One Book in the Grave: A Bibliophile Mystery

mentioned.”
     
    “The True Blood of Ogun?”
     
    “Yes.” He frowned. “Seems I’ve heard of that group before.”
     
    “You have.” I smiled. “Do you remember Mary Ellen Prescott, your new best friend at Abraham Karastovsky’s memorial service?”
     
    He thought for a moment. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
     
    I laughed and reminded him of how Mary Ellen had tried to convert him. It’s what happened when you let your guard down around Dharma.
     
    He shook his head. “That’ll teach me to wander too far from you at those affairs.” He glanced around the table. “Now, where were we?”
     
    “According to Crystal,” I said, “Angelica is still living with Solomon. But also according to Crystal, Angelica cheats on him. I’m wondering if she has her own place somewhere.”
     
    “I’ll check it out,” Gabriel said.
     
    “Good,” I said. “Maybe you’ll find the rifle she used.”
     
    “If it was she who shot at us,” Derek added.
     
    Max sat forward, his hands clutching the arms of his chair. “There has to be a way to find out where Emily’s gone. Can one of you go to her school? Or her parents’ house? I can track down their address.”
     
    They all turned and looked at me.
Well, why not?
     
    “I’m on it,” I said.
     

Chapter 17
     
    The next day, while Derek looked into the survivalists’ weapons arsenals and Gabriel went off to find out if Angelica had her own place somewhere, I drove north to Windy Bluff Elementary School on the outskirts of Santa Rosa.
    I had no idea if Emily still worked there or what I was going to say to her if and when I found her. I mean, how did you just walk up to someone and announce, “Remember that guy you were engaged to, and he died? Well, not so much.” Yeah, this was going to be tough no matter how I looked at it.
     
    Luckily for me, I arrived between classes, so the hall was packed and nobody thought to stop me. Walking past the rows of miniature lockers that lined the walls of the long, artificially lit corridor, I wove my way through gaggles of kids who were dressed much more fashionably than I had ever been able to manage.
     
    Through the reinforced glass in the door of a classroom, I spied a room filled with desks for little people and a wall of alphabet-strewn blackboards—and shuddered.
     
    I wasn’t one of those kids who loved school. I liked my friends and I liked spelling bees and I enjoyed a few of my teachers, but I wasn’t what you’d call a whiz kid. No, I didn’t turn into a super achiever until I reachedhigh school and realized that if I excelled, I could actually go to a school that would allow me to obtain a degree in book arts. And then my bookbinding would be considered a real career. At that point, my desire to excel became insatiable.
     
    But this long walk down the hall brought back some less-than-pleasant memories from the early years. And why was it, I wondered, that grammar schools all seemed to smell the same? Chalk dust, fruity-flavored gum—in my day it was Fruit Stripe Gum—and a hint of gym socks. Back in my time, the scent of the mimeograph machine permeated the air, but those days were gone.
     
    I brushed those thoughts away as I finally came to the door of the administration office. Walking inside, I watched while three women behind a counter busily carried out the duties of running a school while teachers and students came and went. I didn’t see any reason to interrupt them, since I still wasn’t sure what I would ask them.
     
    After a few minutes, the door to an inner office opened and an attractive, well-dressed woman walked out. She looked at least ten years older than me, but maybe it was the outfit that added a few extra years. She wore a plain black suit with chunky black heels, a crisp white blouse, and a gray-and-black-striped ribbon tie at the collar. The only word to describe it was
matronly
.
     
    “Are you waiting to see me?” she asked.
     
    “You’re the school principal?”
     
    She nodded. “I’m Mrs. Plumley.”
     
    “Nice to meet you,” I said, smiling. “I’m looking for Emily Branigan.”
     
    She frowned slightly, and I knew right away this was a tough principal. I felt sorry for any kid who was sent to this office. Mrs. Plumley, despite her sweet name, was a no-nonsense kind of woman.
     
    “Is there a problem?” she wondered.
     
    “Oh no. I’m an old friend of hers.” That much was true, anyway, but I didn’t have a