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“Repairs are included in the rent.”

“It’s a tip.”

I lifted a hand to stave off the offering.

His forehead creased. “I usually give people tips if they come do work for me. And I buy Girl Scout cookies and Campfire chocolates. You know, for karma.”

And because he had a sweet tooth, if that Mountain Dew was any indication.

He held the twenties out. I waffled, but there didn’t seem to be any strings attached. I vaguely remembered from his lease application that he was divorced and paying child support and alimony, so he’d had to sell his house and move into the apartment. He was probably lonely. I knew the feeling.

“Okay.” I accepted the generous tip, vowing to replenish my GAS envelope. Maybe the ENTERTAINMENT envelope, too, since buying gift boxes of salami had emptied it. “Thank you.”

“Come by any time,” he said as he walked me to the door. “For coffee or pop or Pop-Tarts.”

“Pop-Tarts?”

Hedefinitelyhad a sweet tooth.

“I’m not much of a chef, but I have a Darth Vader toaster.” He pointed to the black-helmeted appliance on the kitchen counter, then shrugged sheepishly. “It was a gift from my kid. We watched all the movies together when he was growing up.”

“That’s sweet.” Since I had an espresso machine with a penis drawn on the side, I couldn’t scoff at other people’s appliances, but I did not commit myself to coming by for Pop-Tarts.

Bolin knocked and stuck his head through the door when I was about to step out. “Ah ha, there you are, Luna.”

“Here I am.” I’d left a sticky note in the office with my location, so it couldn’t have been that hard to find me.

“I have something for you.” Bolin lifted a hand toward the tenant, as if to apologize for stealing me away, but his gaze snagged on the kitchen counter. “Is that aDarth Vadertoaster? I almost bought the Deathstar when I got my own apartment.”

The tenant nodded. “It’s awesome, isn’t it? Do you want a Pop-Tart?”

“Yes.” Bolin bounced by me, pressing something into my hand on the way by.

“What is this?” I whispered after him.

He’d already made it to the kitchen where the tenant had opened a cupboard to pull out a Costco-size box of Pop-Tarts. Boxes of sugary cereal lined the shelf next to it. Duncan, with his smoker for making brisket, was starting to look like more of a catch. Maybe Jasmine was right.

“The item we discussed,” Bolin said.

I turned it over, not sure what to think of it. It was a little brown wood-like stump with a wolf head sticking out of the top. A hook on top implied it was an amulet or pendant to be hung on a chain, but its bulk and heft ensured it would clunk on one’s chest with every step.

“It’s made from PLA and wood dust and cork, one of the material mixes we have at home,” Bolin added in a distracted tone as he examined Darth Vader. He grinned widely when the tenant waved for him to do the honors and push the lever down.

“What’s PLA?” I asked.

“Polylactic acid, a biodegradable thermoplastic polyester plastic material.”

That was a mouthful.

“It looks like a kid’s toy.”

“Press the Celtic rune on the bottom.” Bolin waved for me to do it outside, giving a significant nod toward the tenant.

I stepped out onto the covered walkway and found the rune in the bottom of the stump. Since Bolin had made this, it probably genuinely meant something.

“The only authentic thing here,” I muttered, then rubbed the bottom. The rune wasn’t a button, only an indention in the stump. At my touch, it glowed green. “Well, I guess that’s something.”

Would it fool anyone and prompt whoever had acquired the other artifacts to send their thugs out to get it?