Canborough first came into view as I came over the hill on Highway 17, a couple of church spires, a water tower poking up through the trees. It was a small city, and there had been attempts of late to revive and trendy up the downtown, which had taken a hit after the local auto parts factory shut down a few years back. But Canborough still had other, lesser, industries to keep it going, plus a college on the north side of town, and there were some year-round tourist dollars it could count on. The river that ran through the center connected with a few nearby lakes that were crowded with cottages and, in the winter, there was skiing.

I’d been up here a few times, not just for that disastrous book signing for one of my SF novels. (When you’ve had the sort of book signings I’ve had, you start to feel that the modifier “disastrous” is implied.) A few years ago, Sarah and I had been invited for a weekend at another couple’s cottage, and we’d driven into Canborough to shop and wander around.

I drove straight into the downtown, and decided not to look for a place to stay right away. First of all, I didn’t know for sure that I’d learn enough to keep me from continuing on to Groverton, and second, some of the places where I hoped to get information might be closed in another hour or two.

The public library was my first stop.

I’d been able to find a story or two in the Metropolitan’s database about the biker massacre, but I figured the local paper would have more about what happened before, and after, that incident.

The library, an old brick building flanked by modern glass additions, sat across from a wooded park. I found a place on a side street to leave my car, walked back to the library, and approached the information desk. A wiry young woman told me the library had the Canborough Times on computer going back six years, and if I knew what I was looking for, it could be found pretty quickly.

She set me up at a terminal, showed me how to operate their system, and set me loose. “If you need anything, just ask,” she said sweetly.

I conducted a number of searches using a variety of keywords, in particular “Gary Merker” and “Leonard Edgars.” Also “Kickstart,” the hotel where the three bikers had been shot to death. And “Slots,” the name of the gang Merker and Edgars supposedly belonged to.

And of course, “Trixie Snelling.”

That last one brought up absolutely nothing.

But the other entries produced a wealth of stories.