“Are you taking over his business?”
“Yes.”
“Buying it out?”
“I inherited it,” I said, growing annoyed.
His smile was slow, sly. “I didn’t know Mike had a daughter.”
“We were friends.” I folded my arms.
“And you shared a love of... books.”
I raised my chin. “Mike’s executor is going to be conducting a complete inventory of his rare books–”
“Pivens, is it?”
“You know him?”
“I know of him.”
“Then I’m sure if you show him a receipt for the book you lent Mike, he’ll be happy to assist you.” Maybe the man had lent Mike a different book of folk tales, but I wasn’t going to admit anything to this jerk without seeing a receipt.
“Of course. In the meantime, if you happen to come across it, you’ll let me know?”
“Sure.” I’d agree to anything if the creep left.
He gave me another long look, then turned and departed, the coyote at his heels.
I’d sage the store to rid it of his atmosphere, if Mike would let me. My throat tightened, and I remembered that the store was mine now, Mike was gone, and I could sage as much as I wanted.
I inserted the key into the mysterious drawer and opened it. A tattered copy of a booksellers’ magazine lay inside. I set the magazine aside. Beneath it there was a small metal cashbox. I pulled it out and set that on the counter too.
The box was locked, but I rifled the key ring and found a key that fit, opened the lid. The inside of the cashbox had been sectioned off – small trays for change and a long tray for bills. What looked like a Roman coin lay in one of the change trays. An iron railroad spike lay in the section for bills. I lifted off the top section. The bottom was empty.
My shoulders slumped. Just junk. I’d really thought the box might hold something important.
I reached deep into the back of the drawer and touched paper – three wrinkled envelopes. A yellowed envelope with a faded Christmas card from Mike’s mother, long dead. An envelope with a land deed in nearby Angels Camp – the lawyer might like to see that. And an envelope postmarked only eight days ago from an auction house with a name even I recognized. I pulled out the letter.
It was handwritten.
Mike–
The provenance looks good. If you have what it seems like you have, we’ll be happy to set the minimum bid at one million.
Sandra
I stared, stunned. One million? Mike had a book worth a million dollars? That couldn’t be the folktale collection that Van Oss had asked about – he’d said it was only worth a few thousand. But would Van Oss hang around Doyle for days waiting for a valuation on a thousand-dollar book? He’d spent less on his suit.
My forehead wrinkled. No. Either this wasn’t the mysterious book of American folktales, or Van Oss was lying about its value. And those two possibilities weren’t mutually exclusive.
A million dollars. If anyone else knew about the book, it was a motive for murder.
I pulled the drawer out further, in case there was something I’d missed, and found a wrinkled piece of binder paper. I unfolded it and sucked in my breath.
“Nathaniel hied away to the fae spring
To gather herbs and flowers for his bride.
Belle, mischief mad, behold anon the man.
Oh Moon, she raved, smit dreadfulle to her heart,
She wove her magic spelle and bound him close.
Away to me, she called, forget your love,
Forget your mortal pledge, a haunting cry.
Three days he tarried in the unseelie bower.
His home and hearth forgotten in her couch.
Then fire more fierce than fae’s blew through his soul,
And waking, stumbled to his mountain home.
Return! She cried. I bind you with my charms,
I call the Morrigan, tie fast his fate,
If he resists, its Uffern’s gate he’ll knock on.”
My hands shook. It was the origin story of our family curse.
Mike had known the curse story. How was it possible? Had our aunt told him? She must have given it to him, but why would she?
I looked more closely at the page, and my head swam. This wasn’t happening. Not happening, not happening, not—
Someone knocked on the door frame, and I crumpled the paper in my hands.
A woman in a blue business suit and white blouse stood in the entry. “The sign says CLOSED, but the door’s open. It’s confusing.”
“I’m trying to air the place out, but if you’d like to buy a book, you’re welcome.” She looked familiar, and then I remembered where I’d seen her before – at the sheriff’s station. Inside the bookstore, she didn’t look quite so obviously like an FBI agent. Her black hair was up in a bun, and I could see the bulge beneath her blue blazer where a gun no doubt hid.
She strode to the counter, and I had to crane my neck again.
“I understand you had some trouble here,” she said. Her voice had a faint, Indian accent.
“The owner died a few days ago.”
She glanced at the cash box and papers on the counter. “Not a natural death.”
Nonplussed, I stared at the agent. What did she care about Mike’s death? “He fell off the ladder.” I gestured to the rolling ladder against one of the bookshelves.
“You’re one of the Bonheim sisters.”
“Yes, I’m Lenore.”
“I’m Agent Maraj.” She held out her hand, and I shook it. This time, I didn’t get a bone crushing squeeze.
“What’s the FBI doing in Doyle?” I asked.
She arched an ebony eyebrow. “You have to ask? Or is Doyle so used to people vanishing that the loss of twenty-two people and a pub is no big deal?”
Pain stiffened my neck. “I knew people in that pub.”
“Not as well as your sister knew them. Her name’s Jayce, isn’t it?”
