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fiendish coincidence. Life is full of them. Church? Is Thorndecker a church-goer?”
    “He and his wife are registered Episcopalians, but they don’t work at it.”
    “You’re a walking encyclopedia of Coburn lore,” I said admiringly. “You said, ‘He and his wife.’ What about the daughter? And the son?”
    “I don’t know what the hell Eddie is. A Boy Scout, I suspect.”
    “And the daughter? Mary?”
    “Well …” she said cautiously. “Uh …”
    “Uh?” I said. “What does ‘Uh’ mean?”
    She punched gently at the tip of her nose with a knuckle.
    “What the hell has that got to do with whether or not Dr. Thorndecker gets a grant from the Bingham Foundation?”
    “Probably not a thing,” I admitted. “But I’m a nosy bastard.”
    “You sure as hell are,” she grumbled. “Well, if you must know, I heard Mary Thorndecker goes to a little church about five miles south of here. It’s fundamentalist. Evangelical. You know—being born again, and all that crap. They wave their arms and shout, ‘Yes, Lord!’”
    “And speak in tongues,” I said.
    She looked at me curiously.
    “You’re not so dumb, are you?” she said.
    “Dumb,” I said, “but not so.” I paused a moment, pondering. “Well, I can’t think of anything else to ask. I want to thank you for your kind cooperation. You’ve been a big help.”
    “I have?” she said, surprised. “That’s nice. I hope I’ve helped Thorndecker get his bread. He deserves it, and it would be a great help to this town.”
    “So I’ve heard,” I said. “Listen, if I come up with any more questions, can I come around again?”
    “Often as you like,” she said, rising. I stood up too, and saw she was almost as tall as I am. A big woman. “Go see Art Merchant at the bank. He’ll tell you anything you want to know. By the way, he’s also mayor of Coburn.”
    “Fantastic,” I said.
    We were standing there, shaking hands and smiling idiotically at each other, when there was a timid knock on the door.
    “Come in,” Agatha Binder roared, dropping my hand.
    The door opened hesitantly. There was my very own Miss Dimples. She looked even better standing up. Miniskirt. Yummy knees. Black plastic boots. A buttery angora sweater. I remembered an old army expression: “All you need with a dame like that is a spoon and a straw.” She was holding a sheaf of yellow copy paper.
    “Yes, Sue Ann?” the Sentinel editor said.
    “I’ve finished the Kenner funeral story, Miss Binder,” the girl faltered.
    “Very good, Sue Ann. Just leave it. I’ll get to it this afternoon.”
    The cheerleader dropped the copy on the desk and exited hastily, closing the door behind her. She hadn’t glanced at me, but Agatha Binder was staring at me shrewdly.
    “Like that?” she asked softly.
    “It’s okay,” I said, flipping a palm back and forth. “Not sensational, but okay.”
    “Hands off, kiddo,” she said in a harder voice, eyes glittering. “It’s mine.”
    I was glad to hear it. I felt better immediately. The sensation of Coburn being in a time warp disappeared. I was back in the 1970s, and I walked out of there with my spirit leaping like a demented hart.
    When I strolled into the lobby of the Coburn Inn, the baldy behind the desk signaled frantically.
    “Where have you been?” he said in an aggrieved tone.
    “Sorry I didn’t check in,” I said. “Next time I’ll bring a note from home.”
    But he wasn’t listening.
    “Dr. Thorndecker has called you three times,” he said. “He wants you to call him back as soon as possible. Here’s the number.”
    Upstairs in my room, I peeled off the trenchcoat, kicked off the boots. I lay back on the hard bed. The telephone was on the rickety bedside table. Calls went through the hotel switchboard. I gave the number and waited.
    “Crittenden Hall.”
    “Dr. Thorndecker, please. Samuel Todd calling.”
    “Just a moment, please.”
    Click, click, click.
    “Crittenden Research Laboratory.”
    “Dr.