He asked the clerks a simple question, and they all dashed away at once in several directions — one to the card catalogue, one to the local-history shelf, and two to the computer. The answer from all sources was negative. He thanked them and headed for the chief librarian's office on the balcony.

Carrying his lumberjack mackinaw and woodsman's hat, Qwilleran bounded up the stairs three at a time, thinking pleasant thoughts. Polly Duncan was a charming though enigmatic woman, and she had a speaking voice that he found both soothing and stimulating.

She looked up from her desk and gave him a cordial but businesslike smile. "What a pleasant surprise, Qwill! What urgent mission brings you up here in such a hurry?"

"I came chiefly to hear your mellifluous voice," he said, turning on a little charm himself. And then he quoted one of his favorite lines from Shakespeare. “Her voice was ever soft, gentle and low — an excellent thing in woman."

"That's from King Lear, act five, scene three," she replied promptly.

"Polly, your memory is incredible!" he said. "/ am amazed and know not what to say."

"That's Hernia’s line in act three, scene two, of A Midsummer Night's Dream... Don't look so surprised, Qwill. I told you my father was a Shakespeare scholar. We children knew the plays as well as our peers knew the big-league batting averages... Did you go to the funeral this morning?"

"I observed from the park, and it gave me an idea. According to the phalanx of eager assistants downstairs, no one has ever written a history of the Picayune. I’d like to try it. How much is there to work with?"

"Let me think... You could start with the Goodwinters in our genealogical collection."

"Do you have back copies of the newspaper?"

"Only for the last twenty years. Prior to that, everything was destroyed by mice or burst steam pipes or mismanagement. But I'm sure the Picayune office has a complete file."

"Is there anyone I could interview? Anyone who would remember back sixty or seventy-five years?"

"You might check with the Old Timers Club. They're all over eighty. Euphonia Gage is the president."

"Is that the woman who drives a Mercedes and blows the horn a lot?"

"A succinct description! Senior Goodwinter was her son-in-law, and since she has a reputation for brutal candor, she might supply some choice information."

"Polly, you're a gem! By the way, are you free for dinner tonight? Mrs. Cobb is preparing a repast that's too good for a lonely bachelor. I thought you might consent to share it."

"Delighted! I must not stay too late, but I hope there will be time for reading aloud after dinner. You have a marvelous voice, Qwill."

"Thank you." He preened his moustache with pleasure. "I'll go home and gargle."

Turning to leave, he glanced across the balcony to the reading room. "Who's that man over there — with a pile of books on the table?"

"A historian from Down Below, doing research on early mining operations. He asked if I could recommend any good restaurants, and I suggested Stephanie's and the Old Stone Mill. Do you have any other ideas?"

"I think I do," said Qwilleran. He clapped his hat on his head at a wild angle and clomped around the balcony in his yellow duck boots, stopping at the table where the stranger was seated.

In a parody of a friendly north-country native he said, "Howdy! Lady over yonder says yer lookin' fer a place to chow down. Fer a real good feed y'oughta try Otto's Tasty Eats. All y'can eat fer fi' bucks. How long y'gonna be aroun'?”

"Until I finish my work," the historian said crisply, bending over his book.

"If y'wanna shot-na-beer y'oughta try the Hotel Booze. Good burgers, too."

"Thank you," the man said in a tone of dismissal.

"I see y'be readin' 'bout them ol' mines. M'grampaw got killed in a cave-in back in 1913. I weren't born yit. Seen any ol' mines?"

"No," the man said, snapping his book shut and pushing his chair back.

"Nearest hereabouts be the Dimsdale. They got a diner there. Good place t'git a plate o' beans 'n' franks."

Clutching his black raincoat, the stranger walked rapidly to the stairway.

Pleased with the man's exasperation and his own performance, Qwilleran straightened his hat, bundled up in his mackinaw, and went on his way. He knew by the man's obvious lack of interest that he was not what he claimed to be.

At 5:30 Herb Hackpole arrived to pick up his dinner partner, parking in the side drive and tooting the horn. Mrs. Cobb scurried out the back door as excited as a young girl on her first date.

At 5:45 Qwilleran fed the cats. Pork liver cupcakes, when thawed, became a revolting gray mush, but the Siamese crouched over the plate and devoured the chefs innovation with tails flat on the floor, denoting total satisfaction. At 6:00 Polly Duncan arrived — on foot — having left her small six-year-old maroon car behind the library. If it were seen in the circular driveway of the K mansion, the gossips of Pickax would have a field day. Everyone knew what everyone else drove — make, model, year, and color.

Polly was not as young and slender as the career women he had dated Down Below, but she was an interesting woman with a voice that sometimes made his head spin, and she looked like a comfortable armful, although he had not tested his theory. The librarian maintained a certain reserve, despite her show of friendliness, and she always insisted on going home early.

He greeted her at the front door, a masterpiece of carving and polished brass. "Where's the snow they promised?" he asked.

"Every day in November WPKX predicts snow as a matter of policy," she said, "and sooner or later they're right... This house never fails to overwhelm me!"

She was gazing in wonder at the foyer's amber leather walls and grand staircase, extravagantly wide and elaborately balustered. The dazzling chandelier was Baccarat crystal. The rugs were Anatolian antiques. "This house doesn't belong in Pickax; it belongs in Paris. It amazes me that the Klingenschoens owned such treasures and no one knew about it."

"It was the Klingenschoens' revenge — for not being accepted socially." Qwilleran escorted her to the rear of the house. "We're having dinner in the library, but Mrs. Cobb wants me to show you her mobile herb garden in the solarium."

The stone-floored room had large glass areas, a forest of ancient rubber plants, and some wicker chairs for summer lounging; the winter addition was a wrought-iron cart with eight clay pots labeled mint, dill, thyme, basil, and the like.

"It can be wheeled around during the day to get the best sunlight," he explained. "That is-if WPKX allows us to have any."

Polly nodded approval. "Herbs like sun but not too much heat. Where did Mrs. Cobb find this clever contraption?"

"She designed it, and a friend of hers made it in his welding shop. Perhaps you know Hackpole, the used-car dealer."

"Yes, his garage has just winterized my car. How do you like your new front-wheel drive, Qwill?"

"I'll know better when snow flies." In the library the lamps were lighted, logs were blazing in the fireplace, and the table was laid with a dazzling display of porcelain, crystal, and silver. The four walls of books were accented by marble busts of Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare.

"Did the Klingenschoens read these books?" Polly asked.

"I think they were primarily for show, except for a few racy novels from the 1920s. In the attic I found boxes of paperback mysteries and romances."

"At least someone was reading. There is still hope for the printed word." She handed him a book with worn and faded cover. "Here's something that might interest you — Picturesque Pickax, published by the Boosters Club before World War One. On the page with the bookmark there's a picture of the Picayune building with employees standing on the sidewalk."