After my outburst, she ushered me to a seat, as anxious to hear the story as I was to tell it.

I gave her the lowdown on my grandfather, ending with the picture, which I showed her on my iPad.

"That's him," she said. "I've seen pictures of him before. I met him when I was young, but he died when I was nine or ten. Lung cancer, I think. He was a heavy smoker."

"Weren't they all in that generation?"

"So does that clear anything up or just make it murkier?" she asked.

"Probably a little of both," I answered. "I have a couple other things that I didn't show you yesterday. I didn't want to reveal everything until I could be sure you weren't working with Izzy."

"I knew that."

So I showed her my great-grandfather's letter. She had already read the article about the art heist. I carefully unfolded the letter and held it out to her. She read it slowly.

"Treasure?" Sabrina asked, laying the paper on the table. "A treasure hunt? Oh, that's never good. That never ends well for anybody."

I think she was being facetious, but I couldn't tell for sure.

"He also refers to 'down there'," she said. "Down where?"

"Funny, I didn't pick up on that," I answered. "I picked up on the treasure part of it." I shook my head. "Don't know about the 'down'."

"And what's with the eggs?"

"Couldn't tell you."

I showed her the slip from the Simpson Gallery, the town, and the artist's name.

"Fairfield, Iowa?"

"Ever been there?" I asked.

"I probably flew over it."

I liked her sense of humor.

She was typing something into her laptop.

"There is no record of an artist by the name of Lando Ford," she said.

"So the painting—whatever it is of—might have been painted with a purpose. Ford might really be the artist, or it was a made-up name."

"It probably isn't too bad," Sabrina said, "or a gallery wouldn't take it."

"Maybe my great-grandfather—I'm assuming his name is Bruce from the slip, but I suppose I should spend some time and research my family—maybe he knew the gallery owner. I mean why Fairfield, Iowa? You don't just stop off in a random town and lend your painting to a gallery then drive off, do you?"

She was typing again. Wow, she was fast. Does being able to type fast make you a better writer?

"As I would have expected," she said, "that gallery no longer exists. So, the question is, when did it close and what happened to its collection? Want to go to Iowa?"

She said it as if we were going out for pizza. I only had one thought. More time alone with her. Well, that was a no-brainer.

"It's never been at the top of my vacation destinations, but sure. I'd like to go, but is this information we could get online just as easily?"

"Maybe," she answered. "But what I've learned from … well, from my own books, I guess," she rolled her eyes at the comment, "is that actual legwork sometimes uncovers things you'd never find online. Hey, it works for my detective anyway."