For the hundredth time that day, Ali Reynolds asked herself why she’d ever let her agent, Jacky Jackson, talk her into being a part of MCMR, short for Mid-Century-Modern Renovations, a program aimed at the Home & Garden TV viewer, documenting restoration projects designed to bring back venerable old twentieth-century American houses that otherwise would have fallen victim to the wrecking ball.

Months earlier Ali had come into possession of one of those precious fixer-uppers when she had purchased Arabella Ashcroft’s crumbling hilltop mansion at the top of Sedona’s Manzanita Hills Road. She had been intrigued when Jacky contacted her about filming the entire project. According to Jacky, MCMR would be the next great thing. Mid-Century-Modern Renovations was due to air on Home & Garden TV sometime in the not too distant future, but there was always a chance it would follow the lead of some of the Food Network’s cooking shows and make the jump over to one of the major networks.

Jacky had begged and pleaded until Ali finally agreed. At first her contractor had been thrilled at the prospect, and his crew had enjoyed mugging for the two cameramen, Raymond and Robert. Now, though, with construction seriously behind schedule, the workers were becoming surly at having the cameras forever in the way, and so was Ali. It was bad enough when things were going well. But then there were days like today, when Bryan Forester, her general contractor, had gone ballistic after Yvonne Kirkpatrick, the city of Sedona’s queen-bee building inspector, had decreed that the placement of some of Bryan’s electrical outlets in both the bathrooms and the kitchen were out of compliance.

The cameras had been there filming the entire epic battle as Bryan and the fiery-haired Yvonne had gone at it nose-to-nose over the issue. Later, they had been missing in action when Yvonne, who had returned to her office to check the rules and regs, had called back with the embarrassing admission that Bryan had been right and she had been wrong. From her days as a television newscaster, Ali Reynolds knew the drill. After all, confrontations make for great TV. Reconciliations don’t. Compared to war, peace is B-O-R-I-N-G. And even though Yvonne had admitted her mistake, she had yet to come back and sign off on the permit. The drywall guys couldn’t start hanging wallboard until she did.

Ali had hoped to have the place ready for a grand Thanksgiving dinner unveiling for friends and family. Right now her house had no running water or electricity, and the interior walls were nothing but bare studs. This latest delay made a turkey-day gathering in her remodeled home even more unlikely. Disheartened, she had retreated to the wisteria-lined flagstone patio where they had erected a canvas canopy over the worn redwood picnic table that served as a lunchroom for workers and film crew alike. Before Ali could summon a really serious funk, though, Leland Brooks appeared, bearing a silver tray set for tea.

“Tea?” he asked. “You look as though you could use a cuppa.”

“Yes, please,” Ali said gratefully, shivering in the late-afternoon chill. “That would be wonderful.”

Ali had taken on restoring Arabella Ashcroft’s dilapidated home as her personal rehabilitation project, and Brooks, Arabella’s former butler, had made fixing Ali Reynolds his. Months earlier and already dealing with the end of both her newscasting career and the end of her marriage, Ali had abandoned California and returned to her roots in Sedona, Arizona, looking for respite and a little peace and quiet. That hadn’t worked very well. Instead of achieving idyllic serenity, she had been propelled into life-and-death struggles with not one but two murderous nutcases.

Afterward Ali had been drifting aimlessly into a sea of depression when Leland Brooks came to her rescue, determined to find a way to help her help herself. Refusing to take no for an answer, he had set before her the daunting challenge of buying and re-creating Arabella Ashcroft’s mother’s house. In the ensuing months, every time the resulting complications had threatened to overwhelm Ali, Leland had been at her side. He still referred to himself as her butler, but she saw him as her property manager and also as her trusted aide-de-camp. He had taken up residence in a fifth-wheel trailer set up in the driveway, where he could make sure tools and supplies stayed put when the workmen left the site.

Ali waited while Leland dosed her tea with two cubes of sugar and a wedge of lemon.

“I see that building inspector was here again,” he said.

“Yes,” Ali returned. “She rode in on her broom, out on same, and fouled up the wallboard guys for at least another day. I’m pretty sure Thanksgiving is a lost cause.”

Leland handed over a cup and saucer. “Mr. Forester is a good man,” he said thoughtfully. “Surely he’ll be able to find a way to carry us over the finish line.”

Ali took a sip of her tea. It was perfect. “Mr. Brooks,” she said, “has anyone ever told you that you’re an incurable optimist?”

Leland frowned. “I don’t suppose that’s a compliment, is it?” he returned.

Ali laughed aloud. No matter how bad things got, Leland always seemed to cheer her up. Just then a car came winding up the driveway, threading its way between lines of workers’ vehicles. As it parked behind Ali’s Porsche Cayenne SUV, she recognized Detective Dave Holman’s sheriff’s department sedan.

Dave, a fellow graduate of Cottonwood’s Mingus Union High, was a longtime friend and recently a sometime beau. Several months earlier, he had been granted primary custody of his two daughters, nine-year-old Cassie and thirteen-year-old Crystal. Since then Dave had thrown himself wholeheartedly into his unexpected second chance at fatherhood. His newly assumed parenting responsibilities combined with a realization that both Dave and Ali were in full rebound mode had led to a mutual decision to back off for a while. As a result, he and Ali had been spending far less time together of late. On this occasion, though, Ali was delighted to see him-until she caught sight of the grim set of his jaw. Clearly, this was some other kind of visit.

At another time in her life, Ali Reynolds might not have thought the worst, but after months of dealing with one disaster after another, her heart went to her throat. Had the brakes failed in her father’s doddering antique Bronco, or had her mother’s Alero been T-boned making a left-hand turn across traffic into the Sugarloaf Café’s parking lot? Or was it Christopher? Had something happened to her son? Holding her breath, she gestured Dave onto the patio.

“Hey, Dave,” she croaked. It was a lame attempt at pretending she wasn’t terrified. “Good to see you. Care for some tea?”

Dave shook his head. “No, thanks.” He glanced toward the house. “I’m looking for Bryan Forester. Is he here?”

Relieved, Ali let out her breath. “In the far bathroom,” she answered. “Would you go find him, please?” she said to Leland.

Leland nodded. “Certainly,” he said and marched away.

“Is something wrong?” Ali asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Dave answered. “Morgan Forester’s been murdered. Their two girls came home from school a little while ago and found their mother dead in the front yard. Has Bryan been here all day?”

Even though all of Bryan’s worker bees had shown up on time, Bryan himself hadn’t appeared until later in the morning. Given that he had several different jobs going, his late arrival wasn’t so unusual. Ali had noticed, however, that the generally even-tempered Bryan had seemed out of sorts. Even before his confrontation with the building inspector, Bryan had been barking at his people and growling at the guys wielding their cameras.

“He wasn’t here all day,” she said. “But he was here most of it. Why?”

Before Dave could ask anything more, Leland returned, bringing Bryan Forester with him. “What’s up?” Bryan asked, looking questioningly from Ali to Dave.