A loud rap on my window jolted me upright. A face peered in at me-Libby, smiling cheerfully from beneath the brim of a black hat. She waved a black-gloved hand. "Hi, Abby."

I had to start the engine to roll down the window. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to keep you company. Look, I wore black." She stepped back so I could see her outfit. "Unlock the other side. I'll sit with you for a while."

Obviously Libby had tailed me there, still trying to worm her way into my life. "That's not a good idea, Libby. I have to focus."

"I'll be quiet."

"You'll still break my concentration." I shrugged. "Sorry."

Libby pushed out her lower lip. "I just didn't want you to be lonely. Here. I brought you a snack." She pulled a zip-top bag filled with Rice Krispies Treats from her purse.

I couldn't turn her down twice, so I thanked her and stuck my hand through the open window to take the bag. At that instant, a car door slammed close by, then an engine started, and before I could get a clear view, a car pulled past, giving me a quick glimpse of a man inside. Oh, no! Was that my target? Libby had blocked my view, and now it was too late to tell.

I rested my forehead against the steering wheel. "I think I just missed the person I was supposed to watch."

"Want me to take the camera and run after him?"

I sighed. "No, Libby. That would defeat the purpose of working undercover."

She slapped herself on the forehead. "Oh, right. Silly me."

Had she really not realized that, or had she wanted to sabotage the job for me?

"I'll let you get back to work now. Have a good evening." With another wave she left.

My cell phone vibrated and I saw on the screen that it was Marco checking in. What could I tell him that wouldn't sound like I'd screwed up? This was my first official case with him. I didn't want him to think I'd missed the target-even if it wasn't my fault.

"Hi, Marco, what's up?"

"Hey, Sunshine, good news. The target just snuck out the back entrance and I got some great shots of him. We can head home now."

I ended the call and sagged against the back of the seat. Damn Libby for following me. Somehow I was going to have to get the message to her to leave me alone.

Between working at Bloomers during the day, helping Marco with surveillance in the evenings, and fretting about Gina's baby shower at night, I was able to push aside my worries about Libby. Since I hadn't seen her after that first night on the case, I was hoping she'd forgotten about me, too-until I showed up at the country club for the Friday evening Knight family dinner and found her seated in my chair.

My dad was in his wheelchair at one end of the long table, with my mom at his right and Libby at his left, which was where I always sat. My brother Jordan and his wife, Kathy, were seated beside Mom. Opposite Kathy was my brother Jonathan and my other sister-in-law, Portia.

My mother spotted me first and jumped up, hurrying over to greet me. "Abigail, look who's back in town. It's little Elizabeth Blume!"

"What is she doing here?" I asked, trying to unclench my teeth.

"I ran into her downtown the other day and she asked if we were still having our Friday night dinners at Greek's Pizzeria-remember when we used to have them there?-so I explained how we had moved to the country club when your brothers became members, and then it just seemed polite to invite her to join us. It's like old times, isn't it?"

Too much like old times. Mom was playing right into her hands, just like she did when Libby was eleven. "You didn't have to give her my seat," I whispered angrily.

Mom pulled back to look at me. "It's just a chair, Abigail. How old are you? Five?"

Twenty-six going on twenty-seven, to be exact, but at that moment I felt like a five-year-old. "If it's just a chair, why didn't you give her your chair? Or Jonathan's or Jordan's chair? Or let her sit in the empty chair at the opposite end of the table?"

"Come sit down and have some of your favorite crab cakes. They're Libby's favorite appetizer, too. And for heaven's sake, smile or everyone will think something's wrong."

Something was wrong, but I seemed to be the only one who recognized it. So I sat-in the empty chair at the end of the table, where I glared at Libby throughout the meal, although she didn't notice because she was too busy impressing my family. How dare she usurp me!

To make matters worse, I was forced to watch picky Portia spend the entire hour nibbling six string beans, a mound of peas, and a bowl of edamame. It was so unappetizing I could barely face the chocolate volcano I'd ordered for dessert, but somehow I managed.

Libby was in my face again the very next day, Saturday, when I showed up at First Impressions Beauty Salon for my early-morning haircut and found my stylist trimming Libby's long, ash-blond locks into a new sleek, blunt, shoulder-length bob-just like mine.

I turned around and walked out. Time to find a new hair salon.

Then at noon, when I went down to the deli to grab a quick turkey sandwich, I found my annoying cousin Jillian seated at a table with Libby, the two of them whispering and giggling together like a pair of teenagers.

"Get some food and join us," Jillian called when she saw me. "We can go shopping together afterward."

"It'll be oodles of fun," Libby added. "You can help me choose my winter wardrobe."

I tried to look properly dejected. "I have to work today. Sorry."

