It’s a crisp Saturday afternoon in 1980, and I stand in the center of the gift shop at Old Sturbridge Village in Sturbridge, Massachusetts, surrounded by beckoning shelves. Radiant light filters in through the windows. Across the room, a cluster of items catches my eye. I walk over, crouch down, and run my fingers over the row of books until I stop. The flatness of the black typeface extending along the turquoise spine belies the danger promised by its title: Mystery at Old Sturbridge Village. I pull out the book. In the center of the cover, two girls crouch in darkness, facing the entrance to the village’s lattice truss covered bridge.…