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that I had anything more notable to do.
    I did decide to do it easy and with a little class. No stress and no strain. I gathered my notebook and writing instrument and went out for a leisurely stroll. West down Ohio Street to Pennsylvania Avenue. Then North up Pennsylvania. The route took me through Indianapolis’s ideological heartland. Within oblique sight of the Soldiers and Sailors Monument in the Circle. On a clear day you can see for blocks from the top. Past the post office and Federal Building, the Star-News Building, and the YWCA. Past the World War Memorial, a graveled city block with and obelisk in the middle and cannons on the corners. Past the National Headquarters of the American Legion.
    And finally to St. Clair Street. Where I entered, at long last, the Indianapolis-Marion County Public Library.
    I spent a lot of time there as a kid. It was cool even in the summers and it was quiet. And of all those books, each one representing hundreds of hours of work, some had even worked for me.
    But I hadn’t come at nine o’clock to be first in line for the latest worst seller. I headed immediately for the microfilm files of the Arts Division on the second floor.
    There are six microfilm viewers on the south wall of the Arts Division. But at that time in the morning there wasn’t much demand for them, so I got one of the two at the right, next to the microfilm cabinets. Without having to walk very far I could examine all the microfilm I cared to.
    I looked over the scant notes I had from Eloise and Maude. I decided first to find the marriage of Fleur and Leander Crystal.
    It was twenty or so years ago. I started with the Star for January of 1949, fitted it into the viewer and started cranking. I checked each day’s social page in a leisurely elegant manner, stopping elsewhere only to sample the heady world of 1949 sports.
    In the February 13 issue I found an unexpected bonus. A story of the annual birthday party for Estes Graham. One of the man’s wild teetotal wingdings. “… well catered and handled with the restraint and decorum we have come to expect from Estes Graham.…” It read like, a small-town theater review: the ushers and the props mistress did real good.
    On February 12, 1949, Estes Graham had become seventy-eight years old.
    I cranked on. A regular little butterfly I was, flitting from social page to social page.
    At 10:35 (June 3, 1949) I found the announcement of the wedding: “Fleur Olian Graham to Wed.”
    Not a large story. No picture. But it was specific. The wedding would take place September 6. The lucky man was Leander Crystal of Ames, Iowa. The reception would be held in Estes Graham’s home on North Meridian Street.
    What more sensible than to jump immediately and see if the wedding had gone off as scheduled?
    September 7, 1949. “Graham Heiress Weds.”
    There was a picture this time. That was good. In my heart I like pictures best.
    They were coming out of church. Fleur and Leander Crystal, standing with Estes Graham.
    Fleur was at her new husband’s right. She grinned furiously. An attractive girl, hair that photographed dark. Face a little round. But with careful, articulated lips, in black and white, her best feature. I studied the picture. I thought I would probably be able to recognize her.
    Leander was about Fleur’s height. He stood stiffly beside her in his Army uniform. I was surprised he was only a sergeant, but the uniform bore medals and it fit him well. His most striking physical characteristic was his virtually complete baldness.
    Estes was in his turn at Fleur’s right. Leaning on a cane, head slightly stooped. The three heads drew a level line. He was old, and had been for all of Fleur’s life, if the picture did not lie. He wore a tux with very long tails.
    The story with the photo included an extensive description of the wedding and reception, as well as biographies and plans.
    The biographies provided