“There were a bunch of these in the house. Maybe this is where he usually stayed when he had a job in Nashville.”

She shook her head. “Sounds too fancy. I think we need to tell Virgil about it, though.”

Two men accompanied Joe Baker from the church, nodded to us, and got in their pickups.

“Sorry.” He waved.

In a few minutes we were on the road and headed toward the crest of the mountain. When we got to the green house that Mrs. Packard had described, Mary Alice surprised me by pulling into the driveway.

“What?” I asked.

“I want to find out if she knew Monk was going to Nashville so I can tell Virgil.”

“And we might as well eat some soup while we’re here.”

Sister didn’t hesitate. “Might as well.”

Albert Packard answered the door with a copy of Ulysses in his hand. I was sure he had grabbed it when he saw us through the window. I was still impressed, though.

“Well, ladies. You’re just in time. Mama’s just taking the cornbread out.”

Books were everywhere. They were in bookcases along the walls, stacked in piles on the floor as well as every other surface. The only piece of furniture that didn’t have books on it was the rocking chair I recognized from TV, the one Miss Beulah had been sitting in when they interviewed her.

“Have you read all these?” Sister asked in amazement.

“I’ve forgotten. Y’all come on in.”

We followed him through a path of books toward a sofa.

“Mama,” Albert called, “Mrs. Hollowell and Mrs. Crane are here.”

“Okay, baby boy.”

Baby Boy moved some books to the floor and picked up a large orange tabby. The cat hung lazily over his arm. “Y’all have a seat.”

We did, squeezing together. Some books slid into Sister’s lap.

“Sorry,” Baby Boy said, putting the cat down and taking the books from Sister.

I looked around for two things, a fire extinguisher and the tin can that Miss Beulah spit her snuff in. Neither was in evidence.

“I know this looks like a mess.” Albert swept his hand in a wave around the room. “But I’m an antiquarian.”

“Well, none of us is getting any younger,” Sister commiserated.

“He collects books,” I explained.

Another book fell into her lap. “Well, that’s obvious.”

“God’s truth.” Miss Beulah stood in the arched entrance to the dining room where more books were stacked on the table. “Can’t breathe in here for dust mites.”

“Now, Mama.” Albert Lee smiled. “What’s happened,” he explained to us, “is that I’ve had this little store in Tuscaloosa for years dealing in rare books and first editions, and I’ve decided to close it and go on the Internet. No use paying the rent. Most of the business is done on the net, anyway.”