She nodded. “I always put them each in their own box,” she said proudly. “If it weren’t for me, they would probably have just disappeared.”

Good for you, Hudson thought. Truthfully, if it wasn’t for people like Eleanor Mintz, things like original manuscripts and letters really would most likely end up in landfills. It was a peculiar trait of authors that they seemed to be determined to throw away things that people might be interested in later. They put every outfit Liberace ever wore in a museum, he thought, but no one knows where the manuscript for Anna Karenina is.

“Do you know if Steinbeck worked on any novels during that time that he never published?” he asked casually.

Eleanor shook her head. “He published nearly everything he ever started,” she said. “I can think of only a handful of times that he began a project and abandoned it, and even then it was usually after only a few pages had been written.”

It was time, Hudson decided, to ask the question he’d been waiting to ask of someone who might have the answer. Eleanor Mintz, this tight-lipped librarian of a woman, was not the person he had envisioned would hold the key to solving the mystery, but she seemed to be his best chance. He hesitated only a moment before asking, “Did you ever see a manuscript for a novel called Changing Tides?”

“Steinbeck never published a book by that name,” she said.

“This would be an unpublished manuscript,” said Hudson.

Eleanor shook her head. “As I said, he wrote nothing that wasn’t eventually published.”

“You’re certain?” Hudson said.

“I would remember that,” said Eleanor, as if he’d suggested that her faculties might not be intact. “I thought you were researching the influence of Ricketts on Steinbeck’s work,” she continued.

She’s being defensive, Hudson thought. She’s upset that I asked her the question. He glanced at Eleanor Mintz and saw that her hands were tightly clutched in her lap. She’s afraid, Hudson realized.

“I am researching their relationship,” Hudson said, choosing the last word deliberately. “I think this manuscript, the one I mentioned, might be something Steinbeck worked on shortly after Ricketts’s death.”

“No,” said Eleanor. “Nothing by that name exists.”

“I’ve read the manuscript,” Hudson said. He opened his briefcase and removed the copy of the manuscript. He held it up so she could see it but did not hand it to her.

Eleanor looked at the papers. “That’s not possible,” she said. “I ...”

Hudson waited, holding his breath. Eleanor Mintz seemed suddenly shaken, as if some powerful force had swept through her ordered house and rearranged the rooms. Her hands moved like dying fish in her lap, and her eyes looked at something far away. “You’ll have to excuse me,” she said faintly. “I don’t feel well.”