Operating on auto pilot, I walked inside, lit the fire, dragged a rug from my bed and curled up on the couch. Now that Simon’s arms were no longer around me, the enormity of a killer leaving poisoned bread on my doorstep hit me with a punch to the stomach. Who wanted me dead? And why? Okay, let’s say Jack Rivers murdered Mary. An affair gone wrong? Blackmail? But why involve me? And what reason did he have to kill me? I hardly knew the man and as for Mary Foster, I’d never laid eyes on her, in life or death. I shook my head. Simon and I must be missing a vital piece of this jigsaw puzzle, because none of it made any sense. And then another thought hit me. Perhaps Mary Foster herself was the key to everything. Reaching across the table, I snagged my laptop, pulled it onto my knee, powered the computer up and proceeded to Google Mary Foster. Well, what do you know… Fifteen minutes later, after surfing from one internet site to another, my research eventually hit pay dirt. Mary Foster wasn’t merely a sweet innocent homemaker who collected garden gnomes.
