I could see her shaking, but she regained her composure for long enough to say, “I'm so sorry, Mr. Manley. In all the years I've had displays in the library, nothing like this has ever happened.”

“How did the thief get in?” I asked Luscious.

“Through a window in the rear of the building,” Maggie moaned. “Nobody would see him. There's nothing back there but the parking lot and the playground of the Third Street Elementary School. Both are empty at night.”

Manley turned a furious face to Maggie. “Don't you check the windows and doors before you lock up at night?”

“I usually… I think I did… I don't remember…”

“Does the library have insurance to cover losses like this?” I asked her.

She nodded, but Manley jumped in before she could answer. “Those daguerreotype cases are priceless. One of a kind. Collected over a period of forty years. There's no way I can replace them.”

Maggie collapsed into a maple chair, put her head down on the table, and cried so hard I feared she'd shake something loose. I patted her shoulder in an awkward attempt to comfort her.

“Do you have any photos of the display?” Luscious asked.

“Yes,” Maggie gurgled. “Top desk drawer.”

In Maggie's office, where three distressed-looking staff members were huddled, I found the pictures and brought them back. While Gerald Manley explained to Luscious exactly why his gutta-percha daguerreotypes were so valuable, I took a few pictures of the empty, shattered display case.

“May I take one of the pictures of the collection with me for the paper?” I asked Luscious. He handed me the stack, and I selected one that showed a close-up view of a southern soldier in his gray uniform.

“Daguerreotypes of uniformed soldiers are the rarest,” Manley said. “Especially one that shows a Reb.”

“I'll run these pictures around to some pawnshops,” Luscious said.

“They'll never turn up in a pawnshop,” Manley told him. “Whoever took them already had a buyer lined up.”

Luscious accompanied me out the front door. “I didn't want to say anything in there,” he said, “but I had a call this morning about another robbery.”

“My God,” I exclaimed. “What's happening to this town? We might as well be in New York. What else was stolen?”

“Some things from the Lickin Creek Archeological Society's collection.”

“I didn't even know Lickin Creek had an archeological society. Does it have a museum?”

“Not yet, but they're working on it. Right now, they got all their discoveries on the second floor of a barn out at Snider's farm. A team of amateur archeologists went there yesterday afternoon to put away some things they'd just dug out of a privy at the Coffman farm, and that's when they discovered some of the boxes were gone.”

“What was missing?”

“They don't exactly know. Seems they got an inventory, but nobody kept a list of what was in what box.”

“Let me guess. They also don't know when the boxes were taken. Am I right?”

Luscious nodded. “Sometime in the last two weeks is the best they can say.”

Gerald Manley stuck his head out the door and yelled something unpleasant at Luscious. “Gotta go,” Luscious said, and reentered the building.

I paused for a moment on the library steps and looked down at the quaint, peaceful square, where the little mermaid poured water into the fountain. The old cannon, aimed at the cars coming down Main Street, had recently been polished and looked better than new. And the Garden Society had decorated the small lawn area around the base of the fountain with pumpkins and alternating pots of rust-colored and gold chrysanthemums. Only a few vehicles passed by as I stood there. Once rush hour was over and all the Lickin Creekers had driven through the borough to get to their destinations, there was not much reason for people to come downtown anymore. Where once there had been thriving department stores, dime stores, drugstores, and dress shops, there were now only dark, empty windows. Lickin Creek was peaceful, that was true, but it was a peace gained from the flight of local businesses to the mall or their closures last year after a huge discount store had arisen overnight on the edge of town.

Under Lickin Creek's placid public face, something sinister was happening. First, Mack Macmillan's bizarre shooting death, followed by Dr. Washabaugh's murder. And now this series of strange thefts: the fire department's antique trumpet collection, Manley's gutta-percha collection, and the robbery of the barn where the Archeological Society kept its collection. Putting these calamities together with the robbery from the Gettysburg park service's collection, it looked like someone who was very knowledgeable about the value of certain types of Civil War relics was methodically targeting local antique collectors.

I went back to the Chronicle, where I began to write an article about the two recent burglaries. I was nearly finished when the phone rang.

“More cancellations?” I asked Cassie as she gestured for me to pick up my extension.

“Nope. It's that strange lady from Gettysburg.”

“Moonbeam,” I said into the receiver. “Is anything wrong?”

“Not at all. In fact the news is great. Dad's doing so well, he may be out of the hospital by the end of this week.”

“Super! I'm delighted.”

“Tori, I told him you saved his life, and he's anxious to thank you. Can you come today? He's allowed to have visitors between two and four.”

“I'll be there,” I promised. To keep myself awake until then, I threw myself into the task of changing the farmers’ advice column from Lickin Creek lingo to English.

“Is you'uns singular or plural?” I asked.

“Usually plural, but it is often incorrectly applied to a single person.” That rasping voice certainly didn't come from Cassie. I looked up, startled, to find Helga Van Brackle standing in the doorway, holding a small cardboard box.

“Come in,” I said. Where the heck was Cassie? My unspoken question was answered when the rest room door opened.

“Please sit down.” I moved a pile of books from the guest chair.

Helga frowned and sat on the edge as if she feared something would rub off on her tailored black suit. She placed the box on my desk. “Home-made sticky buns,” she said. “My thanks for your part in finding Mack's killer.” She opened her purse and pulled out an envelope. “This check is from the college-a small thank-you.”

“I already told Doctor Godlove I wouldn't accept a check. If you insist, I'll donate it to the Salvation Army in the name of the Chronicle.”

She dropped it on top of the box of sticky buns. “I really don't care what you do with it, Tori. I'm only the messenger. I'm afraid we've had a few more difficulties, and I'm here on behalf of the college to ask for your participation in another event.”

I sat back as if confronted by a cobra. “The last time I participated in an event at the college, it turned out to be a disaster, Helga, as you well know. I don't want to get involved with anything there, again, ever.”

She waited without saying anything, and after a minute my curiosity got the better of me. “What kind of difficulties?”

“As I'm sure you know, this is the week we hold our annual fund-raising tour. It begins on Tuesday night and runs through Saturday.”

“I didn't know.”

“Silly me, I forgot you're not local.” She gave a little deprecating laugh, which made me want to slug her.

Cassie piped in with an explanation. “People pay five dollars to have students dressed in costume take them through the oldest buildings on campus and tell them ghost stories. It's all done by candlelight and very spooky. It's an ‘old’ tradition that started about ten years ago. I think the college is trying to capitalize on the popular ghost tours of Gettysburg.”

Helga took exception to that last statement. “Our campus has been haunted as long as the battlefield. We just haven't made a big deal out of it.”