Down

by Kirsten Weiss

  I rang her up and glanced at the crowd milling in the store. It was a crowd, a real crowd. I couldn’t remember seeing so many people in the store outside of a book signing. The customers didn’t give me time to think, much less worry about Van Oss’s murder.

  Karin walked inside. The baby weight had already changed the way she moved, and my chest squeezed, a shroud of worry wrapping around me.

  She frowned in her lightweight blue, knit top and white slacks. Her expression grew abstracted, and I knew she was using her powers of sight on the bookstore.

  “Thank you, come again.” I handed the bag to the woman and slammed the register shut. I hurried around the counter to my sister. “Do you see anything?” I asked in a low voice.

  “Have you done something?” she murmured out of the side of her mouth. “There’s magic here. And what’s with the phones?”

  I went cold. So I’d been right, and this swarm of customers was not natural. “I have no idea what’s going on.”

  “Excuse me?” An older, jowly woman waved a book toward me. “Do you have book three in the series?”

  “In the storeroom,” I said. “I’ll get it.” And to Karin, “I’ll be right back.” I hustled to the storeroom and located the book, the third in a romance trilogy.

  When I returned, Karin stood behind the counter and was signing one of her romance novels for the older woman.

  “…getting married?” the woman exclaimed. “But that’s so romantic, just like something out of one of your novels. How far along are you?”

  “Six months.” Karin pulled the cord from the counter phone. Both front and back phones fell silent. “Fingers crossed the wedding happens before the baby comes.”

  “Here’s that book you wanted,” I said.

  “Imagine running into you in a bookstore,” the woman said to Karin. “I can’t wait to tell my friends.”

  Karin and I shared a look. She was about as comfortable around fans as I was in crowds. Karin didn’t believe she deserved the fans, and couldn’t quite believe it when someone recognized her.

  I sold the fan the books. Three more people lined up to exchange cash for fiction. This should have made me happy. It didn’t.

  “I’ll take the register,” Karin said, pulling up a stool.

  “Excuse me?” a customer waved from the back of the store.

  “Thanks,” I said and hurried to help the man.

  At some point, Jayce wandered in, left, and returned with lunch for the three of us. Karin ate at the register. I grabbed bites in the storeroom whenever I was sent there to retrieve a book.

  Jayce watched, bemused. She wasn’t a book person, but I loved her anyway.

  Finally, the wave of customers ebbed. By three o’clock. the store had cleared out.

  I sagged against the counter. “Wow.”

  “So, little Miss magic-on-people-is-unethical finally broke down,” Jayce said.

  “It is unethical,” I said. “And it wasn’t me!”

  Arching, Karin massaged her lower back. “Then who?”

  A quiver of unease rippled my spine. “And why?” Had someone been trying to keep me here, out of the way?

  We stared at each other, consternation on my sisters’ faces.

  “Toeller?” Karin asked.

  “It has to be,” I said. “She’s the only other person in town with that kind of power.”

  “What happened this morning?” Karin asked. “Tell us everything you can remember.”

  I did, starting with my arrival at the hotel, the vulture spirit, the ghost.

  “The Rose Rabbit told her you’d come?” Jayce asked, her mouth slackening. “What the hell is this thing?”

  “Whatever he is, he looks human,” I said, “even if he is terribly scarred.”

  “But he’s not human,” Karin said. “You said Heath’s head was twisted all the way around. That would have taken a lot of strength or skill, I’d say almost preternatural strength.”

  “You think the Rose Rabbit may have killed him?” My brows drew together.

  “He was there,” she said. “He knew Heath was dead, and he somehow knew your connection to him. If he was a human, the police would be questioning him now.”

  “But he’s not human,” Jayce said. “And what reason would he have to kill a rare bookdealer?”

  “It sounded like Heath was working with someone,” I said. “If that person is here in Doyle, he may have killed him.”

  “I suppose that makes more sense than a rabbit doing it,” Karin said.