What the hell was that supposed to mean? “What do you know about Jayce?”
“She was a suspect in several murder investigations, and she found a missing person – Ely Milbourne. We’d been looking for him for decades.”
The general consensus was that he’d been in hiding in the woods all that time, on the run from the law. But Jayce had found Ely all right – or his body at least. And it hadn’t aged a day since he’d last been seen in 1995. I wondered how the authorities had managed to explain that detail. “So it was Ely’s body.”
“Oh, yes. Your other sister ran into some trouble too – Karin?”
The paper crackled in my hand. “I wouldn’t say that. She was trying to help Jayce.” I said a silent apology to Jayce.
“You go into the woods much?” she asked.
“Everyone does. That’s why we live in the mountains.”
“Ever seen anything odd?”
“No,” I lied. “Why? Do you think the missing twenty-two are in the woods?”
“Mr. Milbourne was. And another missing person, Dante Cunningham. Your sister, Karin, found her last summer. Dante didn’t survive the encounter though.”
“Dante Cunningham?” I felt the blood drain from my face. Dante had gone missing in 1911. Karin had found her last year, ancient but alive and stumbling in the woods. We’d understood later she’d been taken by the same force that had taken the twenty-two. It was the same force that took a hiker every seven years. What we didn’t understand was how she and Ely had escaped.
How had the agent recognized Dante for who she was – a missing person from over a century past? Or had they made that connection? “I think I remember hearing that name,” I said. “Was she related to the local Cunninghams?”
“It seems so. An elderly aunt.”
“Was she visiting?”
“No, she was born here. She disappeared in 1911.”
“That can’t be the same woman then,” I said carefully. “She’d have to have been well over a hundred years ol
d.”
“People are living longer these days,” she said, bland.
“There’s not a lot of modern medicine in the forest. Do you think she left Doyle on her own and then somehow made her way home years later?”
“It’s a mystery.” Her dark gaze bored into me. “But as I’m sure you know, there are a lot of mysteries in Doyle. You were the first to report the missing persons at the Bell and Thistle.”
Jaw tight, I stretched my mouth into a smile. “My sisters and I did.”
“Yes,” she said. “Your sisters. There are rumors going around town that the three of you are witches.”
Going cold, I leaned against the window sill behind me. “This is California. The New Age never left.”
“Old age now. Of course, most witches are harmless. Only a few are delusional and dangerous. So are you? Witches?”
“We didn’t make the Bell and Thistle disappear, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I asked if you were witches.”
“We’re not Wiccan,” I hedged.
“That wasn’t the question. Wicca is a religion. Witchcraft is a practice.”
“I practice shamanism. You’ll have to ask my other sisters about their hobbies.”
“I will.” She turned on her heel and strode out.
Hurrying after her, I shut and locked the front door. I didn’t want any more surprise visitors. There was nothing wrong with practicing witchcraft in California these days. You couldn’t swing a cat without hitting someone who worshipped the goddess or read Tarot cards. But why the devil had she been asking about it? I knew a supernatural force had taken the twenty-two, but the FBI certainly couldn’t believe it. Could they?
Something slipped to the floor, and I bent to retrieve the paper I’d dropped. The curse story.
I blew out my breath.
It was written in my handwriting.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“I’m sorry.” The woman’s voice crackled over the phone. “But that information is confidential.”
I shifted, leaning my hip against the bookstore counter. The auction house was trickier to deal with than Mike’s bank.
A ghost in a World War II G.I. uniform walked past the paned window. Half his face had been sheared away, exposing bloodied muscle and bone and grinning teeth.
Swallowing bile and sympathy, I turned my head. When the soldier was ready to cross over, he’d find me. They always found me, their damaged bodies and souls exposed to the raw. The contented dead didn’t stick around.
My grip tightened on the old-fashioned rotary phone. “The executor and I are in the process of inventorying Mike’s business. I found your letter about the minimum bid, and–”
“And I can’t help you without a death certificate.”
“Seriously?”
She sighed. “I am sorry to learn of Mike’s passing, if it’s true.”
“If?”
“But you have no idea how cutthroat his business can be. I can’t simply give that information out over the phone without verifying that what you’re saying is true.”
“A death certificate,” I said.
“And proof that you have the authority to discuss his estate.”
“All right. I’ll get both for you.”
“Very good.” She hung up.
“Goodbye to you too,” I muttered and dialed Mr. Pivens.
“Hello?” the elderly lawyer asked.
“Mr. Pivens, this is Lenore.”
“Ms. Bonheim? I just left you. Is there a problem already?”
“I’m not sure. I found a letter from an auction house.” I read it to him.
He whistled. “Good Lord. A million dollar starting bid? And there’s no mention of the book’s title?”
“No. I called the auction house, but they won’t give me any information without a death certificate. They also want proof I have the legal right to discuss his estate.”
“Do they think they’re a bank?” he asked, indignant. “I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous.”
“When will we be able to get a death certificate?”
“Not for a month.”
“A month?” I parroted.
