“My dear, it’s the only deal for me until I take muffins to the bank on Friday.”
“No, no, you had two other calls besides the one from Marla.”
I sighed once more. “Arch already told me about General Farquhar.”
He slapped the cake onto a cooling rack and rummaged in his back pocket for his trusty spiral notebook. “People named Trotfield, they’re Prospect Financial investors who say they loved your food at the mine yesterday. They’re friends of Tony’s or Albert’s, I think. They need you for a dinner party this week. The husband is flying to Rio for five days, and they want to give him a big sendoff. They need you because their chef, an illegal alien from Sri Lanka, skipped.” He gave me a wide grin. “I didn’t tell Mrs. Trotfield I was from the sheriff’s department. Didn’t want to jeopardiz
