Maybe a business trip, Quinn mused as she let herself into her room.

Well, if Red Bag I Want for My Very Own stayed more than a few hours, Quinn would find out just who and what and why. It was, after all, what she was best at.

Quinn packed up her laptop, added a spare notebook and extra pencils in case she got lucky. Digging out her phone, she set it on vibrate. Little was more annoying, to her mind, than ringing cell phones in libraries and theaters.

She slipped a county map into her case in the event she decided to explore.

Armed, she headed down for the drive to the other end of town and the Hawkins Hollow Library.

From her own research, Quinn knew that the original stone building tucked on Main Street now housed the community center, and the gym she intended to make use of. At the turn of the current century the new library had been built on a pretty rise of land on the south end of town. It, too, was stone, though Quinn was pretty sure it was the facing used on concrete and such rather than quarried. It was two levels with short wings on either side and a portico-style entrance. The style, she thought, was attractively old-fashioned. One, she guessed, the local historic society had likely fought a war to win.

She admired the benches, and the trees she imagined made shady reading nooks in season as she pulled up to park in the side lot.

It smelled like a library, she thought. Of books and a little dust, of silence.

She saw a brightly lettered sign announcing a Story Hour in the Children's section at ten thirty.

She wound her way through. Computers, long tables, carts, a few people wandering the stacks, a couple of old men paging through newspapers. She heard the softhum-chuck of a copier and the muted ringing of a phone from the Information Desk.

Reminding herself to focus because if she wandered she'd be entranced by the spell she believed all libraries wove, she aimed straight for Information. And in the hushed tone reserved for libraries and churches, addressed the stringy man on duty. "Good morning, I'm looking for books on local history."

"That would be on the second floor, west wing. Steps over to the left, elevator straight back. Anything in particular you're after?"

"Thanks, but I'm just going to poke. Is Mrs. Abbott in today?"

"Mrs. Abbott is retired, but she's in most every day by eleven. In a volunteer capacity."

"Thanks again."

Quinn used the stairs. They had a nice curve to them, she thought, almost aGone With the Wind sort of swish. She put on mental blinders so as not to be tempted by stacks and reading areas until she found herself in Local Interest.

It was more a room-a mini-library-than a section. Nice cozy chairs, tables, amber-shaded lamps, even footrests. And it was larger than she'd expected.

Then again, she should have accounted for the fact that there had been battles fought in and around the Hollow in both the Revolutionary and Civil Wars.

Books pertaining to those were arranged in separate areas, as were books on the county, the state, and the town.

In addition there was a very healthy section for local authors.

She tried that section first and saw she'd hit a treasure trove. There had to be more than a dozen she hadn't come across on her own hunt before coming to town. They were self-published, vanity-pressed, small local publishers.

Titles likeNightmare Hollow andThe Hollow, The Truth had her giddy with anticipation. She set up her laptop, her notebook, her recorder, then pulled out five books. It was then she noticed the discreet bronze plaque.

The Hawkins Hollow Library gratefully acknowledges the generosity of the Franklin and Maybelle Hawkins Family

Franklin and Maybelle. Very probably Cal's ancestors. It struck Quinn as both suitable and generous that they would have donated the funds to sponsor this room. This particular room.

She settled at the table, chose one of the books at random, then began to read.

She'd covered pages of her notebook with names, locations, dates, reputed incidents, and any number of theories when she scented lavender and baby powder.

Surfacing, she saw a trim and tidy old woman standing in black, sensible shoes with her hands folded neatly at the waist of her purple suit.

Her hair was a thinning snowball; her clear framed glasses so thickly lensed Quinn wondered how the tiny nose and ears supported their weight.

She wore pearls around her neck, a gold wedding band on her finger, and a leather-banded watch with a huge face that looked to be as practical as her thick-soled shoes.

"I'm Estelle Abbott," she said in her creaky voice. "Young Dennis said you asked after me."

As Quinn had gauged Dennis at Information as tumbling down the back end of his sixties, she imagined the woman who termed him young must have him by a good two decades.

"Yes." Quinn got to her feet, crossed over to offer her hand. "I'm Quinn Black, Mrs. Abbott. I'm-"

"Yes, I know. The writer. I've enjoyed your books."

"Thank you very much."

"No need. If I hadn't liked them I'd've told you straight-out. You're researching for a book on the Hollow."

"Yes, ma'am, I am."

"You'll find quite a bit of information here. Some of it useful." She peered at the books on the table. "Some of it nonsense."

"Then in the interest of separating the wheat from the chaff, maybe you could find some time to talk to me at some point. I'd be happy to take you to lunch or dinner whenever you-"

"That's very nice of you, but unnecessary. Why don't we sit down for a while, and we'll see how things go?"

"That would be great."

Estelle crossed to a chair, sat, then with her back ruler-straight and her knees glued together, folded her hands in her lap. "I was born in the Hollow," she began, "lived here all of my ninety-seven years."

"Ninety-seven?" Quinn didn't have to feign the surprise. "I'm usually pretty good at gauging age, and I'd put you a solid decade under that."

"Good bones," Estelle said with an easy smile. "I lost my husband, John, also born and raised here, eight years back come the fifth of next month. We were married seventy-one years."

"What was your secret?"

That brought on another smile. "Learn to laugh, otherwise, you'll beat them to death with a hammer first chance."

"Just let me write that down."

"We had six children-four boys, two girls-and all of them living still and not in jail, thank the Lord. Out of them, we had ourselves nineteen grandchildren, and out of them got ourselves twenty-eight greats-last count, and five of the next generation with two on the way."

Quinn simply goggled. "Christmas must be insane in a good way."