I do not believe they’ve run out of surprises.
—Larry Niven
THE NEXT DAY, I woke with a smile on my face. Quite a change from the heart-pounding terror Jack had left me with the last time he shared his memories of a case.
I was glad things ended well for Dorothy Moreland and Harry Macklin. It started my day on a bright note. Pushing aside my window curtains, I let in the morning sunshine.
While the warmth was pleasant, it was empty.
Jack was gone again.
Since I had no new leads, a son to get off to school, and a bookstore to run, I decided (for once) to trust Deputy Chief Franzetti and his fellow officers on the QPD to do more than write citations for every business on Cranberry Street.
Maybe the “professionals” would actually track down the driver of the van that nearly killed my friend. Until they did, however, my worries would continue.
I wasn’t the only one concerned for Professor Parker’s safety. Last night, Seymour insisted on his old friend sleeping over at Tarnish Mansion. Typically, Brainert would have declined such an offer (in a microsecond), but last night he actually accepted the invitation.
Obviously, Brainert was shaken up by the mounting stack of evidence that someone had intentionally run over Kevin Ridgeway, tossed Emma Hudson over her balcony, and was now out to “disappear” him.
Though our bookshop wouldn’t open for another thirty minutes, Aunt Sadie was already working at her computer, Amy by her side.
Today’s lesson was how to process book returns.
After getting Spencer off to school, I brought down a fresh a pot of tea and a plate of toasted English muffins with jam made from locally grown raspberries. The ladies grinned when they saw the goodies.
While we all munched, Amy continued her schooling, and I called Brainert and Seymour. Turns out they were having breakfast, too.
“Hey, Pen. Hold on a second . . .” In a muffled voice, I heard Seymour speak to Brainert. “If you don’t like what’s on the table, there’s more cereal in the cupboard!”
Then Seymour put us on speakerphone.
“How are you two doing?” I asked.
“Great, Pen,” Seymour replied. “Brainert’s still selecting his breakfast—”
“There’s nothing in this cupboard but two more boxes of Froot Loops!”
“Sorry, buddy, I must be out of Cap’n Crunch.”
“We’ll have to stop at the student cafeteria,” Brainert huffed, “so I can eat something nutritious.”
“We?” I said.
“Yeah,” Seymour admitted, “I took some stockpiled personal days to bodyguard Professor Parker, twenty-four seven.”
“And he’s letting you?”
“We’ll see how it goes,” Brainert replied. “The mailman has already thrown me off schedule. I haven’t eaten breakfast and I have a ten o’clock class.”
I knew the day might be trying for Brainert, but I was relieved that Seymour would be with him, watching his back.
As the day progressed, the sunny sky grayed and clouds rolled in. Winds kicked up, stirring the trees, as intermittent drizzle streaked our store widows.
Just after lunchtime, I noticed Amy pulling boxes out from under the front counter. “Ms. Thornton,” she called to Sadie. “There are three boxes of returns here. Not two.”
“Let me take a look, honey.” As I checked each box, I realized one did not contain returns. It held books from the personal library of Amy’s father. Of course, I didn’t wish to upset the girl, so I said nothing.
Instead, I sent Amy back to Sadie with one of the other two boxes. When she was gone, I had a thought—and decided to check Kevin’s box more thoroughly.
The gold mine of first editions was still there, along with the six copies of Shades of Leather. A strip of brown paper lined the bottom of the box, and I pulled everything out to see if (crossed fingers!) a vintage St. Francis folder was underneath with maybe a stack of photocopied diary pages.
Alas, no luck.
I did notice a Post-it note in the stack, flagging a page in one of the books, so I pulled the volume out.
As thunder rumbled in the distance, I scanned the title of the out-of-print hardcover by Daniel P. Maddox, Arms and Armor of the Middle Ages, its ominous black dust jacket well-worn and partially torn.
I didn’t expect to find anything of use, but I checked the flagged page anyway, and found a note, written in an unfamiliar hand, tucked inside:
Kevin,
The villain is too easy on our heroine. The scene is a dud. He wants Justine dead and plans to do it with a sharp blade. On this page you’ll find illustrations of a few dirks, stilettos, and daggers. Pick one, and I’ll run with it. I’ll also revise the previous erotic scene to include your weapon of choice.
Holy cow! I wanted to cry out, but with Kevin’s daughter in the shop, I held my tongue. Justine was the name of the heroine in Shades of Leather, and I remembered the scene with the dagger. It came early in the novel.
Unfortunately, this telling note wasn’t signed.
As I flipped around the pages, looking for more evidence, I realized this volume carried a bookplate. There, in bold, black print, was the name of the book’s owner, and it wasn’t Kevin Ridgeway, though it was a name I quickly recognized—SHIRLEY ANTHOR.
“Professor Shirley Anthor,” I whispered. The same petite, middle-aged medieval scholar who’d given the Arthurian lecture for Brainert’s film series. The same Shirley Anthor who last night mentioned an out-of-print book she had “no chance of recovering.”
Was it this very book?
Suddenly, I was enveloped in a swirling cocoon of cold air.
That’s some co-co-coincidence, baby—if I believed in coincidence.
“It’s about to rain outside, Jack, but I think it’s already raining in Reno! Professor Shirley Anthor just might be our third ghostwriter.”
MIGHT is right, because it’s not a fact yet. That note ain’t signed. Remember what I taught you?
“I remember, Jack. Theories are fine to start, but the case don’t end till you find hard evidence.”
That’s right, sweetheart. So let’s go find it.