I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She didn't appear to be malicious, only a woman who enjoyed being in a position where she had confidential information that nobody else knew.

I retrieved Mack Macmillan's test results from her. It was from the Gettysburg hospital, and just as the coroner's report had said, Mack Macmillan had prostate cancer.

“I guess he didn't know he had cancer, if this has come in since his death,” I said.

“He knew. This was a follow-up test. The results came in the same day as yours.”

“Was he going to have surgery?”

Vesta blew her nose as she shook her head. “The urologist Dr. Washabaugh sent him to doesn't recommend surgery for men over seventy. He said it was a slow-growing type of cancer and Mack could live ten years or more if something else didn't kill him first.”

“I imagine he was glad to hear there was no immediate danger,” I said, thinking of my own relief.

“Not really. He didn't handle it real good. Even cried. Practically had to be carried out of here. Kept saying there had to be a mistake. That's why Dr. Washabaugh ordered the second set of⊙ tests.

CHAPTER 16

IT HAS BEEN SAID REPEATEDLY BY TOURISTS DRIVING past Lickin Creek on the Interstate that one can smell the grease from Lickin Creek's dozens of fast-food restaurants for miles before the town is visible. To celebrate my good news, I stopped at one of the eateries that Lickin Creek is so well known for and purchased dinner: two hamburgers, a double order of fries, a fried apple pie, and a Diet Coke, which I ate in the car while watching the ducks from the Lickin Creek comb the parking lot for crumbs.

Back in Moon Lake, the cleaning crew had finished its work. Ethelind wasn't happy with the lingering smell of smoke, but they had assured her it would dissipate if she left all the windows open. Neither was she happy with the repairs made to her parlor floor, since the carpenters had used a wood that didn't exactly match the existing hundred-year-old planks, and she wasn't happy with me, either, on general principles. The cats took refuge under the bed in my room while I changed clothes. Although I wasn't exactly thrilled with what I had to do tonight, it was a lot better than staying home with my infuriated landlady.

When I entered the kitchen, Ethelind turned her scowl on me, stared for a moment, then burst into gales of laughter. She clutched at her chest and collapsed into a chair, straining to catch her breath. “Oh, my, Tori. I've seen you wear some god-awful outfits, but that one takes the cake!”

I stared down at the voluminous blue skirt that lay in ripples on the floor around my feet. “I didn't have time to shorten it.”

Ethelind stopped laughing long enough to say, “Please tell me that isn't the latest thing in cocktail gowns from Barney's.” Impressed with her own wit, she blew her nose into a paper napkin and laughed some more.

“I'm a nun,” I explained.

“A bloody Flying Nun, I'd say.”

I adjusted the enormous wings of my starched white cornette. “A Sister of Charity,” I said with great dignity. “You can call me Sister Camilla O'Neil. I died of blood poisoning while tending the wounded at the Lickin Creek College for Women during the Civil War.” A brief biographical sketch had been enclosed with the costume, with a note telling me how to act and what I should say whenever someone entered the attic.

With yards of navy blue cotton bunched up on my lap, I drove to the college, thinking that it was all worthwhile if my costume had brought the smile back to Ethelind's face. At the college, I was directed to a parking place behind the administration building. Thankful I wouldn't have to hike up the hill from the visitors’ lot, I got out, shook the wrinkles out of my habit, and entered the building through the back door. A group consisting of nuns, Union and Confederate soldiers, and college girls in long gowns was gathered at the foot of the stairs, listening to Helga Van Brackle give directions.

“You're late,” she said to me.

“Only a little,” I said with a smile, determined to show everyone she didn't intimidate me one bit.

“I'll get to you in a minute, Tori. Please be patient while I tell the girls what to do.” Even though she spoke to me as if I were a freshman, I kept smiling. One of the gowned students winked and handed me a program, and I read The Lickin Creek College for Women presents the Annual Harvest Time Legends Tour featuring Tori Miracle as the Nun in the Attic.

“Excuse me,” I said. “What's this ‘featuring Tori Miracle’ business?”

Helga simpered as the girls giggled. “You're our Celebrity Ghost this year. I thought you knew that.”

“I didn't expect this,” I said gruffly, but way down under my habit I was tickled with the attention. Maybe I wasn't a big name in the literary world, but at least I was recognized in south-central Pennsylvania.

The girls were to be the guides and ticket takers, I learned. They represented the six original students who had been brave enough to seek out higher education equal to that offered to men. A man in a black suit played the part of the Presbyterian minister who had founded the college in 1860. Another man in black, with a stovepipe hat and a beard, was obviously portraying Abraham Lincoln. Keeping a low voice, I asked one of the guides, “What's he doing here? I never heard anything about President Lincoln coming to Lickin Creek.”

Unfortunately the acoustics in the hall were very good, and Helga threw me a dirty look. “If he hadn't died at such an inopportune time, I'm sure he would have visited our town when the war was over.”

Helga handed each of us a flashlight, a supply of candles and matches, and a small lantern. “Make sure all the lights are off in your area, then assume your assigned positions. The first guests should be coming through in about ten minutes, so please have your lantern lit with the chimney on. And keep your eye on them. We don't want a repeat of last year's near-tragic accident. Repairs to the second-floor carpet took all our profits. And don't use your flashlights unless it's absolutely necessary.”

The other nuns flocked to the staircase, and I started to follow them, but Helga put her arm on mine and stopped me. “Yo u ’re the attic nun, Tori. You can take the elevator up.”

“Why do I have to sit all alone in the attic?” I grumbled to the pretty girl in a powder blue silk gown who pushed the elevator button.

“That's where they always put the Celebrity Ghost. Guess they figure nobody would climb all the way up there unless there was someone worth seeing.” She chewed a fingernail for a second or two and looked nervously at me a couple of times. Finally, she asked, “Just what are you famous for, anyway?”

“I wrote a book.”

“Oh. Why haven't I ever heard of it?”

I wanted to shout, because you're an ill-educated slob with no literary taste whatsoever, but deep down inside I knew it would have been unusual if she had read my poor little novel. Last I heard, it had been spotted on a remainder table at Barnes & Noble; maybe somebody would pick it up there.

She pulled the grate open. “I'll get off here,” she said. “I'm going to be on the third floor. I'm the beautiful virgin who committed suicide when my lover deserted me. According to legend, I still wait for him at my bedroom window.”

“During the war?”

“No. It happened before that, when this building was still a private home. Better go up and find your spot,” she said. “We've only got four minutes till lights out.” She waved as I closed the elevator door.

I went up to the floor where the PR department had its offices. There were a few other offices there too, mostly empty, since no one wanted to be stuck in the unpleasant attic. But there was one, I recalled, that had been given to Mack Macmillan when he became chairman of the board of trustees. It had not yet been reassigned, and I wondered if it had been thoroughly searched. As I passed by, I tried the door and found it locked.