“Why do people keep calling it the brand-new Bookmobile?” a man yelled through a door that opened into a rear office. “Why don’t they call it the less-old Bookmobile? It’s been on the road since 2010, Daphne. It’s not old enough to be tried as an adult for its crimes, but it’s getting there.”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “The newish Bookmobile is guilty of nothing. I can’t say the same for that hapless, feckless drunk you hired to drive it. Men like Sam Hennessy make me think the death penalty wasn’t such a bad idea.”

The man in the back room called, “He wrecked a truck, he didn’t kill a child—thank God. And in my defense, Sam had all the necessary qualifications: He had the right kind of license, and he was cheap.”

“What kind of license are we talking about?” I heard myself ask. “Class B?”

A rolling office chair squeaked, and the man in the back room glided into view. He was of indeterminate age. He might’ve been seventy-five or fifty-five. His silver hair had a few threads of gold in it, and he had the striking blue eyes of an aged model, the sort of rugged gent who can be found paddling a canoe through the middle of a Viagra ad. The tie was undone. The suit was tweed, gently worn in at the elbows and knees.

“That’s right,” he said.

“I’ve got a Class B. If there’s a less-old Bookmobile, does that mean there’s also a more-old Bookmobile?”

“An antique!” the librarian announced.

“Not quite, Daphne,” said the man in tweed. “Though it’s true we only take it out for the Fourth of July parade these days.”

“It’s an antique,” Daphne repeated.

Tweed scratched his throat, leaning back in his chair to study me from around the door. “You’re a commercial trucker?”

“I was,” I said. “I’m taking the fall off to deal with some family business. What kind of truck are we talking about?”

“Wanna see it?” said the man in tweed.

“WHAT DOES IT RUN ON?” I asked after I’d stared at it for a few moments. “Unleaded? Or bong water?”

Ralph Tanner contentedly mouthed the stem of his Liverpool pipe. “It got pulled over once. The cop said he wanted to arrest whoever painted it for disturbing his peace. The chief of police tells people he has a solemn duty to impound drug paraphernalia and that’s why he keeps it locked up in this carriage house.”