police station, making his way to the source of the commotion. Brigit’s smile exploded into a grin.

“Revenge,” she breathed.

I’d had enough. I wrote mystery novels for a living—crafting plots about revenge and deceit—but seeing and hearing such raw emotion in the flesh made me queasy. After seven years as an editor in Boston, I’d returned to my home state of Colorado and found Juniper Grove, my little town nestled against the foothills of the Rockies, so I could enjoy the sweet life. And this was not sweet.

When I started for the bakery—I’d resolved to have a little talk with Underhill about Brigit’s sobriety on the way—Brigit grabbed hold of my arm.

“Rachel, you can find out who Wayne’s having an affair with. You’re like a detective.”

“I’m nothing like a detective. Talk to a lawyer, Brigit.”

“Everyone in town knows you solve murders. A cheating husband should be a piece of cake.”

“I can’t get involved.”

“I’ll pay you. I just need to know who this woman is. Can you understand that? I have my suspicions, but I need to know for sure. I’ll lose it if I don’t. Is she who I think it is? Why does he love her and not me?”

My heart went out to her. Underneath the crazy anger was an anguished wife. “Brigit, I don’t do things like this, and you need to talk to a lawyer.”

Underhill, who had turned his attention to Brigit, was heading our way, so I left her behind, intercepted him, and quickly told him that she was in no shape to drive home. Thankfully, he understood immediately and assured me she wouldn’t be getting into her car.

By the time I reached the bakery, my cheerful mood had evaporated. Even the sight of Holly’s freshly baked cream puffs—the best pastries in Colorado—couldn’t lift my sagging spirits. I waited at the back for two customers to leave and then strolled to the counter. “You saw Brigit Gundersen’s flyer? She said she taped one to your door.”

Holly wrinkled her nose. “I threw it away. I take it I’m not the only business she visited?”

“She’s been up and down Main Street.”

“Wait until Wayne finds out.”

“He already has.” I bent down for a better look at the cream puffs. One or two? That was the question. “He’s out there now, ripping them up.”

“If she’s accusing him falsely, that’s libel. Or is it slander?”

“She wrote it down, so I think it’s libel. But Brigit says Wayne admitted he’s been cheating.” I straightened. “I’ll take two cream puffs.”

Holly grabbed a small pink box and placed two of her larger puffs in it. “Last year Brigit told me she was thinking about moving to Denver, and she never once mentioned Wayne. I just assumed they’d go together. All I could think was, why on earth would you move to Denver?”

“I can’t imagine why.” I dug into my jeans pocket and handed her a ten. Why on earth, indeed. Denver, only sixty miles to the southeast of Juniper Grove, was a different world, and the residents of our little town liked it that way. “What do you know about Brigit and Wayne as a couple?”

“They’ve been living in Juniper Grove about eight years. I think they’ve been married about twenty. They’ve never struck me as a happy couple, though I’m not sure why. It’s just a feeling I have. In spite of how they act in public, they’re not happy together.” She handed me my change and propped her elbows on the counter. “Peter and I were invited to dinner at their place two years ago. They have a beautiful house on the east side of town. Wayne spent the whole evening picking on Brigit. Little things, mostly subtle, but it was pick, pick, pick, all night long. I kept expecting Brigit to explode, but she never did.”

“Maybe she waited until her guests left.”

“And then threw a cast-iron skillet at him.”

The bakery door opened, ushering in a gust of cold wind along with Officer Underhill. “I got sidetracked by all the excitement,” he said, grinning at me. “I meant to pick up donuts.”

“Did Brigit get off safely?” I asked.

“Officer Turner’s taking her home.”

Holly shot me a questioning sidelong glance and grabbed another pink box. “Half a dozen assorted donuts, Officer?”

“You got it.”

Despite what I’d told Brigit about not wanting to get involved, my growing concern for her, and my curiosity, were beginning to get the best of me. If anyone knew what was going on between the Gundersens, it was Underhill. Garrulous, indiscreet Underhill.

“I wonder if someone should check on Brigit later,” I said, looking straight at the officer. “She’s not thinking clearly, and Wayne was pretty angry.”

“Those two should have divorced long ago,” Underhill said. “Now that both their kids are out of the house and going to college out of state, they should call it a day. Save us all the misery.”

“Has Brigit ever done anything like that before?”

“The flyers? No, that’s a new one. But the Gundersens have fought in public before. I don’t know why, but it doesn’t bother them to air their dirty laundry in public. They provoke each other, you know? Wayne has a temper, and Brigit likes to push his buttons—and sometimes vice versa.”

Holly slid Underhill’s box across the counter. “Is Wayne violent?”

“Nah.” Underhill’s hand froze on the box. “I don’t think so. Not that I know of.”

“Is Brigit violent?” I asked.

Laughing merrily at my foolishness, Underhill paid for his donuts. “She’s a hundred pounds and five foot four, Rachel. What could she do to Wayne?”

“Weapons are great equalizers,” I replied.

Underhill’s smile melted. I’d ruined his donut outing.