I considered making “What’s the best way to trap a killer with a fake Conti?” the question, but instead went for “If we could ask a question of any author, living or dead, who would it be, and what should we ask?”

“Good one,” Hunter said, and we launched directly into discussion. My first suggestion was asking James Joyce about his punctuation choices in Ulysses, but Hunter brought up the excellent question of finding out, once and for all, why Agatha Christie had vanished for eleven days. Then, as we arrived at the first stop and started opening preparations, we agreed that the ultimate authorial question was for Dr. Seuss, asking how he got the cat to put on a hat in the first place.

“We tried putting a Santa hat on Eddie last Christmas,” I said, unlocking the back door.

“Did it work?”

“Only if you consider half a second a success.”

“Ms. Minnie. Hunter M.” Lawrence Zonne climbed the steps and nodded at us, his thick white hair combed neatly back. “Success is in the eye of the beholder, don’t you think? And a good thing, because waiting for someone else to declare me successful might cause my ulcer to start bleeding again.” He made a face. “Once was enough, thank you very much.”

“Are you all right?” I asked, concerned. It was hard to believe the agile and sprightly Mr. Zonne would ever be anything but hale and hearty, despite the fact that he was in his mid-eighties. He was too alive for anything else.

“Fit as a fiddlehead fern.” He patted his midsection. “All I needed was an adjustment to my medication. Annoying it took a night in the hospital to determine the correct dosages, but that’s the medical establishment for you.”

Hunter and I made noises of commiseration.

“Thank you,” Mr. Zonne said. “And at least I didn’t have it as bad as the gentleman in the bed next to me. He was there for an adjustment to his pacemaker and was going to be there at least two nights. Johnny P., I told him, you have my sympathies. Said I’d send flowers, but he wasn’t interested.”

Could it be? No . . . could it? “Are you,” I asked slowly, “talking about John Pinnock? From Chilson?” Because, that first time we’d met, hadn’t he said something about the hospital? About doctors? Heart doctors, that was it.

Mr. Zonne’s gaze sharpened. “Why, yes. Is he a friend of yours?”

“When was this?” I asked. “When were you in the hospital?”

“Oh, not long ago.” He pursed his lips. “It was a Monday night, I remember that, so not quite a month ago.”

“You’re sure?” I held my breath, waiting.

“Dear child. My memory isn’t what it was, but I can remember that much.”