I would say things like, “These fertility statues are pre-Babylonian. Clearly Sumerian or possibly Minoan.”

Instead, I am staring at the leather-elbowed professor with what can only be described as “lost puppy eyes.”

“I hope the trip out wasn’t too complicated. Sometimes managing these old farm roads can be kind of a Byzantine exercise,” he quips.

See! Like that! I would say “Byzantine exercise.”

“Oh, no, it was fine.”

You can tell I’m real fast on my feet.

But he doesn’t seem to mind. He gives me an encouraging smile. Reassuring. It’s like he’s the human embodiment of a vanilla-scented candle.

“Is this all you have?”

He looks down at my sky-blue suitcase. God, that does look old. I got it from a thrift store. It was probably hot stuff in, like, the 1960s.

Suddenly, I’m ashamed of it, seeing it through his eyes.

“Oh, yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

He takes a moment. “Well, good to travel light. Please, come in.”

He gives me a reassuring nod and picks up my ancient, scuffed suitcase. As we’re crossing the threshold, he turns to me.

“The first thing I want you to do is to set aside any of the rumors you’ve heard. They can be nasty.” He glances out a lead glass window, and continues, almost to himself, “Nastiness seems to be the only thing that thrives in this tiny little town.” And then, more jovially, “But I want to assure you . . . don’t worry, because absolutely none of those terrible rumors are true.”

Chapter 2

“Rumors?”

Now this is something I can really sink my teeth into. I am the largest fan of rumors and scandals and indignities and gossip. The only question in my mind is, what kind of rumors are we discussing here? Are they about the upstanding professor himself? His wife? His students? Some unseemly combination of the three? I’m going to have to pull this out of him.

“Er, I mean . . . Yes, the rumors. I’ve only heard a little bit about them. I can’t quite say that I have the full . . .”

“Oh, dear. Well, let me just say that we have lived here now for over ten years and felt nothing, heard nothing, seen nothing. It’s all quite sensational, really. And insulting to anyone with even the most basic working intellect.”

He plunks my ancient suitcase down on the front landing. Deep mahogany wood, a staircase winding up to the second floor, oil paintings on the wall of people with fluffy white accordions around their necks and white wigs. Like George Washington’s cousins. Arnold and Archibald Washington. Arby Washington. Er, Appleby Washington.

“That’s why it was such a stroke of luck that you came knocking, asking for the job. A student such as yourself, matriculating at a quite exceptional institution”—he smiles warmly—“of course, none of that sensational hogwash matters to you!”

“Yes, totally sensational.” I really am on a scouting mission now. “But you know how these things spread—”