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metabolism, or her flawless olive skin, oval face, and perfect features.
    â€œWe went classic for the first batch.”
    â€œClassic is good.” She licked a finger, her Coral Sunset nail polish complementing the fluffy yellow-white kernel and golden butter. She makes fresh pasta, sauces, and pestos in the Merc’s commercial kitchen on Mondays and Tuesdays, and gets a manicure every Wednesday.
    â€œWe tested them all,” Tracy said, settling onto a red vinyl stool at the stainless steel counter separating shop floor from kitchen, her second sample in hand. “Cajun, dark cocoa, bacon salt.” She made a face at that one.
    â€œAnd everyone’s favorite”—I paused for effect—“cheesy garlic,” as Tracy sang out “caramel marshmallow.”
    â€œThey sound divine. I popped in—no pun intended—theday you tried truffle salt, but I didn’t hear that on your menu,” Fresca said.
    â€œToo expensive. We need to keep every variety the same price.”
    Her coral lips tightened. She thinks I pay too much attention to cost of goods sold, inventory on hand, turnover rates, and price point—“all that business blah blah blah”—but we were finally making a profit. Not a lavish one, but trending up. The Merc had not turned a profit under her care, though she established a tradition of great food with a local emphasis. I thought we could have it all. So far, so good.
    It’s particularly important to keep costs down on “adventure food” or “splurge snacks”—foods people don’t need, but think would be fun to try. We managed by packaging the blends in clear resealable bags dressed up with labels my sister designed.
    â€œSpeaking of divine, Candy’s bringing in a special taste treat.” Candy Divine—Candace DeVernero on the checks I write her every month. “Jewel Bay Critter Crunch.”
    â€œYou love Critter Crunch but can’t stand caramel marshmallow popcorn. What’s the difference?” Tracy said, laughing.
    â€œOne has chocolate and nuts and the other has marshmallows,” I replied. She rolled her eyes at my food quirks. Not that I think anyone who drinks Diet Coke for breakfast has a leg to stand on in Taste Wars.
    â€œIt all sounds wonderful, darling.” My mother kissed my cheek. “And Tracy, the shop looks so festive.”
    Tracy beamed. “See you tomorrow, Erin. ’Night, Fresca.”
    Last spring, when my mother asked me to come home and run the shop, Tracy worried that she’d be fired or forced out when the Merc once again became a family business. But while we have our moments, on the whole, we make a good team.
    â€œAnd I’m off as well. Bill and I are going to Paris for the evening.”
    One of the many advantages of my mother’s involvement with Bill Schmidt, the town’s only ex-lawyer herbalist, is that she now has someone besides me to drag along to festivities, this one a French-themed fund-raiser for the community college in Pondera. We’d been so focused on the displays that I’d barely noticed my mother’s flapper dress, seamed stockings, and wool felt cloche. And the dead fox draped over her shoulders, beady black eyes and all.
    â€œWhere did you find that thing?” I wrinkled my nose. “Oh, geez. It’s nearly six. I meant to fix that inventory glitch before Pool Night.”
    â€œIt belonged to your grandmother Murphy,” she said. “Don’t you remember, Nick used to scare you with it when you were little?”
    I remembered. The only thing Nick liked about having two little sisters was terrorizing us. “And you wonder why he became a wildlife biologist? Have fun.”
    â€œYou, too, darling. Stay out too late.” She sashayed off into the night.
    I locked the front door, switched off the lights, and carried the iPad and the vintage metal sewing box we use as a cash register up the