“Tori, I heard you're scheduled to have surgery Friday morning. Is there anything I can do?”

The Grapevine had been working overtime. Rumors flew at lightning speed in Lickin Creek, but this was amazing. I only learned yesterday I was to have a biopsy done on Friday morning, and Ethelind was the only person I had told about it.

“Who told you?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I don't really remember. I think it was someone at the grocery store last night. Is it very serious?”

I shook my head. “Just a simple outpatient procedure. I'll probably be here by ten to help you proof the paper.”

“The Creekers are playing Chocolatetown tonight. If you like, I'll cover it.”

“I'd appreciate that.” Cassie knew how I felt about high school sports. She also knew I never got the names right.

The phone rang, and Cassie answered, listened for a moment, then gestured for me to pick up the extension on my desk.

I immediately recognized the voice of Luscious Miller, Garnet's temporary replacement. I couldn't bring myself to even consider that he might become the permanent Lickin Creek police chief.

“What's up?” I asked.

“Big robbery, Tori.”

In Lickin Creek? What's there to steal? I picked up my pencil. “Tell me about it.”

“Someone broke into the volunteer fire department's headquarters last night.”

“And?”

“And stole their trumpet collection.”

I put my pencil down. “Could you explain to me why a fire department would have a trumpet collection? Do they have a jazz band or something?”

His exasperation was audible. “Not that kind of trumpet. These were antiques-fire chiefs’ trumpets, like megaphones. In the old days the chiefs used them to give their men orders at fires. The chief says they are irreplaceable. And very valuable. He gave me some photos of the collection. Maybe if you'uns ran a couple in the paper, somebody in a pawn shop would recognize them.”

“Good idea, Luscious. I'll drop by and pick them up this afternoon.”

“Major crime wave, Cassie,” I said after hanging up. “The fire department's trumpet collection was stolen.”

“No need to be sarcastic, Tori. I've seen the collection. It's priceless.”

“I stand corrected. Guess I'd better get going if I want some free pizza.”

“See you later.” She didn't look up.

Reluctantly, I put my blazer back on and went outside. Lickin Creek's Main Street sparkled today. The bright autumn sunshine cast a soft golden glow over the charming Early Victorian pastel brick buildings with white gingerbread trim. If you didn't look too closely, you wouldn't notice the flaking paint or realize that at least half the stores were empty and most of the others sold used books or secondhand furniture. At the Pizza Joint, Marvin Bumbaugh was impatiently waiting for me. I snapped two pictures of him outside the shop, holding an enormous pair of ceremonial scissors that didn't work, and one of him cutting the red, white, and green ribbon with his pocket knife. After that the entire crowd of six spectators and I entered the shop for free pizza.

Still savoring the flavor of pepperoni, I walked to the next block, where several dozen preteens were waving their pro-life signs in front of the parochial school. Once I'd taken a couple of pictures and written down all their names, they went inside, leaving me on the street with nowhere to go until time for the ice-cream social.

I didn't feel like returning to the office, since there really was nothing for me to do there. And I'd had so much pizza at the Pizza Joint's grand opening, I couldn't even go to lunch. Then I thought of the Lickin Creek Public Library, always dark and cool, and always a good place to kill some time, especially on a hot day like this. I was particularly fond of Maggie Roy, the overworked but always pleasant librarian. Since my best friend Alice-Ann MacKinstrie had gone to Seattle to stay with her mother after the tragedy at the Apple Butter Festival, Maggie had become my closest friend in town.

I climbed the granite steps of the library building. Carved in stone above the double doors were the words POST OFFICE. Maggie once told me the building had been purchased by the Friends of the Library in the early 1950s, when the post office moved to newer and more efficient, but less interesting quarters. While it might have been an adequate size back then, it was now bulging at the seams, and there was no relief in sight. As is so often the case, whenever the borough council or the county commission needed to save money, they cut the library budget.

Maggie was standing on a stool arranging objects in a glass wall case when I walked in. I greeted her and she smiled and jumped down.

I recognized some of the things in the display case as daguerreotypes, but the cases weren't the usual leather and metal ones I was used to seeing. “What kind of display are you making?” I asked.

“It's a collection of jewelry and daguerreotype cases made of gutta-percha,” Maggie told me. “From the collection of Gerald Manley.” When I looked blank, she continued. “He's the borough's unofficial historian. I'm going to put up a display of Civil War books to go with it.”

“I hate to sound stupid, but I guess I am when it comes to Civil War collectibles. What is gutta-percha?”

“It's a compound that's a lot like rubber but with more resin in it, made from some sort of Malaysian tree, I think. The Victorians were very fond of it.” She held up a gray hexagonal bracelet set with seed pearls so I could admire it, then slipped it on her wrist. “This is my favorite. It fits really well. I do wish Manley would sell it to me.” She took it off and reluctantly placed it on the bottom shelf. “Manley tells me the daguerreotype cases are very popular with collectors, especially if they have pictures of uniformed soldiers in them like these. By the way, your book went out twice last month. Have you had lunch?” She looked disappointed when I said I had.

“In that case I guess I'll eat my nonfat yogurt. Want to watch?”

After she locked the case, I followed her through the door that said STAFF ONLY into the small, cluttered workshop she liked to call her office. She removed a cup of strawberry yogurt from the tiny refrigerator, and we moved aside some plastic book covers and sat down facing each other across the paper cutter.

“I don't understand it,” she moaned, opening the cup. “I eat like a bird and can't lose a pound. Want some homemade cookies? They're really good-one of the staff brought them in.”

“No thanks,” I said, then noticed they were peanut butter cookies.

“How's your fiance?” I asked. He'd been in a bad accident last month when his van went off the Deer Tick Ridge Road.

“He's fine. Back at work already. How's your arm?”

I rubbed it where the break had been. The soft cast was off now. “Neatly healed. Aches a little when it's damp out.”

“My grandmother gave me a recipe for a poultice that really helps with arth-ur-itis.”

“My doctor gave me a prescription for an anti-inflammatory. And I don't have arthritis.” I changed the subject to something that had been on my mind since yesterday afternoon's visit to the Hostettler farm. “Do you have any books or magazines about carousels?”

“You mean like merry-go-rounds? Probably.” She looked ruefully at her half-empty yogurt cup.

“I'll check the catalog while you finish lunch,” I said, to her obvious relief.

“If you find something, bring it back here,” she called as I left the room.

I thumbed through the card catalog, glad that the library was too underfunded to afford computer cataloging. There's something about reading the cards that I like.

In about ten minutes, I was back in Maggie's office with a small pile of books, which I spread out on the worktable. While she finished the last of the peanut butter cookies, I flipped through the pages of one.