I thanked her and carried the bulky package to my car. The package was so plastered over with clear tape that I couldn’t make any headway. I’d have to wait and open it later to see what he’d shipped to himself months before he died. I sat for a while. No point in consigning Felix’s death to an index card. I wasn’t sure what time he’d died or what the attending physician had listed as the cause of death. I didn’t even know how old he was. All I knew for a certainty was he’d never get his braces off and that seemed too sad for words. I turned the key in the ignition and headed toward the bike shop at the foot of State Street. I turned into a side street just shy of the intersection and found a parking place. I locked my car and walked around the corner to the bicycle-rental shop.

The weekend art show was in progress: paintings, ceramics, and assorted crafts displayed in a line of booths laid out alongside the walk. Some vendors had erected lightweight tents to display homemade articles of clothing, wind chimes, lawn ornaments, jewelry, and whirligigs. Given that it was Sunday afternoon and the sun was out, the beach beyond was littered with people—screaming children, joggers with dogs, and prone lasses who’d loosened the tops of their bikinis to avoid the tan lines. The restaurants along the boulevard had flung their doors open, and those establishments with outside seating were filled to capacity.

The bicycle-rental shop was doing a lively business as well, especially with their pedal surreys, which were always popular with kids. I went in. In addition to bike rentals, the shop sold surfboards, bathing suits, T-shirts, shorts, ball caps, sunglasses, sunscreen, and accessories. I looked for someone in charge and settled on a fellow in his sixties who stood at the cash register, ringing up a sale. His Hawaiian shirt was one of those with washed-out colors, shades of pale blue with a design of palm fronds picked out in white. He was balding and wore a pair of reading glasses on top of his head. He sported a wedding ring and a wristwatch that looked sturdy enough to flush down a toilet without losing time.

I moved to the counter and waited my turn. When he’d finished with the customer, he looked at me expectantly.

I held out my hand. “Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “Are you the owner?”

My introducing myself put me in a category with traveling salesmen and promoters hoping to post a flyer, advertising a little theater production no one wanted to attend.

After a slight hesitation, he shook my hand. “I own the place, yes. Last name’s Puckett. What can I do for you?”

“I’m a friend of the young man who got beat up out front.”