“His books are still in print, you know. The royalties are paid into the trust the Campbells left to the town. You could use that fancy show of yours to encourage those screen addicts to pick up a book, put some money in the town’s pockets. But you’ll probably just turn all those volumes spine-in on the shelves for aesthetics.”

“So the house and the royalties went into the trust,” she noted. “The Campbells must have loved this town.”

“They did,” he said. “Mrs. Campbell always said it was the first place that finally felt like home to her. ’Course there’s the mystery surrounding how they managed to build this house. But you wouldn’t be interested in that.”

“Wasn’t Aaron Campbell a successful novelist?” she asked.

His eyebrows winged up at her as he took a sip of lemonade. “’Course he was,” he said. “But his first book wasn’t published until over a year after this place was completed.”

Maggie’s interest was piqued. “What about the family jewelry stores?”

“What are you asking me for? How should I know how two jewelry stores in Idaho in the late 1800s run by a father and three sons could afford a place like this? Especially when the homes of the other partners looked like shacks in comparison.”

Perhaps Aaron Campbell had taken more than his fair share, she mused. “What about Mrs. Campbell? Maybe she came from family money.”

“Ava Dedman Campbell’s family allegedly came from some wealthy European dynasty,” he said.

“Allegedly?”

“No one’s had any luck tracing the ancestry.”

Interesting. She wondered if any of the Campbell ancestors had done DNA testing from one of the genealogy sites.

She interlaced her fingers on the table. “Mr. Pfeffercorn, things will change here. But not everything. I’m not going to knock it down and start from scratch. I want to bring it back to life. Maybe with a few modern conveniences, but without taking away the historical significance.”

He didn’t look appeased. “That’s what you say now to get me out the door. Then the thick-headed hammer swingers start putting holes in walls.”

“I am one of the thick-headed hammer swingers, and I only put holes in walls that require them,” she said.

“Yeah, yeah. Women’s lib. You can do a man’s job. Don’t get your petticoat in a twist.”

She sighed and tried another tactic. “Mr. Pfeffercorn, do you know what YouTube is?”

“I don’t give a good dog crap about YouTube. I care about what this place means to this town. Just because it’s not a museum anymore doesn’t mean it doesn’t deserve some dignity,” he grumbled into his lemonade.