“If he was the one who broke in.”
“Peter had a key to the house,” I said. “He wouldn’t need to break in. He had a key to the bookstore too. There was no reason for him to break in there–”
“Whoa.” Her expression tightened. “Someone broke into the bookstore? You didn’t tell me that.”
“I discovered it this morning. The storeroom was trashed, and it looked like someone had tried to get into the locked drawer beneath the register.”
“But not the register itself?” she asked.
“No. So they definitely weren’t after cash, they were after the book or information. Peter and Gretel could have faked a break-in in both places to throw suspicion away from them.”
“Maybe.”
We stood in silence, pondering that.
In the distance, that uncanny bell tolled, long and mournful. A cold wave of fear raised the flesh on our arms.
Jayce blanched and gulped the rest of her beer. Across Doyle, people would be shutting windows, children pulling covers over their heads. We’d all be looking anywhere but at each other, remembering the missing twenty-two.
“We’re running out of time,” I said in a low voice.
“I know that. I know that!” Jayce paced. “Nick and Brayden have been threatening to fill in the fairy spring.”
“Can they do that?” I asked, horrified and intrigued.
“I don’t know how they can, but Nick’s frantic. He knows Karin doesn’t have much time left. She’s been able to talk him out of it, so far. Karin said if the spring’s filled in, they may never be able to get the disappeared back.”
And one of the disappeared was Nick’s sister, Emily. “Do you think she’s right?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I’m not sure filling in the spring would work,” I said slowly. “The spring may be Doc Toeller’s way of passing between the worlds, but she’s in ours now. And I don’t think she’d react well if the spring was attacked.”
She brandished her empty beer bottle. “We have to do something!”
“Filling in the spring could make things worse.”
“But we don’t know that.”
“We don’t know enough of anything,” I said. And that was our problem. I glanced at the ceiling, thinking of the attic above. My mother hadn’t borne triplets by accident. If the three of us together couldn’t defeat this curse, then no one had a chance.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Van Oss haunted Doyle.
I saw him when I glanced out the window of the bookstore. I saw him when I browsed for food at our local grocery store. I saw him on the street, lounging in a sidewalk café. And I didn’t know what to do.
I wasn’t a detective. Worse, my shamanic skills were failing. I don’t know where I was going wrong. Every night I tried to call Mike, and every night other spirits came. One wouldn’t leave until I’d called her daughter and told her a story about a barbeque at the Grand Canyon. Another insisted I tell his wife about a photo that had fallen behind a sofa. There was no question of ignoring them. The barriers around my aunt’s house had lost their potency. The ghosts came and went as they wished. All I could do was their bidding.
And I still hadn’t been able to find the mysterious book of American folklore Van Oss claimed he’d given Mike, or the one Van Oss had sold him. The man came into the bookstore at least once a day, asking after it, and denied ever having sold Mike a book. But my feeling grew that there was more to his persistence than a folklore book.
Van Oss was lying.
I’d researched the three “maybe million-dollar” books, but the going was slow. I didn’t know what I was doing and had grown too paranoid to reach out to another expert. Certainly not to Van Oss. He’d offered his services in inventorying Mike’s collection to “speed the process.”
I’d declined.
Mike’s mysterious notebook revealed nothing new except another one of my poems, in my own hand. Spooked, I’d turned to researching the folklore book listed in Mike’s ledger from Van Oss – The Folk and Fairy Tales of America. The rare booksellers I’d phoned told me the book wasn’t worth more than a few thousand dollars, at best. It didn’t make sense for Van Oss to linger so persistently for a book of that value.
Peter and Gretel seemed to be stalking me. I’d offered Peter a job. Thankfully, he’d declined, his face twisted with resentment. Gretel seemed to have taken up a post on a chair outside the bakery across the street. She made no secret of watching me, glaring furiously whenever I walked out the bookstore’s front door.
I changed the locks.
Friday evening, I turned the bookshop signed to closed and locked the front door. I slumped against the glass, my back to Gretel’s angry gaze. It had been a good day for sales, but I was glad it was over.
Gretel’s fury burning twin holes in my side, I removed the cash tray from the register. I hurried into the storage room and closed the door behind me, locking that as well.
The work day wasn’t over. I still had to do a cash count, organize the sales receipts, do a quick inventory check.
The bookstore was too much for one person. I needed help, but I hesitated on setting out a HELP WANTED sign. Mike had been able to employ me, but he’d had a second income stream. I knew the bookstore business well enough, but uncertainty niggled at me.
Someone banged on the rear door, and I jumped in my chair, slamming my knees on the underside of the desk. “Ow.”
“Lenore? You in there?” Jayce shouted.
Relaxing, I went to the alley door, unlocked it. “Hey, what’s going on?”
“Your phone’s dead.” She strolled into the storeroom, shoved aside the cash tray, and plopped onto the desk. “And Brayden’s bailed on me for the concert tonight. Want to come?”
“I’m kind of busy.”
She fixed me with her gaze. “Lenore?”
“Ye-es?”
“You need to get over your thing about crowds.”
“Why? I live in a small town. Crowds are easy to avoid.”
