One Book in the Grave: A Bibliophile Mystery

clue what to say next. I would have to make it up as I went along, and even Iknew what a bad liar I was. “We were, um, supposed to meet for lunch yesterday, but she never showed up. I just thought I’d take a chance and come by the school to see if she was ill, or if something happened to her, or if—”
     
    I stopped talking abruptly. All that sounded reasonable, but I had a tendency to blather incessantly when I lied, so the less said, the better.
     
    Mrs. Plumley smiled gently. “I’m so sorry she missed your lunch, but no, she’s not ill. Unfortunately, she’s not working, either. She recently took a short leave of absence. Perhaps you could write down your name and number in case she calls in.”
     
    “That’s a good idea.” I pulled out a business card and wrote a quick note on the back.
Emily, call me. Important.
     
    I handed her the card and watched Mrs. Plumley slip it into one of the many message slots that covered one wall.
     
    “There,” she said. “She’ll get the message when she calls in.”
     
    “Thank you. I appreciate your help. Can you tell me how long she’ll be gone?”
     
    She pulled on her lower lip for a moment, then said, “I’m not comfortable giving out that information. I’m sorry.”
     
    “I understand.” And I did. I stood there for a few seconds, hoping inspiration would strike and I would think of another brilliant question to ask the helpful Mrs. Plumley. Something along the lines of, Is Emily still in love with Max Adams? Does she ever talk about him? Or has she finally moved on? Is she happy?
     
    But Mrs. Plumley probably wouldn’t be comfortable giving out that information, either. No other questions came to my mind, and it was probably just as well. I needed to skedaddle, as my mother would say, before I said something stupid and blew my cover.
     
    “Well, you all have a good day,” I said cheerfully, and walked out.
     
    *    *    *
    The GPS in Mom’s car directed me to a street a few blocks off the main square in Sonoma. I came to a stop in front of a pretty house perched behind a vine-strewn fence. I didn’t know why, but Emily’s parents’ house was exactly as I imagined it would be. Touches of fairy-tale allure blended nicely with rustic, wine-country charm. A pretty porch circled the house with a Victorian-style spindle railing, painted white. There were no cars in the driveway and I wondered if anyone was home.
    “Might as well go find out,” I mumbled as I unfastened my seat belt and climbed out of the car. I walked over to the gate that was closed across the driveway and checked the latch. There was a lock on it. Damn. I looked around, wondering if there was some other way to get close to the house. Even if her parents weren’t home, I could snoop around, look inside a window or two. What would Gabriel do in this situation?
     
    “They’re not home,” someone shouted from behind me.
     
    I turned around and saw a young woman standing on the front porch across the street. She was dressed in pajamas and held a tiny baby on her shoulder. It looked like she was trying to burp him.
     
    “Have they been gone all day?” I asked.
     
    “All week’s more like it,” she said. “Maybe longer. I guess they’re on vacation, although I couldn’t say for sure. I haven’t been around much.” She patted the baby’s back. “I’ve been in the hospital on bed rest for the past month, but I came home with this little one, so it was worth it.”
     
    “Congratulations,” I said.
     
    “Thank you. He’s a darling thing.” She turned her head and buried her nose in his little blue blanket. “Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”
     
    From across the street, I heard a long, loud baby belch, and laughed. “He sounds healthy.”
     
    “He sure is,” she said, grinning, then patted his little baby butt. “Yes, he is. Oh yes, he is.”
     
    Oh, dear God.
She sounded like she was talking to the family dog. I guess it worked for babies, too.
     
    “Thanks for your help,” I said, waving. Then I got back in the car and headed for Dharma.
     
    “My day was a bust,” I griped, and slumped in my chair at the kitchen table.
    “Good thing there’s wine,” Dad said, and grinned as he handed me a glass. “Try this. It’s a new Fumé Blanc from Chateau St. Jean. Crisp and smooth with a hint of melon.”
     
    “Sounds yummy,” Mom said, and took a petite sip. “Mm, it is.”
     
    “Thanks, Dad,” I said, accepting the small glass