We walked up to the arts and crafts store I had noticed when we first got into town, the one with a large portrait of Christopher DeSantos in the front window display. It was one of those places that allows you to make your own ceramic mugs and plates and then decorate them yourself.

The door chimed as we stepped inside. It was a small shop, and up at the front was an even smaller lady. She was an older woman, with gray hair brushed up into a loose bun, and looked as though she was barely five feet tall. She was wearing large, round glasses and was peering up at us from behind the front counter. “Welcome,” she said, smiling at us kindly.

We smiled and waved at her. “I’ll go talk to her,” Bess whispered to us. Bess was excellent at charming people, and I hoped this woman would be no exception.

George and I spent a few minutes silently looking around the shop. The shelves were lined with mugs, bowls, plates, and other dishware. Some of them were hand-painted in all kinds of colorful hues, while others were decorated with photos of babies and smiling family portraits. Lining one of the walls was a series of plates featuring photographs of the same two dogs. They were both mastiffs and they looked incredibly large.

“Those are my dogs,” said a voice behind us. I turned around to see Bess and the older woman. The woman was gesturing toward the plates. “I made those myself. Do you like them?”

I nodded enthusiastically, even though I thought they were maybe a little odd. “They’re great,” I said.

George was standing next to me and had yet to answer the question. I quickly elbowed her in the side. “Oh,” she said. “Yeah, they’re really nice.”

“We can also transfer images to mugs or refrigerator magnets or anything else you’d like,” said the woman. “The process is very simple. Or you can paint all kinds of pottery items, if you prefer. Are you interested in making something today?”

George opened her mouth, about to answer the woman’s question, but luckily, Bess cut her off. I was certain that George would have said no, that she wasn’t interested, and I was glad Bess didn’t give her that chance.

“Perhaps another time,” said Bess quickly. Then she turned to me and George and said, “Mrs. Park has agreed to tell us where Beverly DeSantos lives, since we’re such big fans of hers.”

“Oh!” I said. “Yes, thank you.”

Mrs. Park began walking back over to the front counter. I followed her while Bess and George hung back.

“Just as long as you promise to only walk past the house,” Mrs. Park said over her shoulder. “Please don’t bother poor Beverly. She hates the attention. She’s very private, you know.”

“Of course,” I said. I turned around, and Bess and I made eye contact for a moment, both clearly feeling guilty about this lie. Bothering Beverly was exactly what we planned to do. I just had to hope our meddling would eventually benefit Beverly DeSantos more than it would hurt her.