Joan went back to writing, but the phone rang again.

It figured.

She finished the word attendance, wiped off her pen and rose from her chair, heading across the room as the greeting played.

She reached for the receiver.

“Joan?” came an unfamiliar, masculine voice.

She snapped her hand back.

“This is Alain Boudreaux.”

Alain Boudreaux? The police chief had never called her at home before. Had he heard she was whipping up support against the music festival?

“I’d appreciate a call when you get this message.”

As the machine clicked off, Joan’s heart thunked. She quickly went over who she’d spoken to in the past week. She hadn’t made a secret of not wanting to increase tourism. But she thought she’d been fairly circumspect.

Suddenly, there was a pounding at her front door.

She jumped.

Could it be Chief Boudreaux that quickly? Was he upset? Had he brought a posse? She debated whether to answer it, stay quiet or bail out the back way.

Whoever it was pounded again.

Curiosity got the better of her survival instincts, and she crept up to the small, beveled-glass window, squinting at the disjointed figure on her porch.

Anthony? What on earth was Anthony doing in Indigo?

“Joan?” he called, stepping back to gaze up at the white, two-story cottage.

“Anthony?” she called back.

He moved closer, squinting into the small window. “Let me in, Joan.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Are you upset?”

“No.” She wasn’t upset. She was confused and getting a little jumpy. In fact, she was starting to hope this was all some kind of a bizarre dream.

He rattled the doorknob, and the catch gave way. No surprise in that; there weren’t a lot of locks in Indigo. Just one of the things she was trying to protect by opposing the music festival and renovation of the opera house.