My cat, of course, paid no attention. He was too focused on circling the judge’s pant leg, spreading black and white hairs as he went, purring all the while.

“Sorry,” I murmured, moving to pick Eddie up. “He can be a pest.”

“A cat’s purr can compensate for much.” Mr. Valera gave Eddie another scratch, which made my furry feline purr even louder. “Fare thee well, Eddie. Minnie.” He nodded at Hunter, and when he was gone, my new clerk let out a long breath.

“So that was Mr. Valera. Wow. You weren’t kidding when you said he was a presence.”

I nuzzled the top of Eddie’s head, murmured that he was a horrible cat, and let him ooze himself out of my arms and onto the floor. “He seems really concerned about that sculpture. Wonder if it’s because of sentiment or value.”

“Luckily, we have the rectangle of knowledge with us.” Hunter pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket. “Wonder how you spell that sculptor’s name. C-O-N-T, but then is it an I or an E . . . hang on . . . whoa.”

He blinked. Blinked again.

“What’s the matter?”

He handed me his phone and I felt myself do the double blink thing. “Vittorio Conti,” I said slowly. “One of the most popular modern classic sculptors in the world.” I looked up. “No kidding. Have you ever heard of him?”

“Nope.”

We mulled over our general ignorance of twentieth—and twenty-first—century sculptors the rest of the bookmobile day. My sole contribution was Maya Lin, the architect and sculptor who designed the Washington, DC, Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Hunter added Frederic Remington, painter and sculptor of Western imagery, until we looked him up and found he did most of his work in the late 1800s.

Hunter drooped. “Zero for me.”

“Don’t feel bad. I could only come up with one.”

“Not the point,” Hunter said. “I have lots more testosterone than you do so I feel the need to win.”

I patted him on the shoulder as we finished setting up for our last stop of the day. “Poor thing. Doesn’t that get exhausting? To be in competition all the time?”

“You have no idea,” he said feelingly.

“Mrr!”

“Exactly.” Hunter gave Eddie a nod. “You’re a guy, so you get it, right? It’s not me, it’s the—” He snapped his fingers. “Calder. The guy who did that big reddish orange thing in downtown Grand Rapids.” He tapped quickly on his phone. “Born 1898.”

I beamed. “Nice!”

“What’s nice?” Pug Mattock, one of my favorite seasonal residents, bounded up the bookmobile steps. “You’re not talking about this weather, are you?”