“What happened, Kate?” Connie wants to know.

Connie Pendergast, six feet tall in her flats, is lean and angular, with great cheekbones and what my mother used to call a “strong” nose. Profile a bit like Virginia Woolf, come to think, or maybe Nicole Kidman playing Woolf. Someone trying to be unkind might describe Connie as “horsey,” but I’d argue that she’s handsome. Beautiful gray eyes that glow with intelligence, and a clear, tightly pored complexion make her look at least a decade shy of her forty years. Connie is twice divorced, currently paired with Mr. Yap, her pathologically spoiled Pekingese, and is one of the few women I know who play chess seriously.

As a manager, she happens to be so utterly competent I’ve been toying with the idea of making her partner. Or at least giving her an interest in the business. Haven’t mentioned it to her yet, and this isn’t the time. No guarantee the business will even survive, given the current state of affairs.

“I can’t go into all the details right now,” I continue, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “So here’s the short version. My son, Tommy, was kidnapped three days ago. I paid the ransom but he has not been returned. The kidnappers, or someone in league with them, killed Fred Corso and left his body in my house. Evidence implicating me was placed on his body. The police consider me a prime suspect but have not yet indicted me. I’ve no idea what they’re going to do.”

“What are you going to do?” Connie wants to know.

“I’m going to find my son. I’ve hired an expert on recovering abducted children. He thinks we’ve got a good shot at finding Tommy alive. Obviously, I won’t have time to be here, looking after the business, so I’m going to rely on all of you to get the job done.”

They all looked stunned, maybe even a little frightened. Most of the employees I know very well, having worked with them every day. A few are recent hires, less familiar to me, and my next statement is really for them.

“Here’s the deal—stick by me and I’ll stick by you. Or stick by the business, if you want to think of it that way. For now, everyone gets paid. If the catering dries up because my reputation is ruined, I’ll sell off the assets and divide them among the employees. That’s my promise. In return, I ask that you not discuss me or my son or this business with anyone from the media. Will you all agree to that?”

Twelve somber faces nod agreement.

“We need to talk privately,” I say to Connie, and she follows me into the small, stacked-with-can-goods room we share as an office.

When the door is eased shut I hand her a box of tissues and say, “First thing, I want you to stop crying.”

She weeps, blows her formidable nose, keeps on weeping. “Poor Tomas,” she manages to say between blows. “I can’t stop thinking about him. He’s such a sweet kid. He must be so scared.”

I take back the box of tissues and blot away my own tears. “Great,” I say. “Now we’re both weeping.”

“It’s just so horrible.”

“I really need you, Con. The kidnappers got all my cash. The lawyer is taking a lien on the house. God knows what the investigator is charging, I haven’t had the courage to ask him yet. So the business needs to make money for as long as we can, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, making one last honk into a wad of tissues. “Phone has been ringing off the hook. I switched it to voice mail.”

I nod. “When I leave, switch it back. What are they saying?”

“They’re worried we won’t show up. For most of them it’s too late to find another caterer.”

“Anybody cancel?”

“No,” says Connie, looking shocked. “Why would they do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe they don’t want their wedding catered by a kidnapping killer mom?”

“Nobody thinks that!” Connie says vehemently.

“What did you hear on the news?”

Connie gives me an odd look. “You don’t know? You didn’t watch?”

“Didn’t have the guts.”

Connie sighs and shrugs. “Lots of alleged this and sources said that. Something about a custody fight for Tomas and poor Fred got in the way. Nothing very specific.”

For the last year or so I’ve been leaving the planning and preparation to Connie and the crew, and concentrating my own efforts on corporate sales. Obviously, that’s not possible right now. We’ll go with what we’ve got and worry about the future when it gets here. If it gets here.

“We’re booked solid for two months, right?”

“You know we are,” Connie says with a small, satisfied smile. “We’re the best, my dear. Clients check with us before they set wedding dates.”

“They do, don’t they?”

“Darn right they do. And a lot of the invitations I see include the phrase ‘refreshments provided by Kate Bickford.’ Not even Katherine Bickford Catering. Just your name. That’s how well known you are.”

“How well known ‘we’ are,” I correct her. “I haven’t baked a pie or a cookie in two years.”

“Doesn’t matter. People trust us to bring them great food. And that won’t change.”

“Thanks, Coach. This is exactly what I needed to hear.”

Connie responds by giving me a hug. Making me feel small and safe because she’s so much taller than I am, and because I can sense the strength radiating from her angular frame.

“You are not to worry about the business,” she tells me. “Worry about Tomas, or the cops, or the lawyers, or whatever else you have on your mind, but do not worry about the business.”

I pull away, wiping my eyes. “You’re the best, Con.”

Connie smiles. “I really am. Now beat it. Go find Tomas.”

I’m out of the warehouse and on my way to the parking lot when a hand touches my shoulder. Hits me like an electrical zap, but when I turn it’s only Sherona, looking appalled to have frightened me.

“Sorry,” she says meekly. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“What can I do for you?” I respond, dreading that she’s about to give notice. We’ve been through four pastry chefs in five years and Sherona is by far the best, and the most reliable. A bit rocky for the first few months, but since she settled in and developed the necessary confidence her work has been superb.

“Just wanted to say, ma’am, doesn’t matter if you did it, not to me.”

I’m so stunned I can’t think of how to respond.

Sherona, aware of my discomfort, begins to speak faster and faster. “I mean, it’s like what I’m trying to say is, I’m sure you didn’t do it and you’re innocent and everything, but even if you did do it you must have had a reason. Maybe that cop got physical on you or something, you had to defend yourself.”

The look of intense concentration on her normally angelic face reminds me of something I’d put out of my mind, since Sherona herself never brought it up after she started work. According to her résumé, and several letters of recommendation, her training as a pastry chef had taken place at the Bridgeport Sanctuary, a shelter for abused women. So she undoubtedly knows a thing or two about threatening males, and the fear they instill in otherwise strong and self-reliant females. And she’s assuming I may have had a similar experience.

She’s right, in a way. But I can’t let her think that my old friend the sheriff deserved to be killed.

“Fred Corso was never abusive to me,” I tell her, “or to the kids, or to anyone that I know of, okay?”

“If you say so, ma’am.”

“The only man who ever abused me is still out there, and he’s got my son.”

“You gonna find him, though.”

“I’m gonna find him.”

Sherona smiles, relieved not to have offended me. “When you do find that sucker, the kidnap man, you want to pop him in the oven or something, you call on me.”

“I will, Sherona. Thank you.”

On the way to the rental car I’m thinking, pop the kidnap man in the oven. Not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all.