“I don't understand it,” she moaned, opening the cup. “I eat like a bird and can't lose a pound. Want some homemade cookies? They're really good-one of the staff brought them in.”
“No thanks,” I said, then noticed they were peanut butter cookies.
“How's your fiance?” I asked. He'd been in a bad accident last month when his van went off the Deer Tick Ridge Road.
“He's fine. Back at work already. How's your arm?”
I rubbed it where the break had been. The soft cast was off now. “Neatly healed. Aches a little when it's damp out.”
“My grandmother gave me a recipe for a poultice that really helps with arth-ur-itis.”
“My doctor gave me a prescription for an anti-inflammatory. And I don't have arthritis.” I changed the subject to something that had been on my mind since yesterday afternoon's visit to the Hostettler farm. “Do you have any books or magazines about carousels?”
“You mean like merry-go-rounds? Probably.” She looked ruefully at her half-empty yogurt cup.
“I'll check the catalog while you finish lunch,” I said, to her obvious relief.
“If you find something, bring it back here,” she called as I left the room.
I thumbed through the card catalog, glad that the library was too underfunded to afford computer cataloging. There's something about reading the cards that I like.
In about ten minutes, I was back in Maggie's office with a small pile of books, which I spread out on the worktable. While she finished the last of the peanut butter cookies, I flipped through the pages of one.
“Look at these pictures,” I raved. “I had no idea carousel animals were such works of art. There's all different kinds. Standers, prancers, jumpers…”
Maggie leaned over, but didn't touch the book for fear of getting grease on it. “And menagerie figures- look at that sea horse. Isn't it beautiful.”
“Hippocampus,” I corrected her, thinking of the one I'd ridden yesterday.
I turned some pages in a magazine devoted to carousel horses, while she looked on. “Amazing! Will you just look at some of the prices people are paying.” Maggie pointed at a picture. “It says this carousel sold for one million dollars in 1989.”
“How about this, Maggie? Here's a single horse made by Marcus Illions that someone paid forty thousand for.” Thinking of all that money made us both sigh.
“Have you ever ridden one, Tori?”
I almost blurted out Darious's secret, but remembered just in time I'd promised not to tell anyone. “Only a small reproduction one at the mall.”
“Why the sudden interest in merry-go-rounds?”
“No particular reason. I think I must have seen a picture from the wire service that made me wonder about them.”
“There are two really gorgeous old ones at Knoebel's Groves Amusement Resort near ShamoKin. You ought to get Garnet to drive you down there someday. Oops! Sorry. I forgot he's gone.”
I nodded. “He'll stay in D.C. for a few weeks while he brushes up on his Spanish at the Foreign Service Institute, so I'll probably get to see him on weekends for a while. I've got to get back to work, Maggie. Do you want me to reshelve these books?”
She shook her head. “That's a job best left to the professionals.”
I couldn't tell whether or not she was pulling my leg.
Maggie walked with me to the front door, and there I noticed a piece of paper had been taped to the glass announcing that the start of the sign language classes taught by Charlotte Macmillan had been postponed for a week.
“Sign language is something I always thought I'd like to try,” I said. “Is Mrs. Macmillan good at it?”
“My, yes. Charlotte taught signing before her marriage.”
“I thought she was a horse trainer.”
“That, too. She met her husband when he came to her to learn how to sign after he suddenly lost his hearing.”
“She's a lot younger than Mack. I wonder what she saw in him?”
“Who knows what attracts one person to another. Maybe Charlotte had a thing for powerful men. He was still in Congress when they met.
“Give some thought to signing up for our classes, Tori. They're free.”
We hugged good-bye, and I walked down the street to cover the Sigafoos Retirement Home's ice-cream social and craft sale to raise money for a senior citizens’ center.
I bought a crocheted doily, snapped a few pictures, wrote the subjects’ names down in my notebook, and headed to the One-Hour Photo Shop, where I dropped off my roll of film. According to a long-standing agreement, the owner would drop the prints off at the Chronicle office on his way home.
By now, I really wished I had my car, but I only had a couple of more stops to make, so I pushed on. When I appeared at Hoopengartner's Garage on foot, I was subjected to curious stares by the locals who hung out in front of the station.
“Fill ya up?” one wag asked.
“Very funny,” I muttered and continued inside. With tongue firmly clenched between her teeth, the teenage receptionist du jour was concentrating on applying black fingernail polish and barely glanced up. “He's in,” she muttered.
The Lickin Creek Police Department rented the back room of Henry Hoopengartner's garage. Since the garage offered round-the-clock towing service, there was always someone there to answer the phone, which saved the borough council the money it otherwise would have spent on a dispatcher.
Luscious Miller, red-faced and distracted-looking as usual, was sitting at the back desk where Garnet usually sat, but he leaped to his feet when he saw me enter. He had three thin strands of blond hair carefully combed over his forehead to hide his receding hair line, and the blue and white uniform of the Lickin Creek Police Department made his long, lanky body look like a scarecrow.
“Tori. Good to see you. Please sit down.” He politely pulled out a chair that looked like something the Goodwill had rejected.
“Soda?”
“No thanks, Luscious. I've got a lot to do,” I fibbed, “so I can't stay long. I'll just take the pictures of the stolen trumpet collection and be on my way.”
Luscious opened a manila envelope and let some photos spill onto the desk's plastic laminate top. I picked out two that showed the most detail.
“Are these things really worth money?” I asked him.
“Chief Yoder says there's collectors of fire department memorabilia who'd pay lots of money for them.”
“Some of them actually are attractive,” I admitted. “This one's really quite ornate.”
“Chief Yoder says the bigger the chief, the fancier his horn.”
I stifled a giggle when I realized Luscious had spoken seriously.
I put the pictures inside my notebook and dropped it into my purse. “Okay, Luscious, I'll see that at least one of these gets into the paper. Maybe some pawnbroker will recognize them.”
“More likely an antique dealer,” Luscious said. “I guess you know there's been a lot of old stuff stolen in this area lately.”
“I haven't paid much attention.”
“Over to Gettysburg, the park people found big holes where robbers been digging up shallow graves on the battlefield. And last year some things went missing from the museum.”
“Would they be valuable?”
“Good Lord, yes. The thief even took General Meade's sword.”
“But that doesn't make sense. What antique dealer would buy something that recognizable?”
“No reputable antique dealer would. But there's private collectors who'll pay big bucks to own a piece of history.”
“Thanks for the information. I'll check it out. Maybe there's a story in it somewhere. By the way, Luscious, I have the names of some people who work at the Penn National race track.” I opened my purse and pulled out my notebook. “Mrs. Macmillan says they can verify that she was there all night Friday and most of the day on Saturday. You might want to check them out, just to be on the safe side.”