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again in 1856, after a fire. In 1863 the kitchen was destroyed in William Quantrill’s raid, but the upper floor was safe.”
    â€œYeah, yeah, including the room with the skeleton.”
    â€œNot just a skeleton, Mrs. Berk,” Ahn said indignantly. “It was Miz Lizbet Charles. She died of typhoid fever in that room. Her sweetheart, Solomon, took care of her until he closed her eyes for the last time.”
    â€œSad tale.” Mrs. Berk ran her hand around a section of wainscoting. “Is this the original wood?”
    â€œAll of it,” I boasted. “My mom and I stripped it and refinished every inch of it.”
    I watched the woman closely. She was inspecting the wall as if she might find a trapdoor or a bogus bookcase that swung open into a secret room. Maybe she knew something I didn’t.
    She tapped the floor with her foot, which was about the size of a Ping-Pong paddle. “Floor seems solid. Ever have to pull up the floorboards?” She wore hefty shoulder pads and had no waist. All that bulk stood on two thick piano legs. She sank back into the love seat and sent it rocking on its back legs. “Talk to me about the Weaver family.”
    Obviously she already knew a lot about the Weavers, but I volunteered, “They were Quakers, agents on the Underground Railroad.”
    â€œMrs. Weaver was, not Mr.,” Ahn explained. “He didn’t approve of hiding slaves, but he was an abolitionist, too—”
    Mrs. Berk interrupted her. “Talk to me about James.”
    Ahn picked up a photo of Wolcott Castle, taken at its rededication the previous summer. “James Weaver designed this beautiful house where forty people could live and never run out of hot water.”
    Mrs. Berk glanced at the picture. I could tell it wasn’t the first time she’d seen it. “He was some famous architect, I’ve heard.”
    â€œOh, yes,” Ahn agreed, “but he was only twelve when we knew him.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about? The guy lived in the last century.”
    â€œOf course,” Ahn said gently. “But we knew him well.”
    â€œWhatever.” Mrs. Berk wasn’t big on romance. But she sure was nosy. “I heard something about a diary you found upstairs. Anything good in it?”
    â€œOf course!” Ahn said, insulted. “It was all about Mrs. Weaver and Miz Lizbet and the people running away, the slaves. Very good.”
    â€œYeah, yeah, but anything about Weaver’s buildings?”
    â€œNo,” I answered. “Mrs. Weaver’s diary was written way before James started designing buildings.” I thought of his redheaded self at my age, spending long evenings without TV or video games, sketching houses and barns and churches by candlelight. Imagine what he could have done with a Macintosh!
    Mrs. Berk lit up a cigarette, striking the match on the rough wood sign with Smokey Bear saying, THANKS FOR NOT SMOKING, FOLKS! She tossed the lit match into the fireplace. Ahn rushed forward with her cider mug as an ashtray.
    Mrs. Berk said, “Find any of Weaver’s architectural drawings stashed away in this house?”
    I shook my head. “I guess they’d be valuable if we had.”
    â€œValuable?” Mrs. Berk shrugged her mighty shoulders and exhaled a cloud of stinky smoke. “No, not especially.”
    Ahn and I glanced at each other while Mrs. Berk picked lint off her broad-beam navy blue slacks. “Well, I’m turning in. The fire’s making me groggy. Too much history, I guess. You’re not light sleepers, are you? Raymond and I keep the radio on low all night.”
    â€œNo problem,” Ahn said. “Dana’s family sleeps like a brick.”
    â€œA log , Ahn.”
    Mrs. Berk faked a wide yawn. She pulled her thick knees together and stood up. Whatnots rattled again. “Catch you in the morning.”
    When her wide rear end was halfway up the stairs, I