When Crawford showed up for work at eleven, he was surprised to find the Dragon’s door unlocked. He spun his key around in the lock a couple of times and peered in the windows. Sure enough, the lights were on. And there was Ginger, unboxing cookbooks and shelving them in what was once the psychology section.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Crawford said as he shoved the door open.
“I’m working, Crawford. Some of us work.”
Crawford rolled his eyes and dropped his backpack behind the counter, noticing that things had changed back there, too. Ginger had hauled out eight bags of old cardboard and newspapers and then swept the floor, exposing bare wood for the first time in years. This outraged Crawford. Back in Sy’s day, employees undertook cleaning projects at their own risk. It felt like sacrilege to see the store drift so far from its original values. Ginger might as well have hauled Sy’s spirit out to the recycling bin along with the cardboard. Crawford saw an opportunity to take a principled stand, which was a specialty of his. He marched over to Ginger and stood between her and the bookcase she was organizing.
"As the manager of this store ---"
“You are not the manager, Crawford. Get out of my face.”
“Well, I’ve been here the longest.”
“By four days.” For over a decade Ginger had regretted postponing the start date of her job at the Dragon until after Labor Day.
“Well, I think we should at least talk to Billy before we ---"
"Billy was already here," she said. "He found the will."
"Shit! How much time do we have?” Crawford opened a second box of cookbooks and started loading them onto a shelf.
“Not much. He called Lewis. They’re coming up here in a week or two.”
“They?”
“He's got a wife. Emily."
"What's her deal?"
Ginger shrugged. “You now know everything I know.”
They worked in silence, shelving books alongside each other. It was surprisingly satisfying work, filling a section and breaking down the empty boxes. The cookbooks themselves were nothing special: mundane collections of casserole recipes and easy suppers for busy moms, all purchased from the Junior League when their charity bookshop closed its doors. But Crawford took an uncharacteristic interest in them, pulling out an early Joy of Cooking to put on the rare books shelf, and facing out three books with cupcakes on the cover.
“Cupcakes. Aren’t you cute.” Ginger said. Just then Guillermo pushed open the front door and kicked the doorstop into place.
“Are you guys open or what?" Guillermo said, with the superior attitude of a man who'd been at work since five.
Crawford ignored him. There was always someone Crawford wasn’t speaking to; this week it was Guillermo.
"We’re open,” Ginger said, without looking up.
Guillermo brushed a stack of National Geographics off the chair and dropped into it, propping his feet up on the counter. He had the lean frame of someone who subsisted mostly on coffee and cigarettes. Ginger thought he wore the look of a weathered old activist well -- his face was all interesting angles and salt and pepper stubble. After Sy’s death Guillermo had kept a particularly close eye on the store, dropping in with the air of someone who had the ability to report directly back to Sy if anything was amiss.
"Has Edith been in this week?" he asked.
"Haven't seen her," Ginger said.
"Damn! I'm getting low."
"Get used to it," she said.
"Think so?"
"Well, what do you think, Guillermo? This kid's going to quit his cushy job in San Jose to move up to Humboldt County and just ---" She couldn’t finish. She ripped another box of books open and glared down into its contents.
Guillermo sighed. What a couple of drama queens. "Well, Ginger, not if you put it that way," he said. "Are you sure he even has to know?"
"How can he not know?" Crawford said, dropping onto the floor and wiping his brow as if he had exerted himself in this first half hour of the day. “Everybody in town knows.”
Guillermo shrugged. "Absentee landlord. As long as the checks clear the bank, what does he care?"
“That’s insane,” Crawford said. “Get back to your coffee shop.”
Guillermo jumped up as if he’d forgotten all about the coffee shop. “Call me when she gets here,” he said.
“Don’t count on it,” Ginger called after him. Then, turning to Crawford, she added, “I think we’ve seen the last of Edith.”
“Don’t say it,” Crawford said. “Don’t even think it.”