Ray followed Joan Barton out to her father’s home where he did a quick walk-through of the premises, taking care not to disturb anything in the small building’s interior. Then, accompanied by Barton, he checked the shed-like garage and walked around the yard. Although nothing seemed particularly out of place, Ray planned to have Sue Lawrence carefully go through the scene the next morning.

As Ray began to say his goodbyes, Barton asked him to accompany her to a small lake about a mile up the road. She explained that her father’s greatest passion was fishing. Because of its proximity, this lake was a place he visited almost every day, either riding his bike or walking, depending on the conditions. Barton led the way. They parked on the shoulder of the road and Ray followed her down a narrow trail that ended at the shore. Open water extended from the shoreline for several yards to join a thin layer of opaque white ice.

“Dad comes here all year long. He’s on the ice in the winter, and he uses that dinghy the rest of the time.” Barton pointed toward a small, overturned aluminum boat a few yards off the trail, most of it still buried in the snow.

“It’s between seasons,” Ray observed.

“Yes, I’m aware of that. But what if he had a small stroke, or something, and gets a bit dotty? I was just thinking about things that he might do if his rationality was slipping away.” She shivered and pulled at the collar of her coat. “This is one of his favorite places. I thought it might be a place that he would wander off to. I didn’t want to come here alone.”

Ray remained with Barton a full ten minutes, silently gazing out at the frozen lake.

After picking up some groceries, Ray stopped at the local bookseller, a cozy place managed and owned by a British ex-pat. The building, originally a pharmacy, dated from the 1880s or 1890s, and was one of the last original structures in the two-block long commercial district in Cedar Bay. The interior had not been changed much over the years. The maple flooring showed wear from generations of shoppers who had pushed through the heavy front door with its thick, plate glass window. Above, the tin ceiling was mostly intact, only slightly damaged by some less than skillful modifications when electric lights were added in the 20s. Books were displayed on tables appropriate in age and design to the building’s interior and on shelving that covered the walls.

“Nice tan, that,” said Phillip Noble, getting up from his hidey-hole behind an antique display case and counter. “I’ve got the volume of Robinson Jeffers you wanted. I didn’t know anything about him, and your request got me started on some background reading. Interesting man. The things I read off the web suggest that he fell out of favor for his politics. You Yanks don’t seem to like pacifists much.”

“Especially during the run-up to war,” said Ray. “But they probably weren’t too popular in the UK either when the Luftwaffe was making daily visits.”

“Right, but pacifists were tolerated. We’re a small, densely populated island with vastly different political and social views and a whole lot of eccentrics. We probably were forced into tolerance so we could all occupy the same space. In point of fact, I was reading a letter to the editor today in The Record-Eagle. The author, a woman who I would guess to be rather elderly, suggested that people who did not share her views were not real Americans, whatever that is, and she went on to intimate that they were deserving of some major violence. Quite frightening, actually.”

Ray nodded his head. “I worry about another homegrown Tim McVeigh, who might decide to take out the local police agency because in his fantasy world we’re conspiring with the UN and God knows who else to take over the country. There’s a lot of lunacy out there on the Internet and talk radio. But getting back to Robinson Jeffers.”

“Yes, he’s quite good, actually,” said Phillip. “I certainly knew the name, but I have to admit that I was unfamiliar with his work. I started thumbing through your book after it arrived—hope you don’t mind, white gloves on, of course—and it is sort of the prerogative of Ye Old Book Shoppe to understand the literary tastes of our customers. To better serve you, I actually read most of the book. I hope you want me to continue to look for more of his work. I’ve become quite a fan.”

“Sure. Find out what’s out there. Most will be in the used book market. Get some prices and we’ll talk. Right now I need to know about something else, a book by a local author, self published.”

“And the title is?”

“Al Capone’s Michigan: The Secret Lost Treasure by Vinnie Fox.”

“It should be right here with the locals.” Phillip came around the counter to a bookcase in the front corner of the store. “That is, it should be right here if it hasn’t been nicked yet.”

“Nicked?” ask Ray.

“Strangest thing, actually. I seldom lose anything. It’s a small store, and I can see what’s going on. Although, I did have a problem with audio books a few years ago. Far too many left the store without going through the cash register. As soon as I stopped carrying them, the problem went away. But this Capone book is becoming a real nuisance.”

“Tell me about the author, Fox,” said Ray.

“Vinnie comes in every few days, especially during good weather. I don’t see him quite as much in the winter. He is a reader, and he has money to buy books. A very good thing, especially when the tourists aren’t around.”

“And his literary tastes?”

“Quite astounding, actually. He likes action-adventure, the kind of books that usually appeal to adolescent boys—Ivanhoe, Captains Courageous, Two Years Before the Mast. Old stuff, the classics of the genre. He’s also big on Native American history. Deems himself quite an expert on the topic, although I’ve never been able to figure out exactly what his heritage is. A bit vague there.”

“What about his book?”

“Yes, the book. Vinnie came in sometime last fall, asked me if I would stock it.” Phillip paused and made a little pout. “This happens about once a month, sometimes more, and it often involves a regular customer. People who like books seem to want to write at least one during their lifetime.” He sighed. “Puts me in a bit of a tight place, actually. This is a tiny shop. To stay alive I’ve got to be exceedingly careful about what I stock. That said, I don’t want to antagonize valued customers. But most of the self-published stuff doesn’t sell. Some of it’s not that terrible, but there just isn’t a market. I told Vinnie I’d keep two copies on consignment and see if they sold. Much to my surprise they went, so I got two more. Within a fortnight, those were gone, also. Heading into the Christmas season I stocked four copies. Two went through the till, the other two were nicked. Must’ve happened when I had unusually large crowds in the store. I couldn’t believe it. And then Penny from the library comes in—she’s good enough to order most of her books from us—and she told me she’d experienced the same problem. Vinnie gave the library two copies, and they both disappeared.” Phillip pulled a book from a shelf and handed it to Ray.

“Is this the only copy you have?”

“One more behind the counter. Vinnie dropped them off a week ago. I put one out and kept the other back there.”

“Phillip, Vinnie Fox is missing. It’ll be on the eleven o’clock news.”

Phillip’s eyes grew wide. “You don’t think it’s connected to this?”

“I don’t know what to think. We are just beginning to investigate. His daughter told me about the book, and I thought I should look at it. Any idea who might have stolen the books?”

“I have two different sorts of customers,” he sniffed, “the locals who I know by name and see on a regular basis—that includes summer people who return year after year—and the holidaymakers, the tourist trade. Among the locals I know who’s a bit dodgy and needs watching, the others…well.” Phillip turned to gaze out of the front window toward the harbor, then swung back to Ray. “If they had only charged their stolen books with a credit card, I could get their names for you.” He chuckled at his joke.