Well, mostly prepared. I told him about the theft of the Conti statue from the Valeras’ cottage and about how Pug had been seen purchasing a Conti. I told him about John Pinnock and Skyler Ellison, about Ian Breece, Charlie Seller, and Keegan Kolb, squinting at Hal’s list to make sure he spelled everyone’s name correctly, then gave him what solid information I had about each. “All I know about Charlie Seller is that he’s Pug’s nephew,” I said. “No idea where he lives.”

“Grand Rapids,” Hal murmured, still writing. “He goes by Charles.”

I beamed, pleased to have those nuggets of information. My beam dimmed, though, because Hal flipped his notepad to the shut position, slid it into his shirt pocket, and gestured at the clock with his chin. “Twelve thirty-one. Your time is up, and so is mine. Thank you for your thoughts. I’ll consider them as I would consider all tips regarding an investigation. Now, unless you have any information regarding the whereabouts of Ryan Anderson, I need to—”

He’d started to stand but came to an abrupt halt halfway. “Ms. Hamilton. Do you know Mr. Anderson’s current location?”

“Me?” I blinked. “Why would I know something like that?”

Hal gave me a hard look. “If you are withholding information pertinent to a murder investigation, it could well be considered illegal.”

“I have no idea where Ryan is,” I said, enunciating each consonant and each syllable clearly. And I didn’t. It was a beautiful spring day, and there was no way he’d be in the cabin. He’d be out in the woods somewhere.

The detective stood to his full height and looked down on me. I looked up at him, completely unintimidated, except for the teensy part of me that was laden with guilt.

“Have a good day, Ms. Hamilton,” he said.

I watched him go and blew out a long breath. Now, more than ever, I needed to find out who killed Pug Mattock.

For Ryan’s sake—and my own.

Chapter 13

I picked up my own Fat Boys sandwich, vegetable style, and hurried back to the library, scooting inside through the side entrance and managing to make it to my office before the sandwich lost all its warmth. Sure, I could have warmed it up in the microwave, but that meant more sogginess and less toastiness.

Toastiness? I pondered as I pulled extra napkins out of a desk drawer. Probably not a word, but why not? Sogginess was . . . wasn’t it?

I tapped at my keyboard with my pinkies, the only fingers both free and not greasy, and soon learned that while Merriam-Webster considered “sogginess” a word, it did not recognize “toastiness.” However, “toastiness” did come up in a wiki-type dictionary, so maybe Merriam and her cohorts would eventually make the acknowledgment.