Murphy. It was so easy to recognize his voice. Particularly when he was yelling at a few million decibels. Her stomach sinking like a lead balloon, Isabella Lockhart instantly dropped her cleaning rag on the lunch counter at Ruby’s Café and raced for the door. Locked. Of course it was locked. She’d locked it herself just thirty minutes earlier. She darted back for the keys that Tabby Taggart had entrusted her with, finally spotting them on the stainless-steel work counter in the kitchen, where she’d left them after locking up the rear door. She rushed back to the front entrance, fumbled with the lock, then burst out the glass door. Not only had the yelling continued, it was angrier than ever. And it was all occurring smack-dab in the middle of Main Street, right there in front of the café, where a large, dusty blue pickup truck was parked. Murphy, please don’t get into more trouble.
