He pointed down the hall. I schlepped my box into a cheerful space with yellow walls, bright white tile counters, and a yellow-and-white floor of handmade tiles: hallmark of a noncook, because tiles spell major back pain. On the walls were bright tourist posters of France splashed with hues of lavender, yellow, and gray.

Arthur slumped into a ladder-back chair at his tiled breakfast bar, where eight or so bottles of wine sported jaunty ribboned bows and handwritten cards screaming You're Invited, Again! "I've got ten cases of wines sitting at Denver International Airport," he complained glumly. He stared at the wine bottles and a handwritten list next to them.

I raised my eyebrows. "Where at DIA?"

"Customs," he answered dolefully. "Got a medium-sized pan?"

He gestured wearily to a bank of drawers. I located a saucepan and started cooking the oatmeal mixture I'd brought. I wanted to ask Arthur if he'd heard anything new about Doug Portman's suspicious death. More importantly, I wanted to see his reaction to my question. I also wondered fleetingly how we were supposed to do an intake interview if Arthur needed to 1) have something to eat and 2) spring valuable cases of wine from Customs. I stirred the creamy oatmeal mixture when it started to bubble. I couldn't ask him questions yet. I knew the dangers of trying to discuss business with, or elicit information from, a client with low blood sugar. I'd face crankiness, irrationality, and indecision. You don't get to be a successful food person without taking instant stock of such things.

Within five minutes the spicy orange-and-cinnamon oatmeal was hot and ready to be topped with a chunk of butter and spoonfuls of dark brown sugar. Arthur stirred in the melting pond of butter and sugar and hungrily scooped up enormous mouthfuls. It wouldn't help him deal with a bureaucracy, but it would get him through the next couple of hours. I sat down and pulled out my notebook.

"Gosh, this is fabulous," he commented. "You have to do this for our last show." Did I detect color seeping into those cheeks, or was it wishful thinking on my part? He looked at me sheepishly, then scraped up the last of the cereal. "I realized in the middle of the night that I hadn't been very nice to you after you had your car accident. I'm sorry. This day has been crazy trying to figure out how I'm going to change the buffet. Are you okay?"

"I am, thanks. Actually, the car accident was the second terrible thing to happen to me yesterday. After our show, I . . . discovered the guy who'd been killed while skiing." Arthur raised his eyes questioningly. I said, "The guy was someone I used to know."

Arthur jumped up to rinse his bowl. With his back to me, he said warily, "How did you know Doug Portman?"

"Through my husband. Do you remember, he's in law enforcement?"