I murmured to Macguire, “Let’s go look for your friend.” To Marla, I said, “We’ll be back.” Once Macguire and I were out in the hall, I said, “What’s your friend’s name? How long has she worked here at Prospect?”
Macguire blushed. “Bitsy Roosevelt.” His acne-scarred forehead wrinkled in thought. “She’s been here a year or so. I think.”
“Would you be willing to ask Bitsy if she knew this Victoria Lear person? See if Victoria was doing anything with the Eurydice Gold Mine?”
Macguire began, “Sure, but why do you—” but I grasped his arm and shook my head.
Brightly, I said, “Looks like we’re not the only food folks here today.”
Shifting his weight nervously next to the massive reception desk, Sam Perdue seemed to have utterly lost the serene composure he’d exhibited at the mine party. Ther
