Peering through my windshield, I wondered about doleful Arthur's agenda. If his mother had left him a good chunk of change, why would he need to work for PBS? Was the wine import business struggling? Or was Arthur living in a Killdeer condo for other, more personal reasons? His letter to the paper suggested a whole lot of rage. At least there was no Subaru wagon parked outside.

I hauled my box of goodies to the front door, balanced it on a silvery-gray railing, and rapped the gleaming knocker. I almost didn't recognize Arthur when he opened the door. Gone were the black artiste clothes, the Pepto-Bismol bottle, the menacing body angle. The man actually looked happy to see me. His black hair was freshly washed and fluffed. Unfortunately, his cheeks were still gaunt and translucent, and his eyes retained their haunted look. Arthur may have been a bit happier, but the man was neither well rested nor relaxed. Maybe he'd been penning another tirade to the paper.

"Uh, Arthur?" I rebalanced my box. "May I come in?"

"Yes," he rasped. "I'm glad you're here. I've been. . . I mean, I just couldn't wait for you to arrive.

"Are you all right?" When he shook his head, I crossed the threshold and edged around an expensive-looking, intricately patterned wool Oriental. Another gift from Mom? I wondered. The formal living room, all mahogany furniture and light walls hung with Old-Master-style oil paintings, was strangely impersonal, In the hallway, porcelain figurines adorned a mahogany end table, Nowhere did photos or memorabilia give a clue as to Arthur's background.

Something more astonishing adorned the walls: at least a dozen collages by Boots Faraday. I tilted my head at one, a montage of tall grasses, bushes, and evergreen shrubs, all sprinkled with snow. I peered close and read the title: "Winter Garden."

From behind me, Arthur gushed, "Boots is one of my best customers." I almost dropped my box in surprise. "It's coming into her busy season," Arthur continued airily, "Christmas and all. She'll be ordering cases and cases of wine for the showings in her house. She sells tons of her work that way."

"More than in the local gallery?" I asked innocently, I'd had a feeling that saleslady wasn't entirely forthright. "Oh, please. Those Killdeer Gallery people think 'Western Art' is anything with a pony in it. Come on out to the kitchen, please," he entreated. "And in answer to your earlier question, no, I'm not doing well today." I shot him a sympathetic glance. He looked piqued. "My first~ wine shipment was supposed to arrive and didn't. I'm going to have to postpone the party until Monday, which makes me look terrible. I tossed all night, trying to : think how to re-invite people. Haven't had a thing to eat."

"Let's go, then!" I said heartily. Postponement was no problem for me: My calendar was depressingly open. No matter what the problems were, if Arthur was hungry, he was mine.