One Book in the Grave: A Bibliophile Mystery

“Wow.”
     
    “Aren’t they chic?” Melody said as Crystal beamed.“Wait till you see her dried-apple necklaces. They’re true art. If you’re around tomorrow, stop by our booth.”
     
    China raised her hand. “I’ll be there.”
     
    “We’ll be selling our other products, too,” Crystal added.
     
    “I’ll come by, too,” I said. I wanted to pick up more of the olive oil–based cuticle cream they sold. The stuff was golden, especially for me and my propensity for paper cuts. Seriously, if they sold this cream at Bloomie’s, the Byers sisters would be millionaires in a few months.
     
    “Girls, I wonder if you could help me,” Mom said, glancing from one Byers sister to the other.
     
    “We’ll try,” Crystal said, and Melody nodded with enthusiasm.
     
    “I’m looking for someone in the area who reloads their own ammunition cartridges.” Mom leaned in to add confidentially, “I’d like to learn how to do it and maybe cut a little something off our annual hunting budget.”
     
    “I didn’t know you hunted, Mrs. Wainwright,” Melody said.
     
    “Oh yes,” Mom said, waving in an offhand way. “Well, not around here, of course. Jim and I take a trip up toward Yuba City every year and do a little dove hunting.”
     
    “Oh, I love dove,” Crystal said, then blinked and turned to Melody. “Love. Dove. Get it?”
     
    “You’re a poet and didn’t know it, LOL,” Melody said, slapping Crystal’s arm.
     
    “LOL,” Crystal agreed, giggling.
     
    “Girls?” Mom said softly.
     
    “Oh,” Melody said, shaking her head to get back on track. “Sure, we know lots of people. Most of the men in our church have reloading presses. The Ogunites go through a lot of ammo every year. It just makes good sense to load your own.”
     
    I’d forgotten that Melody and Crystal were members of the Church of the True Blood of Ogun, a local church whose members believed in honoring the creative spirit of the earth. That was their story, anyway. Most of themembers tended to be shameless proselytizers with borderline survivalist mentalities.
     
    A few of Guru Bob’s fellowship members referred to the Ogunite church as a cult because some of its teachings were downright bizarre, but I figured the Ogunites probably felt the same way about Guru Bob’s followers. People tend to mistrust anything they don’t understand.
     
    Years ago, my mother had taken us to the small Ogunite church, a charming wood and adobe structure the followers had built themselves from material found in the canyons and valleys of Sonoma. It was part of their teaching that their place of worship reflected the earth on which it stood. They’d fashioned the stained-glass windows from smooth chunks of glass and minerals they’d found in the Russian River nearby. I was young enough at the time of our visit that I held up my hand, thinking I could catch the rainbow of colors streaming through the windows.
     
    Melody and Crystal had never been blatant about trying to convert any of us, so my sisters and I had always been friendly with them.
     
    “Doesn’t Bennie have a new Lock-N-Load?” Melody asked her sister.
     
    “He’s got everything.” Crystal turned to Mom. “He might be willing to teach you, Mrs. Wainwright.”
     
    “Bennie?” Mom said. “I’m not sure I know a Bennie.”
     
    “You know him, Mom,” China said. “He went to school with London.”
     
    “Bennie.” She thought about it. “Benjamin Styles?”
     
    “Yes, that’s him,” Melody said. “He and his friend Stefan have a place halfway up Moon Valley Ridge Road.”
     
    “Stefan’s cute,” Crystal said, and winked at me.
     
    “
Really
cute,” Melody said, nodding emphatically.
     
    “Moon Valley Ridge isn’t too far,” Mom said. “I could drive over to see him.”
     
    Moon Valley Ridge Road skirted a wide, rocky canyon that some of the locals referred to as the Hollow. A number of the Ogunites had built homes in the area. There was a fast-moving stream running through thecanyon that provided plenty of fish and attracted a lot of wildlife, so many of the Hollow residents prided themselves on living off the land. Me, I liked my Frappuccinos.
     
    Melody wrinkled her nose. “Wouldn’t you rather have Mr. Wainwright load the ammo for you? It can get kind of dirty.”
     
    “Oh no,” Mom said in a rush. “He’s so busy working. And besides, I want to surprise him.”
     
    “You can load ammo yourself, Mrs. Wainwright,”