  “He’s not a rabbit.” Annoyed, I flapped my hands, skimming a low display. It wobbled, and I grabbed it before it could topple. We were no closer to understanding what the Rabbit was. And, I realized, I didn’t know anything about Van Oss either.

  It was time I found out.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I sat at an outdoor wine bar, my foot swinging restlessly. Main Street’s iron lamps glimmered in the darkness, a picturesque, fairy-tale scene. A ghost carriage clopped down the street. A Jeep zipped through it, and the apparition vanished.

  Couples sat nearby, holding hands. They were a little too close for comfort, but I needed a place that was public and busy on a Saturday night.

  I sipped my hard cider, cool and tangy with a hint of cinnamon. Yum.

  Nervous, I shifted, and the ivory tablecloth brushed the tops of my thighs, tickling.

  Peter and Gretel walked down the street toward me, and I wondered again at how different the two were. He moved at an amble, his top half angled backwards as if he didn’t really want to get where he was going. His loose t-shirt and board shorts sagged around his hips.

  Three steps ahead, Gretel pumped her arms and leaned into a non-existent wind. Even her jaw jutted forward, her sandaled feet making light slapping sounds on the walk. She wore tight, green cargo shorts and a tank that accentuated every supermodel-esque curve.

  I waved.

  They changed direction, angling toward me, but neither changed their pace.

  Gretel arrived first. She jammed her hands on her hips, her chest heaving. “So? We’re here. What do you want?”

  “Do you want anything to drink?” I’d already drunk half my cider to calm my jitters. It seemed to be working. The waves of red-hot annoyance rippling off her didn’t phase me one bit.

  Peter scraped back a metal chair and dropped into it. “You buying?” He eyed me hopefully.

  “Sure,” I said, magnanimous after my half bottle.

  Gretel snorted and clattered into her chair.

  I handed Peter the wine list, but Gretel snatched it out of his hand.

  He shrugged. “I’ll get the usual.”

  Nose twitching, she scanned the menu, then returned it to her husband.

  I motioned for a waitress wearing a short apron low about her hips.

  The two ordered, Gretel managing to find the most expensive wine on the menu. Fortunately, Peter got a local beer.

  Gretel folded her arms. “So? What do you want?” She enunciated each word, speaking slowly as if I were stupid.

  “Did you hear Mr. Pivens was in the hospital?” I asked.

  Peter started. “The hospital? What happened?”

  His surprise seemed genuine. Either he’d broken in and was doing a good job faking it, or he hadn’t heard. The latter was most likely. Van Oss had probably been the burglar. And Peter and Gretel had never made much effort to integrate into our small town. Even if they had, Pivens, from Angels Camp, wasn’t one of us. I guessed that made him lucky.

  “Someone broke into Mike’s house while Mr. Pivens was inside,” I said. “He had a heart attack.” I hoped they wouldn’t ask for more details. Mentioning I’d been inside with the lawyer wouldn’t make them any happier.

  They didn’t ask.

  “So what does that mean for us?” Peter asked.

  “As long as there’s a cloud over Mike’s death, no one will get their inheritances.” I wasn’t sure if this was true, but my words had the predicted
effect.

  Gretel jerked forward in her chair. “Cloud? There’s no cloud. It’s all in your head that anything’s wrong with his death.”

  “I didn’t imagine the break-in at Mike’s,” I said. “There was a break-in at the bookstore as well. Now that bookdealer, Van Oss, is dead too, murdered.”

  The waitress returned and set the drinks in front of Peter and Gretel. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Yeah,” Peter said, “the bruschetta plate. Gretel? You want anything?”

  “I’ll take the mushrooms,” she said.

  I ground my teeth. These two were determined to milk me for everything they could, but I was only a bookseller and poet... One who might have a million-dollar book on her hands.

  Swallowing, I smiled, nodded.

  The waitress disappeared into the wine bar.

