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      AS FAR AS Emily Dugan was concerned, New York City had the only decent cab drivers in the country. Case in point, the rude excuse for a cabbie who’d left her and her bags at the curb in front of the Norris Culinary Academy on the hottest day to hit Southern California in over a decade. Even at four in the afternoon, not so much as a whisper of an ocean breeze ruffled the palm trees high overhead, or dared to hint at the promise of relief from the blistering heatwave.

      The thickening afternoon traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard whizzed past her as she fought back another wave of nausea. The last thing she wanted during her much-needed month-long vacation was another bout of the flu that had plagued her weeks ago, which had followed on the heels of the most wicked cold she’d ever suffered. She’d been looking forward to this visit with her grandmother for over a month. Nothing, she thought determinedly, not the flu or even the mess her life had unexpectedly become, was going to put a damper on a visit with Grandy. Besides, she had some big decisions to make. The relative peace and quiet would provide her ample opportunity to take the steps necessary to set her life back on track.

      She pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly in an effort to quell another bout of nausea. Tugging up the handle on the largest suitcase, she piggybacked the matching smaller case, then slung her carry-on over her shoulder. An acrid scent filled the air, like wood smoke or maybe burning charcoal from a neighbor’s backyard barbecue, only nowhere near as pleasant.

      Since the parking lot to the right of the building was vacant this late in the afternoon, Emily avoided the front entrance of the cooking school her grandmother had started nearly fifty years ago, and wheeled her luggage along the side to the house in back where Grandy still lived. The sight of chipped stucco and peeling paint on the side of the school building took her a little by surprise, as did the thin wisps of grass growing between the cracks in the concrete path. The Norris Culinary Academy had always been Grandy’s pride and joy, and for as long as Emily could remember, had been kept in nothing but pristine condition.

      She reached the wooden gate and pulled the handle with her free hand. The hinges creaked, as if unaccustomed to movement. Dragging her luggage behind her, she pushed through the gate and stepped into the courtyard. She frowned as she did a quick glance around the area. The acrid scent of burnt…something, assaulted her. The wonderland where she’d played as a child retained a mere shadow of its former beauty.

      Small patches of dark moss dotted the putti fountain in the courtyard’s center, while the small pond below stood bone-dry. Weeds choked the flower beds running along the front of the house. Even the large white plastic urns, usually filled to overflowing with petunias, portulaca or begonias, housed nothing more than the shriveled remains of their original inhabitants.

      Something was definitely wrong, but when she’d spoken to Grandy on the phone two days ago to reconfirm their plans, everything had appeared to be the same as always. Never had Emily expected