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“That’s very interesting,” he said. “But certainly not conclusive.”

“Can’t someone, I don’t know, do an analysis—not of the handwriting, but of the words themselves—to see if the writing from this cookbook is the same as in Stormy? Surely there are patterns that are unique to a writer.”

“I’ve heard of that,” Miles said. “But it’s a pretty specialized field. It also might be more difficult in this instance because the cookbook is prose and written in a different style than the fiction in Stormy. But I know someone who works with rare books that I could ask. She’s an old classmate of mine from my library sciences program, only she went on to get a specialized degree.”

“That would be great,” Cam said.

“Look, you can’t tell anyone that I’m helping you on this,” Miles said, his voice barely a whisper.

“Why the heck not, Miles? Don’t you want to right what might be a grievous injustice in literary history?” Cam could sense that she was talking to a guy who loved books more than anything. Appealing to his bibliophilic soul would surely work, right?

“That sounds like a dream come true, but it could put me in a very delicate position,” he said, glancing around them again. “See, Roxy is on the library board, and I’m in the middle of applying for the position of permanent head librarian.”

“I thought you were head librarian,” Cam said.

“Just interim,” he said, looking embarrassed. “And if she even hears one word about this, she will hit the roof, and the promotion will probably go to Fred at the desk, who also applied. And he’s not qualified.” Miles sounded indignant. “His idea of literature is John Grisham. I mean, Grisham is an excellent storyteller and you can’t argue with his popularity, but Fred just doesn’t understand the subtleties of theme and—”

“Miles,” Cam said, trying to snap the interim head librarian back to the business at hand.

“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head as if to clear it. “One thing you could do is look at the original Stormy manuscript and see if it tells you anything.”

“The original manuscript survived?” Cam said excitedly.

“It’s in the archives at the University of Virginia,” he said. “In their Special Collections.” He said the words in a reverent tone, as if he was a devotee talking about a sacred temple. “But you could just go to Merriweather House. They’ve got a reproduction copy there,” he said. “I wanted to get one for the library, too, but it was really expensive, a custom order, and the budget here is always tight. Better to spend more on the popular stuff or more copies of Stormy that kids can actually check out and read. A manuscript copy is a little niche. Maybe next year.” He looked wistful.

“Brilliant!” Cam said, and Miles flushed as she gathered her things. “I’m on my way there now. Can you let me know if you hear back about the writing comparison?”

“Sure, but don’t come talk to me here,” he said, scanning the room again for possible eavesdroppers. “Or you could come by, but we could have a code. If I have news for you, I’ll put a green book on my desk, but if not, I’ll put a red one out.”

Cam looked at him with a smile. Maybe there was such a thing as reading too many books. Miles certainly had an active imagination. “Or you could just text me, you know? That might be simpler.”

“Yeah,” he said, looking a little deflated. “I guess it would.”

She punched her number into his phone, texted herself so she would have his number, and handed it back to him.

“Wait,” he said, looking at it in confusion, “why are you listed as ‘Mac’?”

“It’s my name backward,” she answered. “Code.”

After a brisk walk to the far end of Silver Cove’s downtown, Cam reached the entrance to the pea-gravel driveway that led to the imposing edifice of Merriweather House. It was one of the few brick buildings in town, and its Georgian-style exterior was capped with an ornate pediment, all of which seemed to shout “Important People Live Here!” Wide brick stairs led to a pair of heavy wooden doors. Cam wondered how Ada had felt coming here as a bride. Had she been happy? Had she loved Marshall? If so, that might have made the betrayal of him passing her writing off as his own that much worse.

As she wrestled with the door and stepped inside, her eyes adjusted from the bright winter sunlight outside to the gloomy interior. Thick damask drapes hung from the tall windows, obscuring much of the light. Cam stood in a grand foyer with a marble floor laid in a checkerboard pattern. To her left was a room set up like a formal living room, with a gleaming piano tucked into a corner. Beyond that, Cam could see what looked like a study, with a heavy wooden desk and walls of bookshelves, just like she had seen in the portrait at the library. To her right was a large room that clearly functioned as a small museum, with glass cases lining the perimeter. A crystal and brass chandelier hung above her.

“Hello and welcome!” a voice called from the exhibit room. Cam stepped into the space and found a young woman sitting behind a small desk that bore neatly stacked piles of brochures. “Have you visited us at Merriweather House before?”

“No, it’s my first time,” Cam said.

The young woman looked absolutely delighted. “How exciting!” she enthused. “Let me give you the overview.” She hopped up from behind the desk and stood at the center of the room, motioning with her arms in a practiced way. “The entire grounds are the property of the Silver Cove Historical Society, to which the generous Mr. Merriweather donated his entire estate since he had no immediate heirs. The rooms to the left of the entrance are re-creations of what the home would have looked like in Marshall Merriweather’s day. There is the formal parlor, and beyond that, Mr. Merriweather’s office. You’ll find descriptions of all the furnishings and art in this brochure,” she said, selecting one and handing it to Cam. “And here we have what was once the home’s ballroom that we use as a museum dedicated to the history of Silver Cove and Mr. Merriweather.”

“Thank you,” Cam said. “Can you tell me where the copy is of the original manuscript for Stormy of Silver Cove? I understand it’s part of the collection.”

“One of our jewels!” the docent said, walking over to a display table topped with a maroon velvet cover. “You can actually touch this—it’s one of our interactive objects. Even though it’s a reproduction, we still ask that you take care with it. Would you like me to give you the full tour? We can start over here with the founding of Silver Cove in 1680—”

“Thanks again,” Cam said, cutting her off. “I think I’ll begin with the manuscript and then just have a look around myself.”

The young woman looked momentarily disappointed, as if she had been looking forward to giving Cam her probably very well-practiced spiel. “I’ll be here if you have any questions,” she said, taking her place behind the desk and straightening out a stack of paper that didn’t look like it needed it.

Cam approached the manuscript with curiosity. The pile of pages had been bound with three loops of twine strung through cut-out holes, just like Ada’s cookbook had been. It certainly looked old, although the pages had a slight sheen to them that seemed to give away their modernity. The cover page was handwritten, but as Cam examined it more carefully, she saw that it wasn’t in the same style as Ada’s, which Cam had studied in the cookbook. This hand was heavier, and the letters stood upright, unlike Ada’s elongated, slanted cursive.