Jillian shrugged her shoulders and they resumed their conversation, heads bent together like they'd been friends forever. Vexed, I paid for my sandwich and left. Sure, Jillian was an annoyance, but she was my annoyance. I was more convinced than ever that Libby was trying to pay me back. Maybe she couldn't work for Marco or me, but she could hijack my family.

Sunday was Gina's shower-my day of reckoning. Luckily, I had managed to find a snappy tan corduroy fitted jacket to wear with a navy and tan print shirt and a denim skirt, which Marco said made me look hot and which gave me a big boost of self-confidence, since the Salvare women were stylish dressers.

Marco's mother had decorated his bar with blue, pink, and yellow balloons and streamers, and my mother had furnished the shower favors, but the hit of the afternoon was my floral centerpiece, made with pink 'Stargazer' lilies and alstroemeria, blue delphinium, yellow solidago, and a fresh supply of baby's breath. It was so awesome that Mrs. Salvare hugged me twice. Even Gina complimented my artistry. It seemed the Salvares were finally finding me acceptable, even if I had mistakenly called a Salvare aunt an uncle. She had a mustache and short hair and wore men's trousers. It was an innocent mistake.

The only hitch in my wonderful day occurred that evening, after Marco and I had settled onto the sofa in my apartment with a bowl of popcorn and a rented movie. Nikki was working the evening shift at the hospital, so we had the place to ourselves.

"Guess who called me this afternoon," Marco said, grabbing a handful of the buttery kernels. "Libby. She wants to meet with me Wednesday about handling a PI case for her."

I made a pffft sound and reached for the popcorn.

He put his arm around me and leaned his ear against mine. "I hear the wheels grinding. What's going on in there?"

"Libby doesn't have a case, Marco. She's got an ulterior motive."

He pulled back to look at me. "Come on, Sunshine, she's not that devious."

"Oh, no? Shall I remind you that she got my mom to invite her to our family dinner, took over my chair there, appropriated my hairdresser, got her hair cut like mine, and cozied up to Jillian? Now she suddenly wants to hire you and you think it's innocent? No way. It's a ruse."

"Relax. I can tell within the first five minutes of meeting someone whether he or she is making it up. If Libby is making this up, I'll tell her to hit the bricks."

"Can we shake on that?"

His mouth curved up at one corner. "We can do better than that." Then he leaned me back against the sofa to prove it.

My suspicions about Libby's intentions to get even with me were confirmed on Monday morning, when I noticed a lot of activity on the west side of the square. In front of an old hardware store that had been empty for months, huge crates were being unloaded from a semitrailer, and a large crew in painter's coveralls was carrying in buckets and supplies.

Grace, Lottie, and I stepped outside of Bloomers to watch a big crane hoist a new sign onto the front of the two-story brown brick building. On a creamy white background, big gold letters spelled out blume's art shop. Beneath that, in smaller letters: libby blume, prop.

My mouth fell open. I immediately spun around to gaze up at my sign. On a creamy white background, big gold letters spelled out bloomers flower shop. Beneath that, in smaller letters: abby knight, prop. "She copied my flower-shop sign!"

"As the saying goes, dear," Grace said, "imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."

"That's not flattery, Grace. That's Libby getting even with me."

Grace and Lottie glanced at each other. Then Grace said, "Wouldn't it be impractical, not to mention expensive, to lease a shop, stock it with art, and hire staff merely to get even?"

"For a normal person, yes," I said. "Libby isn't normal."

"As my boys say, define normal," Lottie said.

I was about to say, Look at us! We're normal. But then I glanced at Lottie, with her white socks and pink penny loafers, her size 14 body squeezed into size 12 white jeans, her husband's oversized Chicago Bulls sweatshirt, her brassy dyed-orange curls in a Shirley Temple hairstyle, with pink bow barrettes fastened above each ear, and I paused.

Then there was Grace, who had been a nurse in the British Army stationed overseas in Germany at the same time Elvis Presley was there, who had since devoted an entire room in her home to Elvis memorabilia, and who, deep down, believed Graceland was named after her.

I dropped the subject. I'd just have to ignore Libby and her shop.

But on Tuesday morning, that proved impossible, because the first thing I saw when I came around the corner onto Franklin and glanced across the square was the newly painted door of Blume's Art Shop-bright yellow with a beveled-glass center.

"There has to be some way to keep her from copying me," I told Lottie and Grace. "I'll have to call Dave Hammond and ask him if he'll submit a petition for a cease and desist order."

"Dave will be in federal court all week," Grace said. "Martha told me yesterday."

"Can a cease and desist order be issued for storefronts anyway?" Lottie asked.

"I'll have to get out my law books and see what I can find.... Oh, wait. I burned them."