She sighed. “Because it’s good for the soul. Besides, this is one of your favorite bands.”
“I don’t have a favorite band.”
“Well, it’s one of my favorites, and you need a break.” She grasped my hand and tugged me toward the door.
Laughing, I resisted. “Jayce, I can’t just leave.”
“I’ll do the cash count.”
Maybe she was right. Maybe I did need to get over it. “All right. You take the cash. I’ll do the receipts.”
We finished in under an hour, and I followed Jayce home. She changed into her concert style – extra makeup, wild, blown-out hair, an emerald tank top over cut offs, and wedge sandals. I stuffed an Agatha Christie in my purse and went as is. I had no one to impress, and I wanted to relax. Dressing up wasn’t relaxing.
Jayce nominated me designated driver, and I drove us both down the highway and lower into the foothills. The pines made way for rolling hills carpeted with tall golden grass and twisted oaks.
I followed a line of cars into a dirt parking area. Vineyards climbed the nearby hills. Triangular flags fluttered above the arched, wooden entrance to the concert grounds.
We joined the mass of people, and I pulled in my psychic antennae, dampening my aura so I wouldn’t feel as much of the crowd’s energy. Unfortunately, this had the dual effect of making me less noticeable. Shoulders hunched, I stood in line for wine and snacks, and got bumped and jostled from every direction.
Finally, we escaped the whirlwind of people and strolled into the natural bowl that made up the stadium.
Jayce unfurled a soft, plaid blanket on a spot on the hill, and we sat, our territory marked.
“Why couldn’t Brayden come?” I asked, pulling my book from my purse.
She glared. “Seriously? You brought a book?”
“The light’s still good enough to read.”
“Put. It. Away.”
I did.
Jayce popped
a cheese-covered nacho into her mouth. “And to answer your question, Brayden’s shift was changed. One of the other paramedics is having a baby.”
“Who?”
We gossiped about our fellow townsfolk, and for a time the world seemed normal. The deepening dusk turned the distant mountains cobalt. A red-tailed hawk wheeled above the crowds. The band set up onstage to the occasional clatter of cymbals and thrum of a base guitar.
The venue attracted people from all over – but it was easy to spot the folks from Doyle. First, because I knew them – it was a small town. Second, because we all had a faint gleam about us, a shimmer, dulling around the edges, and that strange, too-perfect skin. No sun spots or blemishes or dark circles beneath the eyes for us. The fairy’s glamour enforced perfection.
No one else seemed to notice our oddness though. Or maybe they did, I thought uneasily. The people from Doyle clustered in small groups on the lawn. No one encroached on their space. I looked around. No one encroached on our blanket either. Other concertgoers jammed ass to elbow against each other, blankets overlapping.
Jayce stretched out her long legs and crossed her ankles. “What’s wrong?” She waved at a group of men I didn’t recognize, and they waved back. One made his way toward us.
“Nothing.” I didn’t want my mood to ruin the concert for Jayce. Burnt out of house and business last winter, she needed fun more than I did.
The man dropped down on the blanket, and he and Jayce engaged in easy conversation.
I watched them out of the corner of my eyes. He was into her, but she had a boyfriend and maintained a pleasantly neutral air. I doubted he caught the subtlety. Men rarely did when it came to Jayce.
The opening act stormed onstage. Anything I might have added to the conversation was obliterated in the twang of guitars and clatter of drums. The band was good, and I relaxed back on my elbows.
Half-way into the set, I jolted upright.
In his usual button up shirt and slacks, Heath Van Oss trudged up the narrow trail toward the concession stands. The bookdealer paused, his dark head turning as if he was searching for someone, and then he continued on. What was he doing here? Meeting someone? Did he know someone in Doyle aside from Mike?
I touched Jayce’s arm, and she turned.
“What’s up?” she said. At least, I think that’s what she said. Her mouth was moving, but her words were lost in the roar of sound.
“Heath Van Oss is here!”
“What?”
“Heath Van Oss!”
“Something to eat?”
“NO, Heath!”
She shook her head. “Chili fries!” And she turned back to the concert.
I lumbered to my feet.
Van Oss crested the grassy hill. Soon he’d disappear from sight.
I hurried after him.
He vanished over the rise.
I ran. Panting, I reached the top of the hill and raced down the dirt track to the concession stands. The hill behind me muted the sounds of the concert. People milled the grounds chatting, standing in line for food and wine. “Where are you?” I muttered.
And then I saw him, striding toward the exit. I trotted after Van Oss, not much worried about being seen. There were too many music fans moving between us.
He held a cell phone clasped to one ear and walked behind a blue-painted popcorn stand. I edged past the food line and around the corner of the stand.
The bookdealer was speaking, but his words were obscured by the music and babble. I tiptoed to the rear corner of the stand and pressed my back against its peeling paint.
“...think I gave the old guy a heart attack,” Heath was saying.
I froze, my heart thumping. Was he talking about Mr. Pivens?
“…This is taking too long, and I’m tired of getting jerked around. You told me you’d be here... I’ve searched the store and the house. If he’s put it somewhere else...” His voice hardened. “That’s your problem. You want me to do the job, the price is going up... Fine.... Fine.” He hung up and swore.
