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“I didn’t send you any articles, Goldy. But Doug Portman was on the take. Guess what Portman said to me?” His tone turned vicious; his black eyes narrowed. “That he’d keep Gilkey behind bars, but it would cost me twenty thousand dollars a year. Problem was, my mother’s millions were going to Sesame Street, and I couldn’t spare an extra twenty thou a year.”

“The trust-fund background was in the articles left for me,” I told him. “The article also said that you were challenging the will, claiming Jack had unduly influenced your mother.”

“He did. He turned my mother against me, discouraged her from seeing me, changed their phone number every week, fired the family lawyer, you name it. He thought he could kill her and inherit, so no one would be the wiser. He just didn’t figure he’d get caught. Mother allowed him to swindle her because she wanted that handsome snake-oil salesman to love her.”

I folded sour cream, grated cheddar, and spicy picante sauce into the chicken. “Kill and inherit? Kill is a strong word.”

Arthur seemed intent upon assembling wineglasses on the tiled counter next to the array of bottles. “I don’t use the word lightly. I wish to God the prosecutor could have proved premeditation on Jack’s part, but she couldn’t. I’ll guarantee you this, though: Gilkey will marry Eileen Druckman for her money. You’d better watch out for your friend.”

“I know. And I’m sorry to bring up painful memories.”

Arthur sighed. “I sure do wish I’d taped Portman’s call to me about paying him to keep Gilkey behind bars. Now he’s dead. So it’s up to me to prove Portman was taking bribes. Then my claim to have the will set aside is infinitely strengthened. Gilkey will be proven once and for all to be a bounder, and I’ll be able to—” He abruptly stopped talking. His eyes rested on the poster on his wall.

“Be able to what?” I kept my tone lighthearted as I began to measure out the marinade ingredients. “Travel to France? Go live in Tuscany? My fantasy is to eat my way through Italy on a six-month walking tour. The exercise works off the meals.”

After a moment, Arthur said softly, “My dream is right there.” He gestured toward the travel poster, the lavender-surrounded village with its high church steeple.

“To go to France? To live there?”

“Not just France, Goldy, but a particular place.” He stared lovingly at the poster. “I’m going to buy a vineyard in the town of Bandol, in Provence. Here, let me have you taste something.” He reached for a corkscrew, then disappeared to another part of the house. When he returned five minutes later, he carried a bottle of red wine. “I just want you to try this.”

“Arthur, please. It’s not even nine o’clock in the morning.”

“Just a sip.” He uncorked the bottle and poured a half-inch in each of two wineglasses. I sighed. Two rules of catering were in conflict: Do not drink alcohol on a job, especially in the morning and The more you need the client, the crazier the client will act. Arthur dramatically proffered me a glass; we toasted each other silently; I took a sip. It was delicious. Even I knew enough about wine to call this red hearty, spicy, and just the ticket for getting your morning off to a great start.

“That’s my future you’re drinking,” he told me, very seriously. “My wasted future,” he added glumly.

“Why ‘wasted’?”

Arthur cocked his head. “What do you taste in the wine? What spices?”

“I’m not that good at—”

“I will tell you what you’re tasting.” He clattered his glass onto the counter. “You smell lavender. You taste rosemary. Basil. Bay leaf. You taste Bandol.” He gestured at the poster. “A corner of it, anyway.” His voice cracked. “Bandol is a lovely Provençal village, where I could have bought an operating vineyard for two million dollars. I keep that picture here to remind me what Jack Gilkey stole from me. I could be growing my grapes and relaxing each evening with my view of the sea. But Jack Gilkey ruined that. And your buddy Doug Portman let that killer out of prison.”

“Doug Portman was not my buddy.” And the sheriff’s department also thinks he was taking bribes, I added mentally. But I did not know how much of what Arthur was telling me was true, so I kept my mouth shut.

“Yes, yes. It doesn’t matter now, does it?” He felt in his pocket for his Pepto and pulled it out. He did not drink any of it, thank goodness. After staring at it for a moment, he stuffed it back into his other pocket.

I had one more question for Arthur. “If you’re trying to deprive public broadcasting of your mother’s fortune, why do you work for them?”