  “How much longer do you think it’ll take?” Peter asked me.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “The hospital expects to release Mr. Pivens soon.” But worry gnawed like a mouse. This morning I’d learned he’d contracted pneumonia. It’s the sort of thing that happens to old people in hospitals, but had Doc Toeller played a role? I sipped my cider to calm myself, enjoying the lassitude stealing through my limbs. “He would have hired someone to investigate, but he can’t now. So it’s up to us.”

  Gretel crossed her slender arms. “We don’t have the money for a P.I. If you want one, you hire him.”

  “I don’t have any either,” I said. “You know what my salary was.”

  Peter’s mouth twisted. “And I don’t guess you make much as a poet.”

  “I thought it would be helpful if we could retrace the twenty-four hours leading up to Mike’s death,” I said. “I was off the day before he died. When did Mike get to the bookstore that Wednesday? What do you remember from the day before he died?”

  They looked at each other for a long moment. Gretel’s brow furrowed.

  I held my breath. Had I miscalculated? Had my appeal to their greed been too obvious?

  “He got to the bookstore before I did,” Peter said, and my breath released.

  “What time did you arrive?” I asked.

  “Around noon.” He rolled his eyes. “You know the bookstore doesn’t get busy before then anyway.”

  I knew Peter was supposed to be there when the bookstore opened at ten. “Did he talk to anyone? Were there any unusual customers or events?”

  Gretel made a noise of disgust. “That Alba came in, crazy as ever, ranting about the government and Britney Spears. She knocked over one of our displays with her damned sign.”

  “Intentionally?” My eyes widened.

  “No,” she said, “but what did she expect would happen when she dragged that huge sandwich board into the bookstore?”

  “Did she talk to Mike?” I asked.

  Peter grinned. “Alba never talks to people. She talks at people. Mike managed to finally get her out. I don’t know what he said to her.”

  “He told her he was working on it.” Gretel shook her head. “Humoring her.”

  “Working on what?” I asked.

  “Does it matter?” Peter drawled. “He was humoring her. And then...”

  The waitress bustled to our table, a tray in her arms. She set three small plates and the mushrooms and bruschetta between us. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “I’ll have another glass of wine,” Gretel said.

  My fingers twitched on the tablecloth. Did Gretel have to be such a fast drinker with the most expensive wine on the menu?

  “I’m good,” Peter said. “You Lenore?”

  I blinked, surprised by the courtesy. But he was ordering with my money. “Nothing for me, thanks.”

  The waitress left, and the couple got busy with the food.

  “You were saying, Peter?” I asked.

  “Huh?” Chunks of tomato slid from his bruschetta and plopped onto the ivory tablecloth.

  “After Alba left,” I said, swallowing my impatience, “did something happen?”

  “Oh, right.” He chewed noisily, bread crusts snapping and crunching. “That bookdealer showed up.”

  “So Thursday wasn’t the first time they’d met.” That made sense. If Heath really had given a book to Mike to value – which I doubted – that must have happened on Wednesday. And if he hadn’t…? “Did he have a book with him?”

  “I didn’t see one,” Peter said.

  “Did it look like they knew each other?” I asked.

  Peter tilted his head, his brow scrunching in thought. “I wouldn’t say so. What did you think, Gretel?”

  “They didn’t know each other,” Gretel said. “Mike looked confused, kind of wary, when the guy held out his hand to shake.”

  “Did you see Van Oss with a book?”

  “Nope,” she said.

  Van Oss had sold Mike a book of American folktales years ago. Gretel and Peter had to be wrong wrong. Or lying. I leaned back in my chair, putting more distance between us.

  “Mike didn’t like him.” Gretel popped a buttery mushroom into her mouth.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I could just tell,” she said. “He was leaning away from the guy, like you are from us now.”

  My face warmed, and I laced my hands over my stomach.

  She laughed, a harsh, unpleasant sound like the cawing of crows. “There’s no sense in pretending. You don’t like us, and we don’t like you.” She tapped her index finger on the table. “But we deserve our inheritance.” She raised her finger, leaving a faint blot of oil on the white cloth.

  “What happened next?” I asked.

  Gretel shrugged her narrow shoulders. “That sexy bald councilman came in–”

  “Steve Woodley?” I asked.

