"If you're thinking of buying Boots Faraday's work direct, to cut us out, I'm just telling you, we're her exclusive agent in this town." The saleslady spat out her words. When I didn't respond, she rummaged reluctantly through a drawer and thrust a card at me.

While the woman wrapped the collage, I glanced casually at the card, then gaped at it. Not only were Boots Faraday's address, phone number, and e-mail printed on the card, so was a miniature picture of her. Boots was handsome and high-cheekboned. She flashed white teeth set in a powerful smile. And she had an enormous mane of ruffled blond hair.

I had seen her before. Where?

"Now what's wrong?" demanded the saleswoman when she returned and handed me the wrapped collage. "I can take the card back, if it's giving you as much trouble as our prize paintings."

I smiled, gripped Tom's collage, and walked away. I'd had enough art-appreciation-sniping for one morning. As I headed back to the Rover, a visual memory finally clicked.

I had seen collage artist Boots Faraday. Fleetingly, from afar. The previous morning, the day that Doug Portman had lost his life on these slopes, she'd been hanging artworks on the wall of Eileen's bistro. Then she'd sat down and watched our live filming of Cooking at the Top just like all the other guests.

I stowed the collage in the back of the Rover. Eileen Druckman owned several of Boots Faraday's works. Did Eileen know Boots Faraday? Had Eileen invited the artist to the PBS show? What about Arthur? Did he know Ms. Faraday?

Stop, I reprimanded myself. If the occasion arose where I needed to talk to Boots Faraday, I now had her address and phone number. And her picture. She shouldn't be that hard to find.

As I drove toward Elk Path, my mind came back to the image of the blond artist up the ladder. She was an artist deemed "decorative" and not the "Best of Killdeer" by a man who died very shortly thereafter.

Tom always told me to look for what was out of place.

Boots Faraday was an artist, not a TV fan, and certainly not a foodie. So on the day Doug Portman died, what was she doing at the bistro? Anything besides hanging artworks?

-11- At five to ten, I pulled into Arthur Wakefield's driveway. Unlike the other houses along Elk Path, and undoubtedly pushing the limits of Killdeer's covenants, his residence was painted the darkest gray I'd seen all morning. Charcoal siding contrasted with pearly decks and a steep slate roof. The place had a Loire-Valley château feel to it, which was undoubtedly what le wine-geek had in mind. Or had his mother chosen the place - and paid for it - before she died?