The spectators burst into applause and began to sing along with the band, “Oh we'll rally ’round the flag, boys, we'll rally once again…” I was thoroughly pleased with the way the reenactment had gone, especially after the annoying delay. I couldn't resist nudging Cassie and saying, “Didn't I tell you it was going to be great? Lickin Creek's going to be talking about this for a long time.”

The woman in black rose to her feet and faced us angrily. “Shut up, you idiots,” she yelled. She reached her arms out toward the crowd, and something dark dripped from her outstretched hands. “Didn't you hear me? The man is dead. He's really dead!”

CHAPTER 3

The sun was just appearing over the tops of the trees lining the banks of the creek, and although it was not quite eight, it was obvious that today was going to be another scorcher. I met no one as I hiked up the hill toward the imposing building housing the administrative offices of the Lickin Creek College for Women. But this wasn't surprising since I knew the enrollment was fewer than two hundred students, most of whom I assumed were still in bed- where I wished I were.

On the footbridge over the Lickin Creek, I paused for a moment to catch my breath. Wishing I'd worn sneakers instead of my unsubstantial Italian sandals and something cooler than my dark blue dress, I rested my elbows on the rail and watched a pair of ducks floating on the sparkling water a few feet below me. I was to meet with the police, the president of the college, the president of the borough council, and who knew who else, to discuss yesterday's tragedy. The prospect made me more than a little nervous.

Although I had the urge to linger, I knew I was only delaying the inevitable. I had to make my appearance and face the music. My attempt to get some good PR for the Chronicle had turned into the worst disaster in Lickin Creek history. As the lone outsider involved, I was pretty sure I knew where the blame would be laid. After taking a deep breath, I continued my march up the hill.

The yellow police tape enclosing the grassy lawn didn't stop me for a minute. I ducked under it and kept going. A man in the gray uniform of the campus security force yelled at me, but I acted as if I didn't hear him. After the hike I'd just taken, I wasn't about to risk any more blisters by detouring around to the back of the building. I shuddered as I skirted the shallow grave, six feet long and three feet wide, for it brought back in vivid detail the ghastly events of yesterday afternoon. I paused once more to let my pulse rate subside, and while I waited for the pounding in my chest to stop, I feigned interest in the tall white building, complete with turrets, gingerbread trim, and a mansard roof and vowed, once again, to start a diet and maybe even an exercise program on Monday.

To get into the building, I had to push my way through a mob of television reporters. On the porch, a woman I recognized from one of the Harrisburg TV stations was speaking to a video camera. She looked hopefully at me as I climbed the steps, but I shook my head and pulled open the massive oak door.

Since no one was expected to enter through the front door today, I wasn't surprised to find no one at the reception desk.

“Yoo-hoo,” I called. My voice echoed in the high-ceilinged hall. “Anybody home?”

An enormous black door on my right opened, and a woman's head popped out. “Shhh!” she warned with a frown that caused her half-moon reading glasses to slip off her nose and dangle from a chain around her neck. I recognized her immediately as Helga Van Brackle, the Dean of Student Affairs.

She slipped through the door, letting it close quietly behind her, and said, “Please hold your voice down. We're having a meeting. I assume you know about Saturday's unfortunate incident.”

She obviously didn't remember meeting me. I stuck out my hand and said, “I'm Tori Miracle, the editor of the Chronicle.” I loved the way the title rolled off my lips. “If by ‘unfortunate incident’ you mean Representative Macmillan's being shot to death by a firing squad in front of this building yesterday, I certainly am aware of it. But I think I'd use a stronger phrase than ‘unfortunate incident.’ ”

“Did you say you were from the Chronicle? We have no comment.”

“I'm not here for statements. I'm here to attend the meeting.”

Her eyes widened as it finally dawned on her who I was. She tried to cover up. “Why, Toni, of course. We've been expecting you.”

“It's Tori,” I said.

“Come right in. We're just getting organized. Still waiting for that new police chief to show up.”

Helga patted her short steel-gray hair, plucked an invisible piece of lint from her navy blue suit jacket, replaced her glasses on the bridge of her nose, and opened the door to the meeting room. “Come in,” she said, holding the door open. I stepped inside to a room where some grim-faced individuals sat around an oval table.

“About time,” someone muttered. I glared at him. The meeting was supposed to start at eight, and according to the antique grandfather clock in the corner I was seven minutes early.

“Anybody seen Janet this morning?” a woman asked.

“I did,” a man said. “She was on her way to the basement for coffee.”

“Someone go get her,” Helga Van Brackle snapped.

“I'll go,” I volunteered. I'd already noticed there was no coffeepot in the room, and I figured I could get a cup from wherever Janet was getting hers.

“Better take the elevator,” the man said. “It's faster than the stairs.”

“No it isn't,” the woman contradicted. “Damn thing sticks half the time.”

I left while they argued.

Rising up from the left side of the hallway, near the back, was a circular staircase with a bronze goddess serving as the newel post. Looking up through the hollow center of it, I saw metal rods at each landing, extending across the empty space. When I realized they were braces placed there to keep the staircase from collapsing inward, I decided to use the elevator.

The elevator was a marvel of turn-of-the-century engineering, with a brass grille I had to pull shut by hand. It creaked slowly to the basement, and I stepped into a dim area, nearly conking my head on the overhead tangle of pipes. I spotted a row of snack machines at the end of the long, dark hallway. In front of them was a small round table, and seated at the table was Janet Margolies, along with two other young women. All three looked startled when I appeared out of the shadows.

“Oh my, that dress! I thought you were a ghost!” Janet gasped. They all laughed nervously.

What an odd thing to say, I thought. Did ghosts wear navy blue dresses? Janet introduced me to one of the younger women, a pretty ponytailed brunette who was in her early twenties. “My assistant, Lizzie Bor-den,” Janet said, and looked at me as if eagerly awaiting my reaction to the name.

“Okay,” I said. “I'll play along. What were your parents thinking of?”

Lizzie giggled. “Not that their precious baby daughter Elizabeth would grow up to marry Timothy Borden.”

I shook Lizzie Borden's hand and asked, “What was your maiden name?”

“Swineheart. I think Borden's an improvement, don't you? This is Jennifer, today's receptionist.” She smiled at her younger companion, who grinned back. “You don't need to remember her name-she won't be here tomorrow-too competent-actually knows what she's doing-probably be fired by lunchtime.”

I shook Jennifer's hand, which felt a little peculiar.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “Just finished a sticky bun.”

I knew about sticky buns, a favorite Pennsylvania Dutch treat: yeast dough, slathered with real butter, sprinkled with brown sugar, cinnamon, and nuts, then rolled, sliced, and baked in a mixture of melted butter, brown sugar, and pecans. A sticky bun served warm with the sugar-butter mixture dripping onto your fingers was food fit for the gods. Also, it was guaranteed to go straight from the lips to the hips in a matter of minutes. Yes, I knew all too well about sticky buns.