"What about his wife?" Dean asked. "When did she check out?"
"No mention of her yet. But he was a widower when he died." Then he added, with a professional air, "We'll track her down."
"How are you coming on the secret code book?"
"Haven't had much time to work on it."
"If you hadn't gone and taken it to the library with you someone else might have had a shot at playing master-decoder," Dean grumbled. "How about handing it over?"
"Yes, Fred. It's time you gave someone else a chance," Cynthia said with a winning smile that offered him little room to maneuver.
Fred O'Connor reluctantly held out the century-old notebook. As Dean reached for it, Cynthia beat him to it. "Thank you, Fred." She turned, leaving the room, the notebook in hand. "Time to get out of these ski clothes and do some work."
Left with nothing else to do, Dean turned to Gladys Turnbull, more out of inn-keeper politeness than a desire to engage this strange woman in lengthy conversation. "How's your spaced-out heroine doing?" he asked.
"Marvelous, just marvelous!" she explained as her pudgy fingers raced across the computer keyboard. "The aura here is soooo conducive! I've raced through nearly four thousand words just today!"
"That sounds like a lot," he said.
"Oh, not so much. My last book was over two-hundred thousand words!"
"Wow!" Dean said, brilliant conversationalist that he was. "So this isn't your first book?"
"Oh, heavens no! It's my seventh!" Then she added, "The last in the trilogy."
Fred jumped in before Dean could question the math. "I looked for your books in the library, Miss Turnbull, but we couldn't find them."
"Oh, I haven't had any published yet. I'm waiting until I'm finished! It's so exciting writing them, I haven't had time to send them to my publisher." Then she added, "He's anxiously waiting."
Dean decided to leave that statement alone. "Well, good luck."
Just then, the high point of excitement of the late afternoon was orchestrated by Mrs. Lincoln, Dean's cat, who had emigrated with him from Pennsylvania. The independent-if the term isn't redundant- feline trotted into the crowded parlor, a mouse in her mouth, expecting the awe and adulation of the assembled group. Instead, she was greeted by shrieks from Martha and Gladys, causing her to drop the poor creature and flee in terror, stark contrast to her anticipated moment of glory.
Cynthia rushed into the room, the notebook still in hand, and with Martha, hovered over the pending demise of the trembling rodent. Donnie viewed the encounter with mild curiosity while Gladys remained in her chair, pudgy legs elevated, looking totally petrified.