Just as Violet Campbell limped inside the back door into the kitchen, she heard the front doorbell ring.

She simply ignored it. It wasn’t as if she had a choice. Wincing from pain, tears falling from her eyes, she hopped over to the sink. After spending hours in the brilliant Vermont sun, her kitchen seemed gloomier than a tomb. It wasn’t, of course. Her pupils simply hadn’t adjusted to the inside light-either that, or the terrible severity of pain from the sting of a particularly ferocious bee was affecting her vision.

Someone rang her doorbell a second time.

Impatiently she yelled out, “Look! I can’t come to the door because I’m dying, so just chill out for a few minutes!”

Everyone in White Hills knew her, so if they wanted something from her, they were hardly going to wait for formal permission. Heaven knew why she bothered keeping the doorbell operational, anyway. People barged in at all hours without a qualm.

Gingerly she lifted herself onto the red tile counter, kicked off her sandal and carefully, carefully put her right foot in the sink. Her skirt got in the way. Ever since opening the Herb Haven, she’d had fun wearing vintage clothes-her oldest sister claimed she looked as if she shopped from a gypsy catalog. Today, though, she had to bunch up the swingy long skirt to even see her poor foot. An empty coffee cup was knocked over. A spoon fell to the floor. One of the cats-Nuisance? Devil?-assumed she was in the kitchen to provide a lap and some petting.

She petted the cat, but then got serious. Darn it, she needed to get her foot clean. Immediately.