“If I was certain it was stolen, then yes, I would certainly inform local law enforcement.” Mr. Valera put the books down on the desk and pulled his knit hat from his coat pocket. “But there’s a complication with that determination.”

The tone of his voice had shifted. In one sentence he’d been the kindly, humorous Mr. Valera who liked nothing better than to scratch Eddie’s head; in the next he’d spoken in a way that summoned images of him in a black robe, sitting behind a massive oak desk, hands folded, as he somberly addressed the criminal he was about to sentence.

I shivered, happy that I wasn’t a criminal and even happier that I’d never had cause to appear in front of Judge Valera.

“You mean you’re not sure it’s missing?” Hunter asked the question mildly, but his disbelief wasn’t hidden well.

Mr. Valera smiled. “As I said, there’s a complication. Two, if you want to be accurate.”

“We do,” I said promptly. This earned me a nod of approval from the former judge, which made me more proud of myself than it should have.

He held up the index finger that wasn’t holding a stack of books. “The first complication is this is a family cottage and items wander off from time to time. Though they eventually make their way back home, the simple system I developed of writing down what you take in a notebook dedicated to the purpose isn’t always followed.”

“So annoying.” I rolled my eyes in sympathy but didn’t mention that, if it had been my family cottage, I might not have always remembered to write things down myself.

“Yes, but the more serious complication is . . .” Mr. Valera paused, which wasn’t something I’d ever heard him do. Normally, he spoke in clear and declarative sentences. No hesitations, no word stumbles, no self-corrections. It was something I admired tremendously, and I hoped to be more like him in that regard when I grew up. To have him search for words meant, to me, that the complication that faced him was a big one.

“It’s okay,” I said, and gave him our unofficial motto. “What happens on the bookmobile stays on the bookmobile. Confidentiality is a thing with us.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Valera said to me and Hunter, who’d been nodding agreement. “This is more a personal difficulty than a truly private one.” He suddenly looked sad. “Last fall my sister talked about sending the Conti somewhere to get cleaned.”

I frowned. People did that? What was wrong with a dustcloth? Or a feather duster? Then again, I’d never owned a valuable anything. What I knew about the caretaking of pricey art objects could fit into two words: don’t touch. That anyone would go to the trouble and expense of shipping a sculpture off for cleaning made me wonder how valuable it actually was.