“Dumbest thing we’ve ever done,” said the silver-haired Mr. Valera, who’d suddenly appeared at the open door. “Of course, it was my father and his siblings, not us, who started this ridiculous method, but you’d have thought we’d have the sense to come up with a new plan in the thirty years we’ve been in charge. Ah, well. Perhaps our offspring will find a way.”

He spoke with a smile, which softened his words significantly, and I got the sneaking suspicion that he actually enjoyed the family wrangling required for every decision. And perhaps, witnessing it as a child between the elders in his family, it had directed him into law and a judgeship.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Minnie? Can I assume this is your intended?”

The men shook hands, and I said, “Sorry to drop in unannounced, but we were wondering about your Conti sculpture.”

One of his eyebrows went up ever so slightly. “Oh?”

“It’s just . . . I mean . . .” I sighed. “It’s kind of a long story.”

Mr. Valera glanced at Rafe, then back at me. “You do realize that I’m retired and have all the time in the world. Come on in.”

In short order, Rafe and I were in a living room whose walls were crowded with artwork, sitting next to a fieldstone fireplace, side by side on an upholstered rattan love seat. Mr. Valera was across from us in a Morris chair, its green leather cracked with age and wear. We’d accepted his offer of sodas, and my glass of root beer was almost gone by the time I stopped talking.

Mr. Valera, his elbows on the wide wooden chair arms, tented his fingers and looked at the air just above my head. “To summarize,” he said, “you believe that Ian Breece was selling a Conti sculpture to Pug Mattock. Mattock was shot and killed. The whereabouts of the Conti is unknown.”

I nodded and he went on.

“This brings up numerous questions,” Mr. Valera mused. “Where is that Conti? Did Mr. Breece own one? Was it a scam? Or did Mr. Breece steal ours?”

“And that’s why we’re here. Have you found out if your sister sent it away to get cleaned?”

He shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. Marguerite has improved, but the stroke’s impacts were severe. She will likely never recover completely.”

Except for the ticking of a distant clock, the room was quiet.

So many things could go wrong with the human body. So many of them could now be cured, but there were still a host of conditions and diseases that might flatten any of us at any time. I reached for Rafe’s hand and grabbed on tight.

“Well.” Mr. Valera slapped the arms of his chair and stood. “Tell you what. I was about to leave for the nursing home to see Marguerite. You two come along. Some days are better than others. Perhaps the stimulation of new visitors will help and we’ll learn once and for all what happened to that wretched sculpture.”