“This is the government, my dear, and they do things in their own time. However, I do not like the idea of a book of that value lying around Mike’s house. Thank you for calling me. I’ll return there now and see if I can locate it.”
“Would you like my help?”
He chuckled. “I was counting on it, Ms. Bonheim.”
“I didn’t find any mention of a book valued over a million in the ledger I have.”
“You said the letter from the auction house was recent?” he asked.
“Yes, it was postmarked last Monday.”
“And would have taken two days to arrive.”
“He received it the day before his death,” I said.
“And he might not have had time to record it.”
I scanned the letter, open on the counter. “Maybe.” But the letter looked like a response to his request to set a minimum million-dollar bid. Mike had known what he had, or he’d suspected.
“Where are you?” he asked. “Can you meet me at the house, or shall I come to collect you?”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“An hour then.”
“Perfect. Good bye.”
He said farewell and hung up.
A chill breeze rustled the letter on the counter. The paper lifted into the air and fluttered to the floor.
I stooped to pick it up, and a gray shadow moved in my peripheral vision.
I straightened. “Mike?”
But I was alone in the bookstore. I studied the letter again. It had been locked away, and as far as I knew, only Mike (and now I) had the key to that drawer. But could someone else – Peter or Gretel – have seen it? I shifted, uneasy. A million dollars didn’t go as far as it used to, but people killed over less. And a million was just the opening bid.
Peter and Gretel were suspects. I walked toward the storeroom. If they’d killed Mike, I’d make them pay.
I yanked open the door, and everything stopped – my brain, my bravado, my breath. “What the hell?”
The drawers had been pulled from the desk. Open manila folders and papers lay scattered about the cement floor. Books, their spines bent and damaged, spilled from overturned boxes. The desktop computer monitor lay on its side on the floor, and its screen was cracked. One metal bookshelf canted at an angle, propped against a wall. All the boxes its shelves had held lay in a rough pyramid beneath it.
Anger flushed through my veins, warming my skin from the inside out. Peter and Gretel. They’d had a key to the bookstore...
I went cold. They still had a key. They could get inside whenever they wanted. I weighed the options – demand they return the key or change the locks – and chose the path of least resistance. “Change the locks it is.”
Cursing, I collected the papers off the concrete floor, glancing at them and organizing them into stacks on the desk. Slowly, I cleared a path to the alleyway door. I turned the handle. It was unlocked, and I cursed. Not content with trashing the storeroom, Peter and Gretel would have let someone else stroll into the bookstore after them.
I cracked my knuckles. Those two had better not come to me for help after they died.
Needing to calm down, I stepped outside and leaned against the cool bricks. I breathed deeply and studied the clouds. Karin had recently learned how to read them and had tried to teach me. But I simply enjoyed watching their slow, inexorable drift.
My anger seeped through the pavement and became fertilizer for the earth. The earth was good at taking crap and turning it into something useful, and my mini tantrum was small beer by comparison.
When I no longer wanted to throttle Gretel, I straightened off the wall, brushed off the back of my skirt, and reached for the door.
I paused, my hand over the knob. Peering at the metal, I bent closer. Fresh, shiny nicks marked the edge of the ke
yhole. I jerked my hand away and clutched it uselessly against my chest.
Working in a bookstore, I’d read my share of mystery novels. Trashed storeroom plus scratches and dents on the lock screamed lock picking. My gaze darted around the alley, but it was just me and the garbage cans.
Shaken, I returned inside and locked the door, walked to the register. I studied its lock. It seemed okay. But the lock on Mike’s mystery drawer was scratched. There were faint gouges at the top of the drawer as well, as if someone had tried to pry it open.
I called Connor. And yes, I could have just called the sheriff’s department, but...
“Hey, Lenore.” His voice was as rich and warm as hot chocolate. “What’s up?”
“I think someone broke into the bookstore.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I winced. “Actually, can you come by later? I have to meet Mike’s lawyer, and it doesn’t look like anything was taken.”
“You want me to come by when it’s convenient,” he said in a flat tone. “For a burglary.”
“I just... Someone vandalized the storeroom. I thought it was Peter or Gretel. They have a key. But there are scratch marks on the alley door and in one of the drawers at the front counter.” I wavered about telling him about the million-dollar book, but I decided to wait. I really did need to meet Mr. Pivens.
“What about the register?”
“That seems okay.”
“All right. Don’t touch anything.”
I grimaced. “I already have.”
His exhalation was heavy with disappointment. “The bookstore’s closed today, right?”
“Right.”
“Then do what you need to do. I’ll stop by in the afternoon. Three o’clock?”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You know most cops wouldn’t let you schedule an appointment.”
A warm glow flowed through me. “You’re not most cops.”
“Damn straight, I’m not.” Chuckling, he hung up.
I locked up and walked home to collect the ledger. Doyle’s streets were quiet, the tourists fled, the iron shutters on the boutiques and tasting rooms closed.
A spirit staggered out of Antoine’s. He stank of gin and tumbled into the street. A ghost 1960s Buick struck him, sending him flying twenty feet down the road. Then a very real SUV whizzed through them both, and the vision disintegrated.
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