On the screen was an order confirmation from Rosemary Lane Catering. Placed that afternoon at 2:10 p.m. Customer name: Judith Whitfield. Special instructions: Remove all labels. Must look homemade. Below it ran her full order history, going back four years. Every Thanksgiving pie. Every Easter ham. Every famous casserole she had ever carried into a family holiday and taken credit for.

Judith didn’t know I owned Rosemary Lane. I had started it under my maiden name, and she had only ever called it my little hobby. Now her face had gone the color of the tablecloth. Before she could say anything, Preston’s managing partner leaned across the table and lifted the foil on one of her trays. His eyes lit up. “Well, I’ll be,” he said. “This is Rosemary Lane’s short rib. My wife orders it every Christmas.” He turned toward Judith. “Do you know the owner?”