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was a great cake, and I promised to bring it to brunch tomorrow.”
    “If you tell me how to reach you, I’ll see what I can do.” I hung up the phone. “How am I supposed to find it from that ridiculous description?”
    “Don’t waste your time.” I jumped; I hadn’t seen Richard come out of Jake’s office. “Most of these people are crazy. Take the easy way out.”
    “I should ignore her?”
    “You should ask Maggie. She knows by heart almost every recipe we’ve ever printed. I’m on my way to the kitchen. Come along; I’ll protect you.” He took my hand and pulled me out of my chair.
    Sherman had followed Richard into my office, and I reached down to pet him. “Come with us, dog,” I called. Sherman made the office feel so friendly. “Maybe someone will make you a smoothie.”
    With Richard at my side, I was less afraid of facing Maggie, but when we got upstairs, she took one look at us and said, with real venom in her voice, “You know I don’t like that creature in my kitchen!” I gasped; it seemed a little harsh, even for her.
    “It’s not like I sent the dog an invitation,” Richard replied, and I let out my breath, realizing she hadn’t meant me. “Is it my fault if he followed me? Blame it on Paul and his magic smoothie machine.” Sherman, who obviously had no fear of Maggie, took this as his cue to go trotting off in search of sustenance. “Billie’s wondering,” Richard went on, “if you remember a spectacular coffee cake from the fifties that had a lot of nuts—”
    Maggie was answering before he’d even finished the sentence. “The Fountain’s Famous French Nut Cake. October 1956. Tell whoever wants the recipe that the timing’s right; you
must
cream the sugar into the butter for as long as it says. If you get lazy, it’s not lethal, but it’s pretty leaden.”
    I was impressed in spite of myself. “Thanks,” I said.
    She finally deigned to acknowledge my presence. “Don’t think I’m going to answer every reader question. I’ve got better things to do. That’s why we hired you.” She stomped off before I could come up with a suitable retort, dragging Richard in her wake.
    “Don’t take it personally, Gingerbread Girl.” Diana had materialized at my side. “She’s mean to everyone.” I looked down at her feet; she was short and always wore wildly inappropriate high heels in thekitchen. Today’s pair were blue suede. “You get used to it. But I’m glad you’re here; I’ve been wanting to ask about your gingerbread. It’s the best thing anyone’s made for Jake’s stupid test since that red salad of Richard’s.”
    “What kind of red salad?”
    “Roasted beets. Radicchio. Swiss chard. Red onions. A dollop of sour cream. Gorgeous. Brilliant. Jake put it on the cover. But what I want to know is where you got your recipe.”
    “I made it up.”
    The eyebrows rose in surprise. “Really?”
    “Yeah. When I was ten. For my dad’s birthday.”
    I could tell from Diana’s face that she didn’t believe me. “Ten?” She gave a skeptical sigh. “Okay, if you’re such a genius, tell me what’s missing in this.” She handed me a spoon. “I’m meant to be making the world’s richest chocolate ice cream.”
    Yes, the ice cream was rich, but a bit cloying; the sugar was playing hide-and-seek with the chocolate. “You need a little less sugar and a pinch of salt. And I’d throw a quarter cup of cocoa powder in with the melted chocolate.”
    Diana’s eyebrows did that dash thing again. She stuck her finger into the bowl and licked it thoughtfully. “I think you may be right about the chocolate.”
    I dipped my finger in; I
was
right. “You used good chocolate, but you can get better cream, right? I bet Fontanari’s sells great cream; it’d make a huge difference. I could pick some up for you.”
    Diana punched me lightly on the arm. “I guess Maggie’s got a point.”
    “About what?”
    “Thursday apparently told her you don’t cook, and Maggie