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Marianne, she’s just as proud as punch of that little book of hers. Imagine, her being a published author! I swear, knowing you had the book and were giving it a last look, that’s the only thing that’s made these few days bearable for her, because what with her eye problems, there’s no way she could read it herself. She’s so excited to see her book in print, she can’t wait to get through the surgery and get the manuscript to her publisher.”
    “Well, that’s just it, Alvin, see—”
    “That’s the only thing that kept me from telling her, of course.” Alvin’s expression fell like the soufflé I’d once been foolish enough to try and serve at a dinner party back in New York. “I mean, about the computer.”
    My stomach swooped. “Computer?”
    We were the only ones in the library: one small room with a children’s section along the windows to my right and the rest of the books—fiction and nonfiction—in two rows of shelves on my left. Still, Alvin leaned closer and lowered his voice as if, even though she was all the way across the lake and in Cleveland, Marianne might catch wind of our conversation.
    “Crashed,” he said.
    My swooping stomach froze somewhere right between where it was supposed to be and my heart. I pressed a fist to the painful lump. “You’re not talking about Marianne’s computer?”
    He nodded. “Last night. I came back from Cleveland to wrap up some work today and collect these things for her and I promised her I’d be back at the hospital this evening. She said as long as I was coming home . . . she said she knew it was silly of her to be nervous, that it was foolish and superstitious . . . but she asked if I’d please make a backup of her manuscript. And then—”
    “No backup?” The words were sand in my mouth.
    “I can’t worry her. Not before the surgery. I’ll tell her once it’s all over and she’s on the road to recovering. For now, it’s our little secret, Bea.” He emphasized this with a wink. “But you know . . .” Alvin’s smile blossomed. “I guess as it turns out, with everything that’s happened, Marianne will be really grateful. She’ll see how lucky it was that she gave you a copy of that manuscript of hers! Otherwise, it would be completely lost!” He slipped the box of chocolates in a plastic grocery bag along with the other things he’d collected. “So, what was it you wanted me to tell her?” Alvin asked.
    My smile wasn’t nearly as bright as his. Or as genuine. In fact, it was so wide and so stiff, the corners of my mouth hurt. “I just had a couple questions. About the manuscript. Tell her not to worry. In fact, don’t tell her anything at all. Whatever I have to ask her, it can wait until she’s feeling better again.”
    “Thanks, Bea. You’re a lifesaver.” Alvin slipped out from behind the desk and headed for the door. “If it wasn’t for the fact that you have the only copy of that book of hers . . . Well, I don’t even want to think how poor Marianne would be feeling right about now.”
    *   *   *
    By six that evening, I had a roaring fire going in the parlor and I’d taken it upon myself to restack (alphabet be damned!) the ghost getters’ equipment out in the hallway to get it out of the way. The painters and plasterers, wood finishers and roofers who’d refurbished the house the year before and returned it to its full Victorian glory had left tarps neatly stacked in the basement, and I’d retrieved them and lined the floor near the table I’d set within arm’s reach of the fire. I adjusted the screen on my laptop until it was just right, took a deep breath, and reached down to the floor near my feet and the white kitchen garbage bag where, the day before, Luella had tossed Marianne’s manuscript. Thank goodness it wasn’t garbage day or I would have already thrown out the bag! I undid the twist tie and held my breath, but of course, that plan was doomed right from the start. The