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had the bag with him. Then, for the first time, I saw Stavros interested in something other than his bag.
    He was sitting with his head bent over the map, studying it intently. He had taken out a pencil and was making marks on the map. A shiver chased up my backbone and my ears tingled. Was he looking for the town, or the place, or the building he wanted to bomb? The monument? Could there possibly be a secret nuclear test site out here? I pulled out the map, unfolded it, and ran my finger along the route we would take. I think it had been specially printed for Star Tours; it showed all the places we’d stop and the scenic routes we’d travel to get there. Yellowstone; Old Faithful; Cody, where we’d be going to the rodeo; Mount Rushmore.
    When I looked again at Stavros he’d folded the map and poked it into the mesh pocket in front of him.
    Somewhere on the bus a phone rang.
    I craned my neck to look ahead. Millie was talking into her cell, nodding her head. I saw her slide the phone into her red carry-on. Even from where we sat, she seemed pleased. She looked around, then stood and came to talk to us.
    â€œThat’s that!” she said. Her face was pink, not red and angry the way it had been when she talked to Charles Stavros in Jackson. “The Times picture is waiting for us at the Old Faithful Inn.” Her voice purred with satisfaction. “I’m almost sure I’m right about…” She twitched her head toward Charles Stavros’s seat. “I wish now I’d told Paulie to send the clipping to the Jackson Lake Lodge instead. I can’t wait for the confrontation.”
    â€œShe’s not ‘only kidding,’ either,” Geneva whispered as Millie swayed her way back to her seat. “She can’t wait. But you don’t think she would actually confront him, do you? I mean, if he is what we thinkhe is, that could be really dangerous.”
    â€œI think she’ll show us first. We’ll vote for going to the cops.”
    â€œOr not,” Geneva said. “If he turns out to be okay.”
    â€œMeantime…,” I said, and I began to carefully tear a page from my mystery notebook. I hate tearing pages out of notebooks. It defaces them. “Deface” is a very good word and means “to spoil the appearance of.” As in, “Boys! You must not deface the walls in the boys’ bathroom.”
    I opened the English-Greek dictionary and spread it across my knees.
    Geneva peered at the open dictionary pages. “Are you starting now on the famous plan?” she asked. “Ack! I see what you mean about the words. How does anyone talk this stuff?”
    â€œI guess it’s easy if you’re Greek,” I said.
    â€œWell, what are you going to do?”
    It wasn’t easy to write this stuff, either. If you weren’t Greek.
    Carefully I copied the word for “Dear” onto thetorn-out notebook page, then added, “Mr. Stavros.”
    â€œAre you going to tell me what you’re doing?” Geneva asked.
    I was remembering advice from my how-to-write-a-mystery book.
    One of the rules: “In a mystery, the protagonist is seeking the truth, trying to find it, directly or indirectly. This is his job.”
    This was my job.
    I began searching, searching for words, copying them carefully. There were all kinds of squiggles, which I knew must be important.
    â€œYou’re writing him a letter ? That’s your plan? That’s nuts!” Geneva took off her rodeo cap and scratched her head. “This itches me,” she complained.
    The letter was short: “Dear Mr. Stavros. What is in the bag?”
    Geneva leaned across me. “Okay, what does it say?”
    I translated.
    She thumped her fists on her knees. “Bingo,” shewhispered. “That is so bingo! And so not nuts.”
    I searched again for a new word and added “Sincerely” and my name.
    â€œIf he can read it, then