  “I guess so,” she said. “Silver hair? Goatee? Looks like that Star Trek guy, Patrick Stewart? Anyway, Van Oss left, and Mike went to lunch with the councilman while we got stuck at the bookstore.”

  “So that must have been, what?” I asked. “Around one o’clock?”

  “I guess,” Peter said, negligent. He stretched his long legs beneath the table and bumped into my ankle.

  It had been a busy noon hour for Mike – crazy Alba, the bookdealer, and then Steve Woodley to the rescue.

  “What time did Mike return?” I asked.

  Gretel’s brows slashed downward. “He came back at two-fifteen. We had to wait before we could go to lunch.”

  They’d had to work an entire two hours and fifteen minutes before taking their lunch break. Poor Mike. I didn’t know how he’d put up with them.

  “Don’t look at us like that,” Gretel snapped.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Like you’re better than us.”

  “I wasn’t–”

  “Oh, yes you were. We put up with your high and mighty attitude for years, and I for one am glad we don’t have to anymore.”

  “Gretel,” Peter said in a low voice, and she subsided. “So we got back from lunch around three-thirty,” he continued. “Mike took an extra fifteen minutes, so I figured we deserved it as well. And then we sold a few books, and closed up at seven.”

  “Who did you sell books to?” I asked.

  “A couple tourists came in. That guy your sister’s engaged to–”

  “Nick?” I asked, surprised.

  “He had a book on order. Mike took care of it.”

  “What was the book about?”

  He raised a lazy brow. “How should I know? Why don’t you ask him?”

  Annoyed, I jerked down the hem of my white, cotton top. “I will. Anyone else from Doyle come in that you recognized?”

  “Some guys from the high school buying their gaming books,” he said. “They dropped a load of cash – all sweaty, crumpled bills. Must be nice to have an allowance.”

  “Maybe they have a job?” I motioned to the waitress, and she wove through the packed tables.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “May I have the chec
k please?”

  She consulted her small, black leather folder and drew out a bill. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” I scanned the bill and my stomach plunged. I hoped the information the Gallins had given me was worth the price.

  *****

  Nine o’clock. Saturday night. I should have just gone home after meeting with Peter and Gretel, but a sense of urgency drove me. So I strode down Main Street’s uneven sidewalk, careful to lift my feet so I didn’t stumble in the darkness. Doyle was a small town. If Mike and Steve had eaten here, their lunch possibilities were limited.

  I darted into Antoine’s Bar, packed to the gills. The juke box blared a country tune. I hunched my shoulders against the crowd.

  Raucous drinkers brushed against me, stood in my path. Karin was the sister who saw auras and connections, but even I could sense the dark hunger of the bar’s patrons.

  Jayce and her boyfriend, Brayden, sat holding hands across a small, wooden table in the old-west bar.

  Fractionally, my muscles relaxed. I’d found allies. I squeezed through the crowd to their table.

  Brayden leapt to his feet, towering over me. He swept his dark hair off his brow, and he smoothed the front of his green t-shirt, taut against his broad chest. “Lenore! Can we get you a chair?”

  I looked around. “Good luck finding one.”

  “Take mine,” he said. “I was about to get another beer. Jayce? Lenore? You want anything?”

  We shook our heads, and he vanished into the sea of people.

  “What are you doing here?” Jayce shouted over the roar of the crowd.

  I took his wooden chair and sat. “I need to find the waitress who was here Wednesday at lunch, a week and a half ago.”

  “Why?” Jayce asked.

  “Mike may have had lunch here with Steve Woodley. I’m trying to retrace his steps, find out who he talked to, the day before he died.” I looked to the bar, and my shoulders sagged. It was hopeless. I’d have to return tomorrow, during the day, or maybe even on Wednesday. But I could feel the clock ticking down. We were running out of time.

  “Maybe I can help.” Jayce closed her eyes, lowering her head and smiling, and I felt it. A subtle, sensual energy flowed from her and flooded the room.