I edged backward and stepped on a plastic cup. It cracked, brittle, making a sound like a whip.
He cursed again.
I scuttled toward the back of a food line.
He grasped my arm and yanked me to a halt. His smooth skin was an angry mask. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought I saw you,” I stammered. The people in line either hadn’t noticed he’d grabbed me or were pretending not to see. “I came to speak to you, but then I saw you making a call, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”
Abruptly, he released my arm. “Speak to me about what? Did you find the book?”
“You never told me the title of the book, but I haven’t found anything yet to do with American folklore.”
He stared down at me, his classically handsome features marred by disdain. “The Folk and Fairy Tales of America,” he finally said, “by Ichabod Langley.”
“I did see mention of that book in Mike’s records. According to the ledger, you sold him that book two years ago?”
“That was a different edition.”
“I thought it was a vanity printing. I’m surprised there was more than one edition.”
He sneered. “If you knew anything about the business, you’d know Mark Twain vanity published. Where have you looked for it? I heard the old man kept his best books locked tight in a secret location.”
My face heated. “Did he tell you that?”
“He didn’t have to. He collected rare, occult books. Of course he’s got a hidey-hole. All rare bookdealers are nuts, haven’t you heard?” He smiled wickedly, a smile that almost made me like him. “And yeah, that includes me. He’s probably got it hidden beneath a loose floorboard or in a secret desk drawer.”
“I’ll keep looking,” I said.
“Do that.” He turned on his well-shod heel and strode away.
I slumped against the stand. He was working with someone, someone most likely in Doyle. I didn’t believe him about the two books, but it should be easy to check if there was more than one edition of The Folk and Fairy Tales of America.
Deep in thought, I walked through the concession stands toward the arena.
“Lenore!”
I turned at the crest of the hill. The music pounded, rolling through me.
Connor jogged to my side, his smile wide, his teeth brilliant white against his olive skin. “Hey,” he shouted. “I didn’t think you were going to come.” The v of his band t-shirt revealed a muscular chest covered in crisp, black hair. A navy, fleece jacket was slung over one shoulder. His battered jeans hung loose about his lean hips.
“Jayce talked me into it,” I said, unable to stop myself from smiling. “Connor, I just saw Heath Van Oss–”
“Who?” He put his hand to his ear and shook his head. “Sorry.” He motioned me down the hill, away from the band.
Beside a cart selling red plastic cups of wine, he paused. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you. What were you saying?”
“Heath Van Oss. The bookdealer. He’s here.”
“Everyone’s here.” He motioned toward the milling crowd.
“I overheard Van Oss talking to someone on the phone. He said he nearly gave the old man a heart attack. I think he was the one who broke into Mike’s house.”
His eyes darkened. “What exactly did you hear?”
I closed my eyes, remembering. “He said, I think I gave the old guy a heart attack. And then he said it was taking too long. He was tired of being jerked around. He’d searched the house and store, and if the person wanted him to keep looking, the price was going up. He was angry. Or at least annoyed.”
Connor’s mouth compressed. “All right. It’s not enough for me to take to the sheriff or bring him in for questioning. But I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
Relieved, I pressed my hand to my heart. He was taking my information seriously. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Even if he did break in, he’ll deny it, and I won’t be abl
e to do anything without evidence.”
“Can’t you take his fingerprints?”
“Didn’t you tell me the burglar wore gloves?”
I slumped. “Oh. Right.”
“But I’m curious about this guy now. It will give me an excuse to talk to him.” He looked around. “So where’s Jayce?”
I smiled tightly. I wasn’t jealous. Connor could like whoever he wanted. But even when Jayce had a steady boyfriend, Karin and I stood in her shadow. It wasn’t Jayce’s fault. It was just who and what she was. “On our blanket. Do you want to join us?”
“Why not? Lead the way.” He grasped my hand, and I started at his touch.
Warmth flowed up my arm and into my heart. Wordless, I led him to our blanket, and we sat. The stranger was still stretched beside Jayce but focused on the band. She wasn’t paying attention to him. The band waved, and the crowd applauded. Blessed quiet fell.
Jayce turned and smiled when we sat on the blanket. Her smile reversed. “Where are my chili fries?”
I rolled my eyes.
“What?” she asked. “I thought you were getting food.”
“I can grab something,” Connor said.
She eyed us. “No, I’ll go.” Jayce sprang to her feet. “Come on,” she ordered her acolyte, and he followed her up the hill.
Connor lay on the blanket and stared at the sky, dimmed by the concert lights. “I finished that book you suggested. I liked it. The writing didn’t get in the way of the plot.”
“It’s not supposed to.” But I liked that he’d noticed.
He shrugged. “You know what I mean. So when’s your next chap book of poetry coming out?”
“I’m not sure.” Since we’d first heard the words “Rose Rabbit,” ideas had been bubbling in my head and pouring out my pen. I wasn’t sure when they’d stop. I had enough for a chap book now – you only needed nineteen poems or so. But how had one of those poems found its way into Mike’s ledger in my handwriting? A chill rippled my skin.
“Are you cold?” Rising, he shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to me.
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