Val Deniston waved good night to her last customers, relieved that they'd ignored the elephant in the Cool Down Café. No one had rehashed Monique's rant about her husband's affair with Nadia. Maybe they'd tired of the topic after three days or avoided it with Nadia around. Though thankful that Monique hadn't shown up tonight, Val worried that her cousin had spent the evening alone, plotting how to get back at Nadia.

Exercise music from the workout room drifted into the athletic club café and set a quick pace for Val's cleanup. She poured a pot of coffee down the drain, taking a last whiff of the aroma that masked the scent of sweat. Not many takers for coffee tonight. After two hours on the tennis courts, the crowd had thirsted for juice and smoothies, not lattes.

The music cut off, and a gruff voice came through the speakers. "The Bayport Racket and Fitness Club will close at nine-thirty. Please finish your workout promptly."

As Val wiped down the eating bar, the exercise junkies who'd stayed until closing time on a Sunday night filed past the café toward the exit. A petite woman in a white tennis dress bucked the flow and rushed back into the club. Nadia Westrin carried an athletic bag large enough for three rackets, a change of clothes, and a Thanksgiving turkey.

"Thank goodness you're still here, Val." Nadia dropped her sports bag near the eating bar. Under the hanging lights, her frosted brown hair with gray roots resembled a desert camouflage helmet. "My car won't start. Can you give me a lift home?"

Val hesitated. Since the night of her accident this past winter, she'd allowed no one to ride with her after dark. Time to get over that. The country road from the club to town posed no driving hazards. Though Val didn't want to do any favors for her cousin's enemy, refusing to give Nadia a ride smacked of schoolyard tit-for-tat. "Of course. Give me a minute to finish here."

"I'm glad you agreed to play in our mixed doubles group and open the café for us." Nadia watched Val stack biscotti studded with pistachios and currants in a glass jar. "The last café manager sold everything in cellophane like a vending machine. Your fresh food is way better."

"Thanks." Val waited for the dig that would surely follow the compliment.

"Isn't the café a comedown for you, though? After doing publicity for New York chefs?"

Val clenched her teeth. Over the last few months, she'd adjusted to living in a Chesapeake Bay town, but reminders of her shattered career still rankled. "I publicized other people's cookbooks for ten years. Now I have a job that lets me try out recipes for my own book." Recipes the average person could make in less time than it took to watch a TV cooking show.

"When the tennis teams finish the season in July, we always throw a big catered party." Nadia leaned toward Val like a conspirator. "I can talk the club manager into letting you cater. It's four weeks away, but I'll need menu options and prices pretty soon."

Val perked up as if a shot of espresso had hit her veins. One catering gig could lead to another and plump up her résumé. "I'd love to do it. When do you want to talk about it?"

"Stop by my house Tuesday morning before you open the café. I get up early. Let's make it seven o'clock."

The day after tomorrow. Not much time to work on the menus. "Okay, and thanks for the chance to cater the party."

"We always funnel business to each other here at the club. I hope that when your grandfather's ready to sell his house, you'll reciprocate and give me the listing."

Ah. The sales commission on Granddad's huge house would dwarf whatever Val earned from catering the club party. Nadia's idea of a fair trade—her lentils for your caviar.

Fifteen minutes later, Val steered her Saturn off a narrow tree-canopied road and onto Nadia's street at the outskirts of town. "Let me know when we get to your house. I'm not sure I'll recognize it in the dark."

"I appreciate the ride. I'm glad your cousin hasn't turned you against me."

Val felt her blood pressure rise. "Don't start knocking Monique. I won't—"

A black-clad figure darted into the car's headlights.

Val swerved. She slammed on the brakes and clutched the wheel in a death grip. A memory flared of an icy highway, the car skidding and hurtling toward leafless trees.

The tires grabbed the road, and she snapped back from the past. Breath whooshed from her lungs, a mix of relief and frustration. No crash this time, no blood spattered on her. But the elusive memory of the accident last winter had vanished, leaving behind a single frame when she needed the whole reel.

Nadia smacked the dashboard. "What an idiot. Who jogs at night dressed in black? If you'd hit the guy, it wouldn't have been your fault."

No fault didn't mean no guilt. Val started the stalled car. "How far to your house?"

"Just past the bend."

Val took the curve slowly, still shaky from her near miss. Pinpoints of light came from houses set back from the road. An eerie glow flickered through the bushes. Flames? "It looks like someone built a campfire up ahead."

Nadia peered through the windshield and squawked, "That's my place."

Val stopped across the street from Nadia's driveway. They both dashed from the car toward the fire.

The flames came from a makeshift torch, a wad of white fabric tied to a wood shaft like a giant onion on a two-foot skewer. The odor of charcoal lighter fluid hung in the still air. Val circled the torch planted in a bed of river rock near the driveway. No trees or shrubs nearby. It would take a gale force wind off the Chesapeake to spread the fire. Tonight, though, a shroud of humid air hung over Maryland's Eastern Shore. This fire would die in place.

The light from it tinged Nadia's ashen complexion orange and emphasized the frown lines in her forehead. "Who put that here? What is that thing anyway? Why—?" Her voice broke on a helium high note.

The outer layers of cloth disintegrated and the inner ones sprouted holes. The shape under the cloth became visible—oval and flat like the head of a tennis racket.

Val gasped. "A wood racket?" She'd occasionally seen one of those at a garage sale, but never on a tennis court or on fire.

Muffled pops came from the head of the torch, strings snapping from the heat.

The burning racket would make an awesome kickoff for a surprise party. Too bad no one was jumping out of the bushes, singing "Happy Birthday."

Nadia thrust her shoulders back, her posture ramrod. "Your cousin did this. She's harassed me for the last three days."

Val's jaw clenched. A few seconds ago, she'd felt her first ever twinges of sympathy for Nadia. Not anymore. "You have no way to know if Monique—"

"She turned everyone against me. Blew off a team match. Now look what she's done."

Val waved away the torch smoke and the accusation. "Let's put the fire out. Where's your hose?"

Nadia flicked her wrist toward her white Cape Cod. "Hanging near the back porch."

Val turned on her key ring flashlight, headed toward the clapboard house, and unwound the hose.

She tugged it toward the fire. "Good thing you hitched a ride with me and not Althea." The flaming racket would remind the tennis team's only black player of Klan cross-burnings.

Nadia put her palms together. "Amen to that."

A car door slammed and someone bounded...