Of course, there was the possibility that the shoes had some sentimental meaning, but I’d never seen Sylvia anything but perfectly attired, even on the hottest day of summer.

“Minnie?” She’d seen me and was coming across the room, arms outstretched. “It’s so good of you to come.”

We embraced, and as she released me I said, “Sorry I’m early. If you’re not ready, I’ll come back later.”

“Don’t be silly. We’re all set here.” Sylvia glanced at the Scovill brother, who nodded and glided away. “And I know what you’re going to ask: why are we having a visitation now, when Pug . . . when he won’t be released for some time.” She sighed. “I’m in town, some of his relatives are in town, and it just seemed to make sense. We’ll have a big memorial service this summer. You’ll come, won’t you?”

I promised to do my best, and gently maneuvered her to a smoothly upholstered couch and sat us both down, as up close, she looked pale and trembly.

“Pug was at the bookmobile last week,” I said. “He tried to explain turkey-hunting season to me.”

She managed a small smile. “He did that to me, too. I just wish . . .” Her voice trailed off.

I was sure she wished many things, but I was mostly wishing that whoever killed Pug had never been born.

We sat quietly for a moment, then I said, “I heard Pug was giving you a fantastic present.”

She gave me a startled look. “Where did you hear that?”

Uh-oh. “Um, well, at the Round Table. Pug was in there a couple of weeks ago, meeting with a guy to finalize the details.”

“Details of what?” When I hesitated, she leaned forward and spoke with low urgency. “Minnie, you have to tell me. You know Pug, he’d been trying to convince me to move north for years. Last month he promised me a wonderful present when I ‘did the deed,’ as he kept calling it. But I don’t know what it was.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “This is secondhand information, you understand. You should really talk to Cookie. But it sounded like Pug was buying you a sculpture by Vittorio Conti.”

Sylvia’s hands flew to her mouth. “A Conti? He was buying me a Conti? That man, that dear, dear, man.” A single tear trickled down her cheek, followed quickly by another. And another.

I reached for a box of tissues I’d already spied on a nearby table and pulled one out for Sylvia.

“Sorry,” she said, dabbing at her face.

I murmured that she had no reason to apologize. “I’m the one who should say sorry. I assumed you knew.”