Internally grousing about men and their reluctance to talk about anything resembling an emotion, I grabbed my check and to-go cup and headed to the front counter. I waved the check at Sabrina, who was taking the order of an elderly couple. “I’ll leave cash at the register,” I said.

“Tip big,” she called. “Bill and I want to go to Hawaii.”

Shaking my head at such a comment from a person who not so long ago had declared that only boring people traveled, I murmured, “Who are you and what have you done with Sabrina?”

“But she’s happier,” a large male voice said.

Blinking, I looked up. “Hey, Cookie.” As far as I knew, the name of the Round Table’s longtime chef was indeed Cookie. When the kitchen was slow, he often came out front. “You think marriage makes Sabrina happy?”

Cookie shrugged and took my money. “When it’s marriage to the right person, sure. Marriage to the wrong person will make your life seem ten times longer.”

I watched as he counted out my change, thought he was probably right, and then, on a sudden impulse, asked, “Did you know Pug Mattock? He and his wife were married more than thirty years. Losing him is going to be hard on her.”

“Sure, I knew Pug.” Cookie handed over my change and put his elbows on the counter, crossing his arms. “He was in here just last week, buying something for his wife.”

That was odd. “Everyone loves the Round Table,” I said, “but unless he was buying the restaurant, I’m not sure gift cards would be super great for a present.”

Cookie grinned, revealing a small dark gap in his upper teeth where an incisor should have been. “I ain’t selling until I can’t cook. What would I do with myself all day, eh? Sit around and watch soap operas? No, Pug was meeting somebody. The guy was selling and Pug was buying.

That made more sense. “Buying what?”

Cookie shrugged. “An artsy-fartsy sculpture by some guy. Sounded Italian.”

“Italian?” The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. “Do you remember his name? The sculptor’s I mean?”

Another shrug. “First name started with a V is all I remember. Last name was Cottey, or something like that.”

“Conti?” I asked.

“Yeah, I guess so. Why, is he somebody famous?”

Not to me, but apparently to lots of other people. I hurried to the library, trying to keep from being late, my head suddenly spinning with information overload. First, how was it that I hadn’t known Cookie actually owned the Round Table? But mostly I was wondering if there was any connection between Herb Valera’s missing Conti sculpture and Pug’s murder.

*   *   *