Because when you weren’t driving, you could look around and take in the rolling, forested, and lake-strewn countryside. You could look through the trees, still winter-naked of leaves, and see things you’d never see in summer. Ponds. Houses. Trails. And, off in the distance, deer gathering in their spring herds.

“Should have done this ages ago,” I said, peering at a fieldstone barn I’d never noticed before.

“What’s that?” Hunter asked.

“You’re doing fine,” I said happily, and sat back for the ride.

The day went quickly, as most days did on the bookmobile. During our drive time, we exchanged thoughts on Ryan’s whereabouts—Hunter figured Ryan was long gone, but I had the feeling he was still close by—and spent a lot of time talking about Pug.

“Wish I’d known him longer,” Hunter said, looking left and right past the empty intersection of two lightly traveled roads before proceeding past the stop sign. “I only met him that one time last week. He seemed like a good guy.”

Had it really been just a week ago? I ticked off the days in my head, and sure enough, it had been exactly seven days.

“Do you know Pug’s wife?” Hunter asked.

“Sure. Not as well as Pug, but Sylvia always came north for a month every summer. Pug would always bring her to a stop.” I smiled, remembering. “And every time he’d tell her there was nothing like the bookmobile where they lived downstate, and when she moved north she could visit it all the time.”

“Do you think she’s going to move up now that Pug’s gone?” Hunter asked.

“No idea.” And Sylvia probably didn’t know yet, either.

“Are you going to the visitation?”

I turned to look at him. “It’s scheduled already?”

“Saw it online this morning. Set for tomorrow, I think it was.”

Huh. I pulled out my phone and ran a search for Scovill’s Funeral Home. After a few taps and some scrolling, there it was. Visitation for David “Pug” Mattock was scheduled for the next afternoon. Paying my condolences to Sylvia was the important thing, of course, but maybe, just maybe, I could also learn something about the sculpture.

And so, the following day, I took a late lunch and arrived at the funeral home just before the visitation started. Signs directed me to a large room to the right, so I went that way, my feet noiseless on the deep carpet. Inside, a fortyish man I recognized as one of the Scovill brothers was talking to Sylvia. Her white-blond hair was cut in a short pixie, and she was wearing a dark navy blue dress that looked almost military, with brass buttons down the front and at the cuffs. From the ankle up she looked poised and elegant, but her shoes told another story. She wore scuffed tan loafers that might have been older than I was.