Something was off. Cara Kryzik was no psychic, but the minute her bare feet hit the floor that morning, she sensed it.
She sniffed the air apprehensively and was met with the sweet perfume from the tiny nosegay of gardenias—her favorites—that she’d placed in a sterling bud vase on her dresser the night before.
Had she overslept? No. The big bells of St. John the Baptist cathedral were ringing the eight-o’clock hour as she descended the stairs from her apartment to her shop one floor below.
Cara shuffled down the narrow hallway to
Mary Kay Andrews