Chocolate-shop manager Lee McKinney has had enough of party planner Julie Singletree's cutesy e-mails. Then somebody actually kills the woman, putting everyone on her mailing list on edge.  As their connections to the murder emerge, so do more attacks. Lee smells a rat-and it's not made of chocolate. And if she doesn't want to be permanently deleted, it's up to her to trap it. JoAnna Carl is the pseudonym of a multipublished mystery writer. She spent more than twenty-five years in the newspaper business, working as a reporter, feature writer, editor and columnist. She holds a degree in journalism from the University of Oklahoma and also studied in the OU Professional Writing Program. She lives in Oklahoma but spends much of her summer at a cottage on Lake Michigan near several communities similar to the fictional town of Warner Pier. Chapter 1 “I’m sick and tired of killing this stupid inspirational junk,” I said. “If Julie Singletree doesn’t stop sending it, I’m going to kill her, as well as her messages.” I’d been talking to myself, but when I raised my eyes from the computer screen, I realized I was also snarling at Aunt Nettie. She had nothing to do with the e-mail that had been driving me crazy, but she had innocently walked into my office, making herself a handy target for a glare. Aunt Nettie smiled placidly; she’d understood that I was mad about my e-mail, not her. “Are you talking about that silly girl who’s trying to be a party planner?” “Yes. I know she got us that big order for the chocolate mice, but I’m beginning to think the business she could throw our way can’t be worth the nausea brought on by these daily does of Victorian sentiment.” Aunt Nettie settled her solid Dutch figure into a chair and adjusted the white food-service hairnet that covered her hair – blond, streaked with gray. I don’t know how she works with chocolate all day and keeps her white tunic and pants so sparkling clean. “Victorian sentiment isn’t your style, Lee,” she said. “Julie is sending six of us half a dozen messages every day, and I am not interested in her childish view of life. She alternates between ain’t-life-grand and ain’t-life-a-bitch, but both versions are coated with silly sugar. She never has anything clever or witty. Just dumb.” “Why haven’t you asked to be taken off her lists?” I sighed and reached into my top desk drawer to raid my stash for a Bailey’s Irish Cream bonbon (“Classic cream liqueur interior in a dark chocolate”). I’d worked for TenHuis Chocolade for more than two years, but I wasn’t at all tired of our products, described on our stationary as “Handmade chocolates in the Dutch tradition.” When you’re hassled by minor annoyances, such as e-mail, nothing soothes the troubled mind like a dose of chocolate. Aunt Nettie was waiting for an answer, and I was hard put to find one. “I suppose I kept thinking if I didn’t respond she’d simply drop me from the her jokes and junk list.” I said. “You didn’t even want to tell her you don’t want to receive any more spam?” “Oh, it’s not spam. She’s made up a little list of us – it’s all west Michigan people connected with the fine foods and parties trade. Lindy’s on it, thanks to her new job in catering. There’s Jason Foster – you know, he’s got the contract for the new restaurant at Warner Point. There’s Carolyn Rose, at House of Roses – she carries a line of gourmet items. Margaret Van Myer from Holland – the cake decorating gal. And the Denhams, at Hideaway Inn. We’re all on the list. And since we all deal with fancy foods, Julie has named us the “Seventh Major Food Group.” You know – grains, dairy, vegetables, fruit, meat, fats, and party food.” “It is a funny name.” “It’s the only witty idea Julie ever had.” I gestured toward the screen. “This message is typical. ‘A Prayer for the Working Woman.’ I haven’t read it, but I already know what it says.” “What?” Aunt Nettie smiled. “Since I’ve worked all my life, I might benefit from a little prayer.” “I can make you a printout, if you can stand the grossly lush roses Julie uses as a border.” I punched the appropriate keys as I talked. “I predict it will be about how downtrodden women are today because most of us work.” “Since I own my own business, I guess I’m one of the downtrodders, not the downtrodden.” “Exactly!” I spoke before I thought, but luckily my reaction bemused Aunt Nettie. We both laughed. Then I began to backpedal. “You’re a dream to work for, Aunt Nettie. You’re definitely not a downtrodder. And you’re not downtrodden, because you enjoy your job. But Julie can’t seem to make up her mind. If she isn’t sending stuff claiming today’s women are put-upon because we have to work, she’s sending stuff saying we don’t get a chance at the good jobs. I can understand both views, but she wraps them up in enough syrup to make a hundred maple cream truffles. “You’ll have to assert yourself, Lee. Tell her you don’t like her e-mails.” I sighed. “About the time I tell her that, she’ll act