Mary Ellen looked so pale that Jane was sud‑ denly stricken with guilt. "Never mind the recipe. I shouldn't be bothering you."

“It's all right. Here it is," Mary Ellen said, handing her a card. "I think Shelley adds a little lemon juice and parsley to hers. Just don't lose the recipe card."

“Oh, I won't," Jane assured her, glad Shelley wasn't around to hear her making such a rash promise.

Mary Ellen walked to the door with her, and as they passed the den, Jane noticed that the computer was on and the screen was filled with some sort of graph. Mary Ellen had something to do with an investment group. Jane had never quite understood it or wanted to. All she knew was that it was extremely lucrative, and Mary Ellen did it at home most of the time, but had an office somewhere in Chicago where she went once every week or so. Steve had told her more, back when he'd been in his investment phase, but she hadn't been very interested. "So you can at least work?"

“What? Oh, yes. A little. Just with the one hand, though. It's very slow.”

The phone began to ring. "Go ahead. I'll let myself out.”

Jane hurried home, still half-afraid Shelley would catch her. Safely inside her own kitchen, she looked at the card and groaned.

Tangerine juice! Where the hell was she going to get tangerine juice?

Three

Jane was standing at the kitchen window, mis erably contemplating where she'd find the elusive ingredient, when she heard Shelley's minivan pull back into the driveway between their houses. She must have taken the dog to the kennel and come back before going on to the airport. Thank heaven she hadn't been a minute earlier and caught Jane galloping across the street, waving a recipe card like a red flag.