“We can probably get Shomin’s to deliver,” I called after him. But I hadn’t called very loudly, because I was mostly thinking about what I’d just said. That you can never have too many friends. Which made me wonder how many friends Ryan had. What we’d found so far was acquaintances, but not any deep friendships. A small town, with its established and entrenched relationships, could be a tough place to make new friends. Who did Ryan talk to? Did he have anyone? And if he didn’t have anyone to turn to, where was he hiding?

*   *   *

Dinner that night was a quick meal of Rafe-cooked hamburgers on the griddle I’d bought him for Christmas and a salad tossed together mostly by the grocery store.

“What’s on your agenda tonight?” he asked.

“The weather’s so nice I was thinking about a bike ride. Want to come?” Late that afternoon, a light wind had swept away the low, gray cloud cover, bringing us a temperature of nearly fifty degrees and revealing a deep blue sky that held a promise of good weather for weeks and months. It was a lie, of course. Early April was no time to put away the snow shovels and haul out the garden hoses, but there was every reason to take advantage of the evening.

Rafe, who had been about to eat a final bite of hamburger, put it down. “Somewhere in there I heard an ulterior motive. Have you heard something about Ryan?”

“No.” The man was getting so good at reading me it was a little scary. “This isn’t about Ryan at all. More about Pug. And Sylvia.”

“Minnie.” The hamburger stayed on the plate, a sure indication that the perennially hungry Rafe was being flat-out serious. “Pug was murdered. The idea of you poking around into how he died is not a comforting one.”

Put that way, it didn’t make me feel all that good, either. “All I want to do is take a look at Pug and Sylvia’s house. To follow up on my theory that maybe Pug saw something or someone that he shouldn’t have. Maybe that’ll help me remember something he said, that day he was on the bookmobile.”

Rafe looked only partly convinced, so I went on. “And what could be more innocent-looking than a young couple out on their bicycles? Way more innocent than one person, right?”

And so, half an hour later, with the dishes done, bicycles hauled out of the back of the garage and their tires pumped, the two of us were tootling along the lakeshore road that led to the Mattocks’ house, enjoying the scents and sounds of early spring.

“Watch that—”

With an “Ooff!” I hit the pothole that Rafe had tried to warn me about. My bike’s frame shuddered under the impact and so did I, from teeth to toes. I braked to a stop.