Trouble was, she had no idea who they were. Worse, she didn’t know the interests or the histories of the town players, and what would motivate whom.

Her primary adversaries were obvious-Alain Boudreaux and Marjo Savoy. A strong supporter of the music festival, Alain was influential because of his deep family roots and his position as chief of the police department. Marjo, the funeral director, was head of the committee to restore the opera house-the centerpiece of the tourism push. The town had already agreed to fund emergency roof repairs to the building while they tried to get permission for a full restoration.

Joan tucked her shoulder-length hair behind her ears, as she laid out sheets of embossed card stock. Then she carefully opened her wooden box of calligraphy pens and stretched out her fingers to make them limber. She was going to do this right. A classy invitation to half a dozen influential people, salmon mousse, fine champagne, possibly caviar, then she’d pepper the event with subtle messages on the wisdom of keeping Indigo small and quiet-just the way it was.

That would be the beginning.

She opened a bottle of black ink, dipped her pen and began the lettering.

Halfway through addressing her first invitation, her telephone rang. She wasn’t expecting any calls, so she let the machine pick it up while she kept working.

“Joan?” A familiar voice came over the speaker. “This is Heather.”

Joan kept writing. She could call her sister back any old time.

Heather’s tone rose half an octave. “You have to tell me if it’s true.”

Joan stilled the pen and glanced over her shoulder.

“And if it’s true,” Heather continued as the machine tape whirred, “tell me what you were thinking. Call me. Soon.”

“What?” Joan voiced the question out loud.

For Heather to sound so rattled, it had to be something big.

Of course, big in Heather’s world wasn’t necessarily life-and-death in anyone else’s. A catering mix-up or a fashion disaster could wait a few hours.