"Is that why you think I did Arthur's wine delivery for him? To cozy up to you?"

"Isn't it? Everyone knows I was no friend of Doug Portman. Doug Portman was a rotten judge of art who thought he was very smart. His ignorance hurt people. Including me. So what's the real point of you asking me about Doug Portman at the bistro?"

"Whoa. Listen. I do love your work. I do want to know how you got started. And it would be helpful if you could tell me if you saw anything suspicious on Friday. That's it. You don't want to talk, just say so."

She snorted impatiently. "I'll let you know if I mind talking. Regarding your first question. I tried to make a living as a painter of large abstract oils. Critics, including Doug Portman, loved them. I didn't sell a single one."

"That's too bad - "

She lowered her voice and held up an imaginary magazine. "'Ms. Faraday's groundbreaking canvases depict violence with passion, color, and ontology.' "

"Doug said that?"

"Are you kidding? Doug Portman wouldn't have known the difference between 'ontology' and 'on-line trading.' Those lines were from some Denver critic. Anyway, I needed to pay the rent, so I tried my hand at making collages. Some critics dismissed them as 'craftwork.' Most ignored them. Unfortunately, our one local critic, Doug Portman, hated them because they were small and intimate, not grand or grandiose."

"I'm sorry." Her smile was a thin slash. "Don't be. I sold every one of those first collages. I even enjoyed ignoring Doug when he referred to my work as” - here she lowered her voice again - " 'saccharine and domestic.' I formed the Killdeer Artists' Association, so the artists in town could network to make money instead of being jealous and competitive. Eventually, a few magazine writers did pieces on my work, and I received a stream of orders. Now I have a tidy little business, and I don't give a hoot about passion and ontology." She speared a piece of chicken. "Ready for the answer to Question Two? No, I didn't see anything Friday morning."

Watch it, I warned myself. I stalled by taking a sip of water. Actually, I had thought of a couple more questions, on the subject of Nate Bullock and his pregnant widow. If Boots Faraday felt so close to Nate that she came to the annual fund-raiser held in his name, maybe she knew what was going on with my old friend Rorry.

"I admire your spunk," I commented with a smile, then pretended to ponder a bit. "The Bullocks used to live in Aspen Meadow, where I'm from. You mentioned an artists' association. Is that how you got to know Nate?"

"Yes, I met Nate through KAA." Her answer was curt, as if she were suddenly under legal cross-examination. "He was a good cameraman, but public television doesn't pay that much. He joined the artists' association when he was trying to make some extra money. Then he died."