Not very many minutes later, I was standing at the front door of the Chilson Gazette, waiting for internal signs of life. Camille Pomeranz, who bore the title of editor but had been known to scribble aka Jack of all Trades at the bottom of her business card, was usually in early, and usually started a pot of coffee going first thing after walking in the door.

I had my hands cupped to the door’s glass when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I jumped, and when I came back down to earth and could breathe normally, I looked at the tapper.

“Waiting for someone?” Camille handed me a mug of steaming coffee. “That lock is broken. Didn’t you see the sign?” She pointed to a homemade sign just above my head that clearly read door doesn’t open. use back entrance.

“If you want people five foot tall and under to notice it,” I said, taking the coffee, “you might want to consider a relocation.”

“When it’s so much fun watching you peek in?” Camille, a fiftyish African American downstate transplant, laughed. “Come around back and tell me why you’re haunting my doorstep at seven thirty in the morning. If you want fifty newspaper subscriptions, or if you want to place a recurring full-page advertisement for three months straight, I’m all yours.”

“Sorry, I’m after the usual.”

“Information?” Camille held the door open for me. “What do you think I am, a newspaper?”

“Pretty sure that’s what it says on your sign, so yes.”

Camille swiveled her head around to look at the front window, where, from the back, the words chilson gazette looked more like ettezag noslihc. “Hmm. Seems like you’re right. Ask away, dear librarian.”

“I need anything you have on Bob Bernier.”

She frowned. “Bernier? That’s the last name of the guy you and the bookmobile found out on Ledwich Road.”

“How did—never mind. Yes, same last name, same parents. Bob is his older brother.”

Camille eyed me, then went around the counter to the nearest computer. “May I ask why you’re asking?”

“You can.”

“And will you answer me fully and truthfully?”

“Probably not. At least not right away.”

“Promise to answer all questions at some point?” she asked, typing. “A nod will suffice, that’s good. Okay, we have all articles back to 1947 scanned and indexed. That should cover everything. Robert, I assume? I’ll add Bob into the search string, too, and . . .” She paused. “That’s odd.”

“What?”

“Hang on.” She tapped the keyboard a few more times. “Yep, that’s it. Born in 1952 in Petoskey. Played football, basketball, baseball, and was on the honor roll. Went to Central Michigan for a degree in business. Went into the air force right after that. Rose up through the ranks, and retired as a lieutenant colonel.”

“That sounds more interesting than odd.”

“It’s not what’s there; it’s what is missing.”