“Never heard of you.”

“Would you like some cake, Miss Miller?” Lester asked, holding up the pastry box.

“What kind?”

“Yellow,” he said. “With mocha-walnut frosting.”

“Buttercream?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How’d you know?”

“I didn’t. It’s my favorite.”

“You I like.”

Anora must have been following every word, because at that point she jumped up and scurried out of the room. She was back in seconds with paper plates, plastic forks, and a long serrated bread knife.

“I’d offer you coffee,” Miller said, “but the crap they serve here doesn’t deserve the name.”

Lester cut the cake. Miller watched him closely. “That’s from Lulu’s,” she said. Her expression was deliberately neutral.

“Yes?” Lester asked, for the moment unsure of how to read her comment.

She sniffed. “I’ve always preferred Andre’s.”

“I’ll remember for next time.”

“Give me a small piece,” Miller said.

“I thought it was your favorite.”

“It is, but my stomach doesn’t let me enjoy a lot of anything. Small servings or else I’m on the damn pot all night. Don’t get old.”

Lester patted the back of her hand and passed her a wedge. “Getting old isn’t for sissies.”

The woman made a sound like a throat-clearing cough—her version of a laugh. “Damn right.”

“Miss Miller,” Anora said in a cautioning tone.

“Excuse me, dear,” Miller said, smiling thinly. “Sometimes I forget you’re there.” She turned to Ted. “Or at least I want to.”

If Anora was offended by this verbal slap, she kept it to herself, smiling politely as one might in the presence of a toothless tyrant.

They each took a bite of cake, and for a moment the silence was broken only by the sounds of forks on plates.

“Good cake,” Miller said. “What do you want?”

Ted could tell he had zero chance of getting anything over on this woman, and he was becoming impatient with Lester’s extended schmoozathon. He laid it out straight:

“You lost a few buildings to foreclosure this year. There’s now a big chunk of surplus money sitting waiting to be claimed. I can get it for you. We split whatever I get. There’s enough for you to move someplace that’s got decent coffee.”

Lester’s eyes widened. He probably thought he’d been getting somewhere with his butter and sugar, but Ted knew better. Miller was as sharp as any squinty-eyed New York landlord he had ever come across.

She’d thrust her jaw forward, but she’d let Ted finish his pitch. “That’s a load of manure,” she said when he was done.

“I don’t think so,” Ted said.

“Then you’ve got the wrong Barbara Miller.”

She was so adamant that for a moment Ted considered that she might be right. Could Lester have made a mistake?

“You own property in Corona,” Ted said.