I flipped carefully through a sheaf of photocopied pages. There was no note, not a single indication of who had sent them. The half-dozen articles in the file were from the Killdeer Courier, the weekly Furman County Register, and the Denver Post and Rocky Mountain News. Some paragraphs had been highlighted in neon green. I flipped back to the beginning, then cursed softly: Now fingerprinting the pages would be impossible. Then again, a whole slew of librarians had probably already touched the pages. And maybe I was getting a trifle paranoid. Was leaving stuff for somebody else at the library in some way threatening? An invasion of privacy? Could you be booked for impersonating another library patron? I gnawed my cheek while contemplating the true-crime slasher book. Whatever it was, it didn't make me feel good.

To the librarian I said, "Do you have any idea who left these for me?" When she shook her head, I asked if she would be willing to ask the staff if they'd received the manila folder from someone they remembered. The librarian took the file and disappeared. She came back to say one of the volunteers had reported to a staff person that the file had been in the drop box that morning. That meant that someone had left it sometime after closing on Saturday and before opening on Sunday. I tucked the folder under my arm, pressed some leftover cookies on her by way of thanks, and took off for home.

Tom had left an apologetic message on the tape. His captain wanted to see him; he'd be tied up longer than he expected. He'd be listening to the football game on the radio. Maybe he'd be home by the fourth quarter. Would I cheer for both of us?

There was another message, a long one, from Arthur Wakefield. I retrieved his wine list with suggested foods as I listened. He'd been able to rescue all but one of his wines from Customs. Still, he was planning on showcasing all five vintages, and a truck should deliver the sauvignon blanc Sunday afternoon.

He needed food for a dozen people, he went on. He'd invite four more people. He knew he'd only put fish, chicken, and red meat on the list - not very helpful - so this phone call was to spark my thinking. But remember, he himself needed to finish the cooking."

He loved the pork I left for him. He'd bought some pork tenderloins, and I should certainly make that dish again to go with the Châteauneuf-du-Pape. I should bring the ingredients for the marinade, though, then mix them with the red wine at his place. I scribbled madly.

A lot of folks had asked him, Arthur went on airily, about the yummy-looking crab cakes I'd made on TV. He wanted something Mexican to go with the zinfandel, but not the egg rolls, since he didn't want to be running back and forth for appetizers. So please fix a Mexican main dish, he said vaguely, with chicken. Also a fish dish. He'd picked up some fresh sole and spinach while he was in Denver, could I do sole Florentine to go with the chablis? I nodded to his taped voice and continued to make notes.