"If I remember correctly," Grace said, "one must have a patent on one's design, logo, or sign before legal action can be initiated."

"Damn," I grumbled. "There has to be something I can do to stop her."

Lottie put her hands on my shoulders. "It's just a door, sweetie."

"Just a door. Just a sign. Just a haircut. Just a chair at the table. Next it'll be just my life."

They were gazing at me as if I were crazy. "Abby, you simply can't go on this way," Grace said. "It's not healthy."

"You're absolutely right," I replied, heading for the door. "I've got to put an end to it."

CHAPTER FOUR.

*hen I stepped inside Blume's Art Shop, Libby was standing amid drop cloths and tall stepladders, watching quietly as her mother fired off a list of instructions to a team of painters who were applying pastel colors to her walls. More drop cloths covered display furniture that had been grouped together in the center of the room.

"Watch that trim," Delphi ordered. "It must be pristine white. If you spill one drop of green on it, you'll have to repaint the whole length. Oliver? Where's Oliver? Did he leave again?"

"Abby!" Libby called in delight, catching sight of me. "What a wonderful surprise. Mummy, look who came to visit."

At once, Delphi spun around, a vicious look on her face. She was sporting a pair of enormous gold hoop earrings, a cowl-neck angora sweater in powder blue, a pair of white skinny jeans, and gold ballet flats. She gave me a fierce scowl, then stalked across the room and disappeared through a doorway in the back, yelling, "Oliver! Didn't you hear me calling you?"

"Isn't this exciting?" Libby asked, squeezing my hand as she gazed around her new shop. "My very own art gallery, and it's just across the square from Bloomers."

Her childlike delight made it hard to be angry. "Speaking of that," I said, slipping my hand from her grasp, "there's something I need to discuss with you."

"Okay." She pressed her palms together as though she couldn't wait to hear it.

I scratched my ear, feeling suddenly petty. "It's about your sign."

"Don't you just love it?"

"Well, see, I do, but that's because it looks like my sign."

"It does?" She looked perplexed for a moment. Then her face cleared. "You know what probably happened? I was picturing your sign when I talked to the man from the sign company."

"Were you also picturing my yellow door when you talked to the painter?"

"Isn't it fun? We're the two bright spots on the square-like golden bookends. Maybe some of the other shop owners will take the hint and paint their doors bright colors, too."

"You're missing my point, Libby. I opened a flower shop on the town square named Bloomers, and you opened an art shop on the square named Blume's. I have a yellow door with a glass center, and you do, too. Even our signs are identical. You could have called it Libby's Art Gallery, but you didn't. Do you see what I'm getting at?"

"Honestly, Abby, it's not what you think. I opened an art shop because I majored in art. It's what I know and, more importantly, what I love, other than flowers, and I'd certainly never open a flower shop and hurt your business. I didn't want to call it a gallery because that sounds too uppity for New Chapel. Blume's reminds me of flowers and Art Shop has a cozy sound to it.

"The location was purely a business decision, too. My uncle owns the building, and Mummy leased it as a surprise for me. My color scheme, as you can see, is pastel green, ice blue, orange sherbet, and bright yellow, and of those, I thought the yellow would work best on the door. I'm really sorry if you thought I was copying you. I would never purposely offend you."

Libby's answers sounded so rational that I began to think maybe I was being overly sensitive. "Well, then, thank you for clearing that up."

A loud crash from the back room made both of us jump. "Oliver!" Delphi screeched. "That's not how you carry framed art. Now look what you've done!"

"Poor Mummy," Libby said. "She's determined to make this shop a success for me."

Oliver strode out of the back room wearing green and tan camouflage pants, a crisply ironed tan shirt with brown tie, and army boots. He saluted me, then did a neat pivot to face Libby. "Ma'am, you have been summoned to command headquarters, ma'am."

"Oh, Oliver, honestly," Libby said, rolling her eyes. "Sorry, Abby. I have to go. We're opening Friday and there's a lot to do. You'll come to our grand opening, won't you?"

"I, um, well, the thing is..." I rubbed my nose, trying to think of a reason to decline.

She gave me a little girl's pout, with big sad eyes. "Please?"

I hated that look. It reminded me of babysitting for her. "Well...I'll try."

"Thanks, Abby." Libby hugged me and sped away. Oliver saluted, then pivoted and marched after her. I glanced up at the painters on their tall ladders, who had paused, paintbrushes in hand, to watch Oliver. As I left the shop, I could hear them snickering.

I was creating a birthday bouquet in the workroom after lunch, and Grace was delivering a cup of tea to me, when Lottie came rushing in with a tabloid journal she'd picked up at the grocery store. Breathlessly, she tapped the front cover. "See why I read these things? This is how I know what's going on."