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that?”
    â€œOh, yes. Her book, she called it. Every night after supper she’d do up the dishes and tidy the kitchen, then off she’dgo to write in her book. I hate to admit this, even now, but I used to sneak around and try to find it, hoping to read her secrets. But apparently she had a very good hiding place. I never did find the darn thing.”
    â€œThe things, ” I corrected. “We’ve found thirty-six notebooks so far. She started keeping a diary when she got married and kept at it pretty steadily, until shortly before she died. Lots to read through. Now, as for your father, he disappears from the public records in 1943. No account of him on census records, never held a driver’s license or bought property. Nothing. It may be safe to assume he died shortly after he left your mother, though I wasn’t able to find a death certificate, not yet anyway.”
    â€œI suspected as much,” Olivia said. “Still, I’d like to know where and how he died.”
    â€œI’ll keep digging,” I said. “But if he was on the run he may not have had identification. He may have been a John Doe case. You need to prepare for the possibility that we’ll never know what happened to him, but we’ll certainly find out everything we can. Now, back a generation. Your grandparents on the Hargett side were John Corley Hargett and Gertrude Conner Hargett. They were farmers and apparently led a simple life. I have names, birth, marriage, and death dates.”
    â€œI remember Uncle Riley talking about them some,” Olivia said, studying the names on the rudimentary family tree I’d created for her last night with my genealogy program. So far it was more like a family sapling.
    â€œAs for your uncle Riley, his full name was Riley Garson Hargett. He was born in 1915, so he was about seven yearsolder than your father. He tried to enlist in the army in World War Two, but was rejected due to a heart murmur. He went to work at the post office in Crawford, filling the position of a mail carrier who’d been drafted. Riley worked at the PO for the next thirty years, until he retired.”
    I glanced up to see Tony passing by in the front hall. He stopped short and put his head around the archway. “Did I hear Crawford?” he asked.
    â€œYes,” Olivia said. “That’s where I was born and raised.”
    â€œI heard you say that yesterday,” Tony said, stepping into the room. “I’ve got a film that was made in Crawford that you might be interested in.”
    â€œA film?” Olivia asked.
    â€œYeah, back during the thirties and forties, movie companies would go to small towns and film people going about their regular business. You know, like buying stuff in the hardware store, working in tobacco barns, or filling up their cars at the gas station. Or kids eating ice cream cones, riding bikes, or playing with their dogs. Everyday-life stuff. Then they’d splice it all together and give it a two-week run at the local movie house, charging a nickel to come see it. I’ve studied probably a hundred of these old films. It’s where I got the idea for my homage to Morningside. The one from Crawford was made in the early forties. I could burn you a copy if you’d like.”
    â€œI’d love to see it,” Olivia said. “Maybe I’ll see people I know.”
    â€œI’ll make two copies,” Tony said, nodding to Esme and me. “Now I’m off to the art co-op to film your friend Coco throwing pottery.” He hesitated. “Man, I hope she meant onthe wheel and not at me.” He gave us a grin before hustling out the door.
    â€œHe’s too cute by half,” Esme muttered.
    We heard him exchange hellos with someone on the front porch and a moment later Daniel came in, carrying a bag that smelled like lunch. “Did I miss the party?” he asked.
    â€œJust about,” Beth said, “but