With his attention devoted to the application of icing to the first of the ten cakes, he said, "I myself find that baking calms the mind and allows for contemplation."

"So you made the cakes, not just the icing?"

"That is correct. This is my best recipe… orange-and-almond cake with dark-chocolate frosting."

"Sounds delicious. So to date, how many people have you killed with it?"

"I long ago lost count, Mr. Thomas. But they all died happy."

Sister Regina Marie brought a glass of Coca-Cola for me, and I thanked her, and she said she had added two drops of vanilla to the Coke because she knew I preferred it that way.

When the sister departed, Romanovich said, "You are universally liked."

"No, not really, sir. They're nuns. They have to be nice to everyone."

Romanovich's brow seemed to include a hydraulic mechanism that allowed it to beetle farther over his deep-set eyes when his mood darkened. "I am usually suspicious of people who are universally liked."

"In addition to being an imposing figure," I said, "you're surprisingly solemn for a Hoosier."

"I am a Russian by birth. We are sometimes a solemn people."

"I keep forgetting your Russian background. You've lost so much of your accent, people might think you're Jamaican."

"You may be surprised that I have never been mistaken for one."

He finished frosting the first cake, slid it aside, and pulled another pan in front of him.

I said, "You do know what a Hoosier is, don't you?"

"A Hoosier is a person who is a native of or an inhabitant of the state of Indiana."

"I'll bet the definition reads that way word for word in the dictionary."

He said nothing. He just frosted.

"Since you're a native Russian and not currently an inhabitant of Indiana, you're not at the moment really a Hoosier."

"I am an expatriate Hoosier, Mr. Thomas. When in time I return to Indianapolis, I will once more be a full and complete Hoosier."

"Once a Hoosier, always a Hoosier."

"That is correct."

The pickle had a nice crunch. I wondered if Romanovich had added a few drops of anything lethal to the brine in the pickle jar. Well, too late. I took another bite of the dill.

" Indianapolis," I said, "has a robust public library system."

"Yes, it does."

"As well as eight universities or colleges with libraries of their own."

Without looking up from the cake, he said, "You are in your stocking feet, Mr. Thomas."

"The better to sneak up on people. With all those libraries, there must be a lot of jobs for librarians in Indianapolis."

"The competition for our services is positively cut-throat. If you wear zippered rubber boots and enter by the mud room at the back of the convent, off the kitchen, you make less mess for the sisters."

"I was mortified at the mess I made, sir. I'm afraid I didn't have the foresight to bring a pair of zippered rubber boots."

"How peculiar. You strike me as a young man who is usually prepared for anything."

"Not really, sir. Mostly I make it up as I go along. So at which of those many Indianapolis libraries do you work?"

"The Indiana State Library opposite the Capitol, at one-forty North Senate Avenue. The facility houses over thirty-four thousand volumes about Indiana or by Indiana writers. The library and the genealogy department are open Monday through Friday, eight o'clock until four-thirty, eight-thirty until four on Saturday. Closed Sunday, as well as state and federal holidays. Tours are available by appointment."

"That's exactly right, sir."

"Of course."

"The third Saturday in May," I said, "at the Shelby County Fairgrounds-I think that's the most exciting time of the year in Indianapolis. Don't you agree, sir?"

"No, I do not agree. The third Saturday in May is the Shelby County Blue River Dulcimer Festival. If you think local and national dulcimer players giving concerts and workshops is exciting, instead of merely charming, then you are an even more peculiar young man than I have heretofore thought."

I shut up for a while and finished my sandwich.

As I was licking my fingers, Rodion Romanovich said, "You do know what a dulcimer is, do you not, Mr. Thomas?"

"A dulcimer," I said, "is a trapezoidal zither with metal strings that are struck with light hammers."

He seemed amused, in spite of his dour expression. "I will wager the definition reads that way word for word in the dictionary."

I said nothing, just licked the rest of my fingers.

"Mr. Thomas, did you know that in an experiment with a human observer, subatomic particles behave differently from the way they behave when the experiment is unobserved while in progress and the results are examined, instead, only after the fact?"

"Sure. Everybody knows that."

He raised one bushy eyebrow. "Everybody, you say. Well, then you realize what this signifies."

I said, "At least on a subatomic level, human will can in part shape reality."

Romanovich gave me a look that I would have liked to capture in a snapshot.

I said, "But what does any of this have to do with cake?"

"Quantum theory tells us, Mr. Thomas, that every point in the universe is intimately connected to every other point, regardless of apparent distance. In some mysterious way, any point on a planet in a distant galaxy is as close to me as you are."

"No offense, but I don't really feel that close to you, sir."

"This means that information or objects, or even people, should be able to move instantly between here and New York City, or indeed between here and that planet in another galaxy."

"What about between here and Indianapolis?"

"That, too."

"Wow."

"We just do not yet understand the quantum structure of reality sufficiently to achieve such miracles."

"Most of us can't figure how to program a video recorder, so we probably have a long way to go on this here-to-another-galaxy thing."

He finished frosting the second cake. "Quantum theory gives us reason to believe that on a deep structural level, every point in the universe is in some ineffable way the same point. You have a smear of mayonnaise at the corner of your mouth."

I found it with a finger, licked the finger. "Thank you, sir."

"The interconnectedness of every point in the universe is so complete that if an enormous flock of birds bursts into flight from a marsh in Spain, the disturbance of the air caused by their wings will contribute to weather changes in Los Angeles. And, yes, Mr. Thomas, in Indianapolis, as well."

With a sigh, I said, "I still can't figure out what this has to do with cake."

"Nor can I," said Romanovich. "It has to do not with cake but with you and me."

I puzzled over that statement. When I met his utterly unreadable eyes, I felt as if they were taking me apart on a subatomic level.

Concerned that something was smeared at the other corner of my mouth, I wiped with a finger, found neither mayonnaise nor mustard.

"Well," I said, "I'm stumped again."

"Did God bring you here, Mr. Thomas?"

I shrugged. "He didn't stop me from coming."

"I believe God brought me here," Romanovich said. "Whether God brought you here or not is of profound interest to me."

"I'm pretty sure it wasn't Satan who brought me here," I assured him. "The guy who drove me was an old friend, and he doesn't have horns."

I got off the stool, reached past the cake pans, and picked up the book that he had taken from the library.

"This isn't about poisons and famous poisoners," I said.

The true title of the book did not reassure me-The Blade of the Assassin: The Role of Daggers, Dirks, and Stilettos in the Deaths of Kings and Clergymen.

"I have a wide-ranging interest in history," said Romanovich.

The color of the binding cloth appeared to be identical to that of the book that he had been holding in the library. I had no doubt this was the same volume.