“That’s what I figured.” I picked up the Fat Boys menu, which I hadn’t actually looked at in two years because I ordered one of three things every time. “You don’t know why you did it, do you? Maybe you should think about things before you do them.”

I picked up intact menus for Shomin’s and the local Chinese restaurant, and realized that the scattered scraps were all from Three Seasons. “And now I have to tell Kristen that hers is the only menu you shredded. Do you realize how that’s going to make her feel? Do you?”

The trill of an incoming phone call interrupted my monologue, which was starting to sound a lot like the parental lectures I’d received as a child. I dug my cell out of my coat pocket. “Hey, Tabitha. What’s up?”

“Isn’t tonight the night we were going to talk?”

“Probably. I just got in, though.”

“You haven’t had supper? Get something to eat and give me a call afterward.”

“No, I ate already.” And I wasn’t just saying that. Max had almost force-fed me some of his secret snacks in unnecessary apology for sending me on a wild-goose chase. The second red velvet cupcake had been way more than enough, but then he’d offered chocolate chip cookies that his youngest granddaughter had baked. Lots of calories and not much substance, but it had all tasted extremely good going down and was sticking to my ribs enough that my dinner plans for the evening included nothing except a bowl of cold cereal.

“All right, then,” Tabitha said. “Let’s get our ducks in a row. The suspect list now includes the brother, the former coworker, the bully from the bike club, and the hipster from the bike shop.”

I named them in her order. “Bob Bernier, Ariella Tice, Warren Jorgenson, and Cody Sisk.” I’d found Warren’s last name on the bike club’s Facebook page, feeling a little sneaky about it, although I wasn’t quite sure why.

“Exactly,” she said. “We know quite a bit about brother Bob and a fair amount about Ariella. We have some slight knowledge about Cody and essentially none on Warren Jorgenson.”

“Yes, and—”

A thump-thump noise in the bathroom alerted me to a feline undertaking that was almost certainly one of destruction.

“Hang on, I have to check on my cat. He’s in a real mood tonight. You should have seen the mess he made with . . . Oh, Eddie, seriously?”

He looked up at me with the classic deer-in-the-headlights cast to his furry face. He was standing on his hind legs, his front legs stretched high, with his front claws sinking deep into a fresh roll of toilet paper.

“Mrr!” He jumped to the top of the small sink, swatted my small rubber duck to the floor, jumped to the floor alongside the duck, and hurtled out of the room.