I went to the master bathroom and set the wig down. I tried to pull my too-short hair away from my face. I was hoping I could hide my hair under a giant sun hat. But a big hat on a stranger in a small town like Woodcrest was almost as memorable as red hair. And after several tries with bobby pins and clips, I couldn’t make my hair obey anyway.

Tomorrow, Tom and I planned to visit Woodcrest and at least one of those “fancy-schmancy” cafés Ed had mentioned. I needed to see if I could tolerate this silly disguise.

But Syrah had jumped up on the marble vanity, and before I could stop him, he swiped the blond tresses down to his awaiting partners in crime, Merlot and Chablis. This wig was apparently the best thing I’d brought home in a long time.

I snatched up my future disguise and shook a finger at the cats. “You’ll get your chance, but not right now, friends.”

I stretched the wig onto my head and stared at myself in horror. I looked way too much like Lydia Monk, the deputy county coroner who is obsessed with Tom. And who definitely had it in for me now that she knew Tom and I were getting close. I ripped the wig off and shook my head at an attempt to restore my layered haircut. But I was still resigned to wearing it tomorrow. I tucked it away on the top shelf of my closet. I had just closed the door, much to the chagrin of my three amigos, when I heard the doorbell.

My kitties didn’t follow me as I hurried to answer the door. The challenge of a closed closet door and what lay behind was far too important to be spoiled by a human visit.