“Good thing. I don't like hot weather.”

“Mmmm,”

“Maybe if I had an air conditioner.”

“Always heard you don't need air-conditioning in Pennsylvania.”

“That's true. Fresh air's always the best. The first killing frost always hits near Halloween.”

That was enough weather-channel chatter for me. “Lillie, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

She took another long swig of her Coke. “It's something you done said to me on Sunday. I wanted to ask you if… like… you know…” Her voice trailed away, and she began to shred a Kleenex into little bits of confetti.

“Please, Lillie. Just ask me. I don't have all day.”

“It's what you said about Kayla's dad.”

Who's Kayla? “I'm sorry, Lillie, but could you give me a little hint? I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Kayla,” she said, nodding at the little girl on the floor. “You said I could track her dad down with dee and ay. Can you tell me how to go about it?”

“Sure. It's a DNA test, just the letters DNA. A lab can compare people's blood samples to prove paternity.” She looked blank, so I added, “Prove who the dad is. I believe they can even do it with swabs from the inside of the mouth. Do you want to find Kayla's dad?”

Lillie's ponytail bounced as she vehemently shook her head. “If he don't want to be her dad, then I don't want him nowhere near us. We're getting along just fine without him.”

“Then why did you want to know about DNA testing?”

“When you was talking to me the other day, it got me thinking. Do you know if they can test a guy's DNA after he's dead?”

“Of course,” I said. “If they can get a tissue sample. Why do you ask?”

She patted her skinny midsection. “Because Mack promised me that this kid would have everything it deserved, and I want to make damn sure it gets it.”

“You're pregnant! By Mack Macmillan?”

She smiled and nodded. “Mack never had no kids with his other wives. He was real excited about the baby. Wanted us to be a real family.”

“Did he tell you he had cancer?”

Her eyes opened wide with surprise. “Mack didn't have cancer. He would of told me.”

“He knew, Lillie.”

“If he'd known, he would of made a will and put me and the baby in it. He said he'd take care of us, no matter what.”

I must have been exhausted because suddenly a vision flashed through my brain of me sitting in an attorney's office preparing for my own death. And to my neighbor Murray Rosenbaum. I leave my aspidistra. I shook the crazy idea away; I don't even know what an aspidistra is. I just like the sound of the word.

“You probably should call your lawyer,” I suggested.

“Yeah, right. People like me don't have lawyers.”

I tore a page from my notebook, wrote down Buchanan McCleary's name. Not only was he the borough solicitor, but he had his own private practice and loved to champion the underdog. They'd be a match made in heaven, of that I was sure.

As I crossed the room I reached down and gently touched Kayla on the shoulder. The child looked up and smiled at me. I gave her a thumbs-up sign that caused her to giggle. “Have you sought out any help for her?” I asked Lillie as she held the door open for me.

“Like what? I don't have no money for fancy doctoring.”

I sighed. This was what happened when children had children. “Try Easter Seal,” I suggested.

“Mack's wife volunteers there, teaching sign language, and I sure don't want to bump into her.”

When I was back on the street, the cold wind rushing down from the mountains felt good to me after the cloying atmosphere of the small apartment. I buttoned my sweater and wondered if this was the start of that “killing frost” Lillie had mentioned.

At least now I understood why Lillie had told me Mack Macmillan was going to marry her. Quite possibly, she was right. As I got into my car, it occurred to me to wonder why a man would commit suicide when he was excitedly expecting his first child. Sure, he'd been told he only had about ten years left, but from my thirty-something viewpoint, ten years was a long time, especially for a man who was already in his seventies. He'd told Lillie he'd take care of her and the child-did that mean he'd changed his will in their favor? I decided the person to ask was Buchanan McCleary.

I drove the couple of blocks to his office in the old Pizza Hut building the borough council had bought to use as a town hall annex. Buchanan had told me it was a real bargain because it shared a parking lot and snow removal costs with the Church of God. That church, located in what used to be a service station, had a new sign up: NO JESUS, NO PEACE. KNOW JESUS, KNOW PEACE. How easy life must be for the faithful, I thought. There certainly wasn't much peace in my life these days.

Perhaps it was my overactive imagination, but I was positive I smelled garlic as I entered through the glass door that faced the parking lot. Buchanan, six foot eight if you counted his seventies Afro, came around the desk to give me a hug and a peck on the cheek.

“Ugh!” he said, straightening up and rubbing his back. “Wish you'd grow about eight inches.”

“I will if you'll agree to shrink by the same amount.”

A grin crossed his dark, handsome face. “How about a cup of Darjeeling?” He'd once told me tea drinking was a habit he'd picked up when he was a Rhodes scholar in England.

“I'd love some.”

While he busied himself at the hot plate in the corner, I wondered how his relationship with Garnet's sister, Greta, was going. They were both aging hippie activists who espoused many causes, such as the rain forests, the whales, dolphins, the Bay, and recycling. If I'd ever met two people who were destined to be soul mates, they were Buchanan and Greta.

Buchanan was reputed to be the best lawyer in the tri-state area, and his private practice was quite lucrative. I often wondered why he worked for the borough council as a part-time attorney, but then I realized, that Buchanan, with his penchant for good deeds, probably thought of the work he did for the borough as his charitable contribution to Lickin Creek. He came back carrying two blue-and-white Spode mugs full of fragrant hot tea. He'd remembered I like mine with milk and sugar.

“What do you hear from Garnet?” he asked, taking his seat behind the giant library table that served as his desk.

“He called Wednesday.”

“Will he be coming home before he leaves for Costa Rica?”

I had no idea. “Of course,” I said.

“Damn shame about that young man getting himself killed. Luscious told me it looks like he was responsible for the recent rash of button-and-bullet robberies. Sounds like someone he double-crossed got revenge. No honor among thieves.”

“What do you mean by ‘buttons and bullets’?”

“That's what we call most of the Civil War collections around here. Most contain a lot of objects, but none are particularly valuable.”

“But there were some really important artifacts stolen from the Gettysburg museum, weren't there? Did everything turn up in the barn?”

Buchanan shook his head. “Not everything. The two rangers who were at the barn all morning stopped by the police station an hour ago to tell Luscious the rarest items are still missing.”

“Anything in particular?”

“General Meade's sword, for one, and some battle flags. They left some photos to help Luscious identify them if they should turn up. Luscious came by to use my scanner to make some copies.” He pulled three pieces of paper out of his in-box and handed them to me. “This is the clearest. You can easily read the letters and numbers on the banners.”

I studied the photos. Two showed the banners. The third was of the sword, and something about it bothered me, but I didn't know why.

Putting the pictures to one side, Buchanan leaned back, cocked his head, and looked quizzically at me. “May I ask why you have honored me with this visit?”