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years. She ended with a recitation of the names Grandfather Hiram had given to the various stalagmites: “The Seven Dwarves,” “White Unicorn,” “Santa’s Beard,” “Needle and Thread.” Then she paused for questions.
    “Has everyone in town been here?” Pendergast asked.
    Again, the question brought Winifred up short. “Why, yes, I believe so. We don’t charge the locals, of course. It would hardly do to profit from one’s neighbors.”
    When no more questions were forthcoming, she turned and led the way through the forest of stalagmites and into a low, narrow passageway leading to the next cavern.
    “Don’t bump your head!” she warned Pendergast over her shoulder. She entered the second cavern, strode to the center, and turned with a sweep of her dress.
    “We are now in the Giant’s Library. My grandfather named it that because, if you look to your right, you will see how layers of travertine have built up over millions of years to form what looks like stacked books. And over on that side, the vertical pillars of limestone on the walls appear to be shelved books. And now—”
    She stepped forward again. They were about to come to her favorite part, the Krystal Chimes. And then suddenly she realized: she had forgotten her little rubber hammer. She felt in the pocket where she kept it hidden, ready to bring it out to the surprise of the guests. It wasn’t there. She must have left it back in the gift shop. And she’d forgotten the flashlight, as well, always brought along in case the electricity failed. Winifred felt mortified. Fifty years of giving tours and she had never once forgotten her little rubber hammer.
    Pendergast was observing her intently. “Are you all right, Miss Kraus?”
    “I forgot my rubber hammer to play the Krystal Chimes.” She almost felt like crying.
    Pendergast glanced around at the forest of stalactites. “I see. I imagine those resonate when tapped.”
    She nodded. “You can play Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ on those stalactites. It’s the highlight of the tour.”
    “How very intriguing. I shall have to return, then.”
    Winifred searched her mind for the continuation of the talk, but could find nothing. She began to feel a rising panic.
    “There must be a great deal of history in this town,” Pendergast said as he casually examined some gypsum feathers glinting in a pool of reflected light.
    Winifred felt a glow of gratitude for this little rescue. “Oh yes, there is.”
    “And you must know most of it.”
    “I suppose I do know most everything,” she said. She felt a little better. Now she had a second tour to look forward to, and she would never forget her rubber hammer again. That dreadful murder had upset her a great deal. More than she’d realized, perhaps.
    Pendergast bent to examine another cluster of crystals. “There was a curious incident at Maisie’s Diner last evening. The sheriff arrested a girl named Corrie Swanson.”
    “Oh, yes. She’s a troublemaker from way back. Her father ran off, and the mother is the cocktail waitress at the Candlepin Castle.” She leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. “I think she drinks. And . . . sees men. ”
    “Ah!” said Pendergast.
    Winifred was encouraged. “Yes. They say Corrie takes drugs. She’ll leave Medicine Creek, like so many others, and good riddance. That’s how it is nowadays, Mr. Pendergast: they grow up and leave, never to come back. Though there are some I could name that stick around who ought to leave. That Brushy Jim, for instance.”
    The FBI agent seemed to be intently examining a dripstone mound. It was nice to see someone so interested. “The sheriff seemed to be rather enthusiastic in making Miss Swanson’s arrest.”
    “I shouldn’t wonder. And yet that sheriff’s a bully. That’s what I think. And I’ll say it to anyone. Just about the only person he’s nice to is Tad Franklin, his deputy.” She stopped, wondering if she had gone too far, but Mr. Pendergast was