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voice. “Here, kitty! Kitty, kitty, kitty!” I saw no sign of the cat, so I kept working with the box knife. Suddenly Ms. McCoy’s face poked around the end of the bar.
    “Oh!” I jumped up.
    “Is that cat back there?” she said. Now I could see her dress. It was a basic black, and it hadn’t come cheap, but it hung on her. She still looked weatherbeaten and skinny, though she wasn’t exactly flatchested.
    “No, Ms. McCoy. I haven’t seen him.”
    She looked at me narrowly. “I know you—oh, you’re the young woman from the TenHuis Chocolade. What are you doing here?”
    I resisted the impulse to go into a detailed explanation. “Mr. Herrera needed an extra waitress.”
    “You’re a waitress?”
    “I was when I was in college. Now I’m an accountant. But all the Warner Pier merchants try to help each other out, and Mr. Herrera needed an extra set of hands. If I see the cat, I’ll try to catch him.”
    “We wanted to shut him up in the office until he makes his appearance for the donors. He always jumps up on the tables and tries to get in the food.”
    I smiled, still determined, in my Texas way, to be friendly. But she was making me nervous. “I’ll tell the others, and we’ll try to keep him from sampling the bubbly—I mean, the buffet!”
    Ms. McCoy sniffed, straightened up, and left. I heard, “Here, kitty, kitty,” from the dining room.
    I had the box open by then. So I stood up, leaned over, and took two two-liter bottles of Diet Coke out of their box.
    “Here. Lemme hep you.”
    A handsome, gray-haired man came around the corner of the bar. He took the bottles out of my hands, put them on the counter, then turned back with his hands out, ready for more bottles.
    “Thanks,” I said. I opened another box and handed him two club sodas, and he lined them up neatly at the left end of the work counter.
    All the time I was trying to figure out who he was. He wasn’t with Herrera Catering; I’d figured that out from his blue knit sports shirt. All us worker bees were wearing black and white. But he did seem familiar—a lean face with a grin that made him look rakish and with serious glasses that made him look reliable. But his most eye-catching characteristic was a gorgeous head of gray hair . . .
    “Oh!” I said. “You were in the Mercedes convertible.”
    He looked at me narrowly, then smiled. “And yew were in the van.” He definitely had a Texas accent. I had tried hard to get rid of my Texas accent, but this man had evidently tried to emphasize his.
    “Right,” I said. “And I think you’re a guest, not an employee of Herrera Catering, so maybe you’d better get out from behind the bar before I get in trouble.”
    “Ah don’t want yew to git into trouble!” He moved around the end of the bar. “I was about to ask for a favor, and I thought if I did one first . . .” He grinned, and it was a grin nobody could resist.
    I didn’t even try. “I do appreciate the help, and I’ll be happy to do you a favor. Anything that’s legal.”
    He leaned over the bar and dropped his voice. “I know you’re not open yet. But do you hev any bourbon back there?”
    “Sure. On the rocks?” I looked around for ice and found none. “Actually, I don’t have any rocks yet. But I can get some from the kitchen.”
    “Straight up will be fine. I kin git my own ice.”
    I found a bottle of bourbon—a very good brand—and used the tip of the box knife to break the seal. I found a shot glass, filled it, and poured it into an old-fashioned glass. Then I lifted my eyebrows and looked questioningly at the gray-haired gent. “Double?”
    “Why not? I’m staying in Clementine’s guest cottage, so I won’t be driving, and I’m as dry as a west Texas toad frog.” He stuck his hand over the bar in shaking position. “I’m a cosponsor of this wingding. Clementine Ripley is one of my clients. Duncan Ainsley.”
    “Oh, that’s why you look famous!” Oh, God, I’d done it again. “I mean, I