Since I didn’t want to explore that unfortunate, petty side of my character, I told her what I’d learned from Lindy. And that my Saturday afternoon online research into local bike groups hadn’t been productive, at least not in terms of figuring out what group Brown had joined.

“Okay,” she said. “What’s next?”

I blinked. “Um, well, I know some people who are into bicycling. I figured I’d talk to them, trying to find Brown’s group. But I don’t know how to find out more about the relationship between Lindy and Bob. Do you have any ideas?”

“You’re missing something obvious,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Where do people spend most of their waking hours?”

“Depends on the person.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, let’s talk about you. Where do you spend more hours than are reasonable?”

“The library,” I said tartly, “but you’re one to talk. You—” And that’s when the light bulb went on. “The city. I wasn’t thinking about it because he was retired. But Brown worked there for years. Somebody is bound to have been friends with him.”

“Exactly.” Kristen toasted me with a custard-laden spoon. “City offices open at eight. Plenty of time to stop in before you have to be at the library. And don’t you know Bax Tousely? He still works for the city, doesn’t he?”

I looked at her. “You’re being awfully bossy about this. You could help, you know.”

She snorted. “As if. Imagine me, tiptoeing around asking questions. What are the odds that any stranger anywhere would confide in me about anything?”

That was true. Kristen was many wonderful things, but her default demeanor of “bull in a china shop” wasn’t likely to be a helpful attitude during an amateur investigation.

“Besides,” she went on. “I have . . .” She paused. “Um, well . . .”

I laughed. “You have no excuses whatsoever. As long as you keep me in Sunday desserts the rest of my life, I’m happy to do this for you.”

“Done,” Kristen said, and we finished the custard in perfect accord.

*   *   *

Monday morning, Kristen’s investigative advice seemed as sound as it had over dessert. Accordingly, I patted a sleeping Eddie on the head and left the houseboat a few minutes earlier than normal, the change in my routine affecting my fuzzy friend not at all.

As I walked up to the city offices, I wondered, as I often did, what was really going on in Eddie’s feline brain. Sometimes he shocked me with his level of intelligence. For example, he would jump on the houseboat’s dashboard to paw at the front door handle. But sometimes he shocked me with how stupid he could be. For example, when I gently nudged him aside to keep him from slipping out a door I was opening, he routinely tried to get out through the hinge side.