Leaving him to his work, I climbed the basement’s ancient wooden steps, not a single riser the same height as its nearest neighbor, and up in the kitchen saw Eddie curled up on the stool where Rafe usually sat. He briefly opened his eyes before shutting them again. Two seconds later, he was snoring.

“Right,” I said. “Well, now what?”

I didn’t need Eddie, or anyone, to tell me what I needed to do, because that was to find a way to clear Ryan. Since I couldn’t do anything about finding the wallet thief, I needed to work on finding out who killed Pug Mattock.

What I needed was a plan. Step one could be talking to Ryan’s friends, neighbors, and coworkers to help establish an alibi. Detective Inwood and Ash were surely already doing that, but not everyone was comfortable talking to law enforcement, so maybe I’d come up with more information.

I looked at my cat. “What do you think?”

Eddie picked up his head and yawned. I averted my eyes so I didn’t have to see the unsightly roof of his mouth, and my attention was caught by a hand-thrown pitcher Pam Fazio had given us as a housewarming present. Its almost-too-pretty-to-use swirl of green and blue made me, once again, marvel at the skills some people had—

“Conti,” I said out loud. Maybe learning more about the sculptures of Vittorio Conti would help. But I’d already talked to what’s-his-name, Skyler something, at the art gallery. And Barb and Cade said they didn’t know much about Conti. Though they’d been the ones to point me in the direction of Gallery 45.3, so maybe they knew something . . . else.

Sighing, because I was about to start another conversation in which I was going to sound stupid, I pulled out my phone.

“Hey there,” Barb said. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to thank you for sending me to Gallery 45.3. I learned a lot about Vittorio Conti.”

“Well, you’re welcome. But you never said, why were you asking in the first place? Are you thinking about buying one? Because if you are, Cade and I can ask around and find you something cheaper than a gallery price.”

I kept my snort to myself. Barb clearly did not realize that assistant librarians in small towns did not make the sort of money that allowed for the purchase of True Art, even at reduced prices, even if all their student loans were fully paid.

“No,” I said. “Conti’s sculpture came up in . . .” I hunted for a quick reason that was truthful, that would answer Barb’s question, and that wouldn’t give away that I was working on a murder investigation, because she would get worried. “. . . in a conversation on the bookmobile and I got curious.”

“That bookmobile,” Barb said, laughing. “A lot goes on there, doesn’t it?”