There were no catering companies in the phone book. None. Eli rang two local cafés and the famous bakehouse, which he had yet to visit, but none of them did private catering. In addition to that, neither of the cafés could spare any staff, and the baker refused to help, cursing Eli in a thick German accent for daring to introduce mass-market baked goods to the township. Not that he had done so yet, but when asked, he couldn’t deny that a couple of well-known chain bakeries were interested in renting shop space from him. Eli was, apparently, notorious among a certain set of locals.

He searched the Internet for caterers, but nothing in this backwards little town was on the web. Finally, he called the pub.

The Irish bartender answered. “Davy of Davy’s speaking. What can I do you for?”

“I need a caterer,” Eli replied, thinking he might have more luck if he didn’t mention his name. “Tonight. I know it’s short notice, but I was wondering if you know of anybody.”

“Who’s asking?”

“Eli,” he replied.

“Eli who?”

“Lockwood,” he said impatiently. There went that plan.

“Ri-i-ight. I remember you.” Davy’s voice had taken on a sly tone that Eli didn’t much like. “You’ve got a thing for our Aria.” Eli didn’t have time to correct him before he barreled on. “Well, tonight’s your lucky night, my friend.”

Eli’s heart sank. “Why?”

“We don’t have any professional caterers in town, but we do have a couple of bloody good home-cooks who cook for fundraisers from time to time. Your lady friend is one of them.”

Eli sighed. So much for hiring a caterer to make his life easier. Involving Aria would never simplify things, and after she had run from him twice, it seemed unlikely she’d be willing to help.

“Anyone else?” He crossed his fingers.

Davy seemed puzzled but answered anyway. “Nancy Harding, but she’s visiting her niece in Wanaka at the moment, and Eliza Brown.”

“Do you have Mrs. Brown’s number?”

Davy gave him the number but made sure to tell him Aria’s as well. Eli called the first number.

“Eliza speaking.”

“Mrs. Brown,” he began. “This is Elijah Lockwood.” No point in trying to hide his identity again. “I hear you’re a good cook.”

“Yes.” The old woman sounded wary.

“Would you consider catering for a dinner tonight? I know it’s short notice, but I’m desperate. You can name your price.” Hopefully, adding a financial incentive would aid his cause.

She took her time answering. “I’m afraid I’m otherwise engaged tonight, Mr. Lockwood. Your best bet is to call Miss Aria Simons. I’m sure you know her.”

Was he paranoid, or were the locals pushing him toward the feisty journalist?

“I do,” he replied. “Are you sure I can’t persuade you?”

“No, Mr. Lockwood. Not tonight.”