It certainly did. “So I was wondering. If Cade doesn’t deal with sculpture at all, how did you know that Gallery 45.3 was the go-to place for information on Conti?”

“Because Sterling and Ainsley Ellison’s son works there and he’s bound to know about Conti. They have one of the biggest private art collections in the Midwest.”

“Are you talking about Skyler?” I asked, not quite remembering the name of the tall, ponytailed, green-shoe-wearing man.

“No idea,” Barb said. “But the Ellisons are big names in the art world. They have a couple of Cade’s early works.”

Ellison. That was it. “Lots of money, then?”

“Buckets of it. From oil, I think. Or was it natural gas? Although, come to think of it, it’s been a while since I’ve heard anything about them. They’re, oh, at least twenty years older than us. Maybe thirty. They could have passed. I’m sure you could look them up online, if you want to know more.”

Maybe, but probably not. “Thanks, I just—Hey! No, not you, Barb. The cat.”

Because Eddie had jumped from his seat to the kitchen island, where he knew he wasn’t supposed to be, and was sauntering across the length of it. I reached forward to give him a gentle shove. He evaded me by the simple technique of jumping. He landed on top of the mail pile, where he looked over his shoulder and saw that I was still reaching for him.

“Mrr!” he said, and made an annoyed leap to the floor, scattering mail every which way.

I sighed and said to Barb, “And now he’s managed to make a mess.”

She laughed. “He seems to have a gift for that, doesn’t he?”

After we’d vowed to get together for lunch soon, we hung up and I crouched down to clean up after Eddie. “Why was it,” I asked of him, because he was now back on Rafe’s stool, “that you suddenly needed to walk across the island? I mean, honestly, what was the point if all you were going to do was go right back to . . . huh.”

I was looking at an advertisement flyer in my hand, one of those big full-color postcards from a real estate agent that extolled what a good time it was to buy lakefront property. “Huh,” I said again, looking at the photos of a few choice houses for sale. “Pug and Sylvia didn’t have any children. I wonder who would inherit the cottage if they were both gone.”

Was it possible that Pug was killed for the sake of the property? Could Sylvia also be in danger?

“Mrr!”

“It’s a possibility,” I told him.

Eddie gave one more loud “Mrr!” then jumped to the floor and ran through the dining room and living room and up the stairs.

I ignored my cat, murmuring, “It’s a definite possibility.”