“Thanks,” I said. Then I nodded at a wall calendar I’d noticed hanging next to the register. It looked like a scheduling tool, with names written in each day. “My first real job, we did this same kind of thing for scheduling.” I inched closer. “Kind of takes me back.”

My mother was the only person I’d ever met who used a wall calendar for scheduling purposes, but my name had been on it for doctor and dentist appointments, so I was at least partially truthful.

I pointed. “Looks like you had a couple of days off there.” His name had been written in blue ink across the top of four consecutive early April days, Saturday through Tuesday. Pug had been killed that Monday night. “Hope you were somewhere warm, having fun,” I said, smiling.

“Yes, I’d scheduled time off to attend an art opening at my favorite Chicago gallery. It was a group show, five artists of contemporary modern street art.”

Before he could tell me too much about it, I thanked him for his time and headed out.

So Skyler had an alibi. One suspect down. Four to go.

*   *   *

I drove the rest of the way home well below the speed limit. Partly because I always tended to drive cautiously when Eddie was in the car—he was fine on the bookmobile unless we hit a massive pothole, but he really didn’t like it when the car took a corner and let me know in a vociferous manner that I was doing it all wrong—and partly because I was thinking about how to set up a Venus flytrap for the Conti thief.

“You know what that is, right?” I asked. “It’s a plant with these leaves shaped like, well, a trap. But the insides of the leaves have these hairs. Bugs fly in, trigger the hairs, and snap!”

I heard a noise from the passenger’s seat and looked just in time to catch the end of his yawn. “So nice that you’re paying so much attention to me. I’m trying to teach you something, and this is the thanks . . . oh, no . . .”

“Mrr?”

I sighed. “No, it’s not you. Not this time.” My moan had been one of sadness, not irritation, because there, walking down the sidewalk, was Deputy Ash Wolverson. He had his hands in his pockets and was moving at a snail’s pace, head down and shoulders slumped. This, from a guy who regularly told me to sit up straight or I’d lose what little bone density I had.

Then I sighed again, because there, on the other side of the street, was Chelsea. Her posture and attitude mirrored Ash’s and it didn’t take much detecting to conclude that they’d seen each other.

“Someone has to do something,” I murmured, watching Chelsea wipe her face with her fingertips.

“Mrr!”