In a nutshell. I nodded.

“But,” Hunter added, “I think Ryan is really lucky to have you helping him.”

Eddie bumped his head against Hunter’s shin. “Mrr!”

Hunter grinned. “And you, too, of course, Mr. Ed. If anyone can figure out who did it, you two can.”

“Did what?”

Eddie, Hunter, and I turned to see Mrs. Dugan, a seventy-six-year-old loyal bookmobile patron, climbing the bookmobile steps.

“Morning,” I said. “We’re just talking about”—I floundered for a response, because Mrs. Dugan was the chatty type and I didn’t want any new rumors running around, but gave up and told her the truth—“Pug Mattock’s murder. Did you know him?” I didn’t expect her to; the Mattocks were essentially summer people and Mrs. Dugan was a local, but you never knew.

She shook her head, her tight white curls moving in perfect unison. “What is the world coming to? So many people are up here now, I hardly know any of them, it seems. John was saying just the other day that the widow should stay downstate, that her moving up here all by herself was a horrible idea. He said he told that to her face and she was downright rude to him, can you believe it?”

I could, actually. But then something went click. “John? Are you talking about John Pinnock?”

“Well, yes,” she said, puzzled. “Who else would I be talking about? His place is next to the Mattock cottage. His family has been there over a hundred years. It’s a shame how so many old families can’t afford to stay in homes that have been theirs for generations. I’ve written letters to the editor about it many a time, but nothing seems to happen.”

She carried on with her diatribe against the world—one that I certainly understood—but only part of me was listening, because most of me was thinking hard.

John Pinnock was encouraging Sylvia to stay downstate. Was that the next step in his campaign to keep his October-through-April solitude? Had the first step been killing Pug? And how did the Conti theft intertwine with any of this?

*   *   *

That evening, Rafe went to a meeting with his northern Michigan counterparts—the definition of “meeting” in this instance a loose one, because the group was getting together at Vivio’s, a restaurant in Indian River well known for its extensive pizza menu.

“Hey,” Rafe said indignantly when I called him on it. “There’s an agenda. We talk about stuff. Real stuff.”

“Of course you do,” I said soothingly. “And I’ll be sure to tell your parents so if they ask.”