Accordingly, an hour later, after getting caught up with the McCades, I walked into Chilson’s newest art gallery for the first time. And probably the only time, I thought, as I noticed a price noted oh so discreetly on the white wall next to a painting of something that might have been a sunset over Lake Michigan, or might have been an egg sunny-side up. Though my job was the best possible job in the world, no one went into library science for the money. The gallery’s white walls and white pedestals featured paintings, sculptures, jewelry, and weavings that were far beyond my fiscal reach. Which was just as well, because if he’d felt like it, Eddie’s claws would have made mincemeat out of almost everything in the gallery, and I was pretty sure insurance didn’t cover cat damage.

“May I help you?”

I turned away from my inspection of a gorgeous necklace that looked like it could have come from an Egyptian tomb. “Hi,” I said, smiling at the tall and thin thirtyish man. He wore a black turtleneck, black pants, and bright lime green running shoes. His dark hair was pulled into a ponytail, and if I had to guess, the last time he’d trimmed his beard had been for Christmas dinner.

After introducing myself, and learning that his name was Skyler Ellison, I said, “I’ve been told that this is the place to learn more about sculpture. And, um, about sculptors.” I held my breath, waiting for him to ask why. If he did, I’d have to fumble for a fast reason that held some semblance of sense, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to come up with anything close to sensible.

“Then you’re lucky. You’ve come to the right place,” Skyler said, looking down on me.

He must have had a different definition of personal space, because he stood a little too close. I edged away and pointed at a nearby sculpture, something that looked sort of like the Leaning Tower of Pisa but maybe more like a giraffe. “This is interesting. How do you think it was made?”

Skyler smiled into his beard. “You have very good taste, Minnie. That’s a work by one of our finest local sculptors. It was made through an additive process. A casting.”

Additive? Sounded like a math problem. “Ah.” I thought about trying to fake my way through the conversation, then decided that (1) it wouldn’t work, and (2) I would likely learn more by admitting my complete ignorance.

“Skyler,” I said, “here’s the thing. I’m thinking about getting my fiancé”—I pointed at my engagement ring—“a sculpture for a wedding present, and I know nothing about the sculpting process. Do you have time to give me a quick crash course?”