One Book in the Grave: A Bibliophile Mystery

phone number for her, but she might’ve moved away by now.”
     
    “Google her,” he said. “Or check Facebook.”
     
    “Yeah. Or maybe I’ll just call Information.”
     
    “You’re so old school sometimes.”
     
    I smiled as I covered the book in its tissue wrap and slid it into my bag.
     
    “Be careful with that,” he said, watching my moves. “If I told you what I paid for it…” He shook his head in misery.
     
    “So tell me.”
     
    With a look of disgust, he said, “Twelve thousand. And I considered that an awesome deal until you came along and popped my beautiful balloon.”
     
    “You’re insured,” I pointed out. “It’s a write-off.”
     
    “You’re a cold woman, Brooklyn Wainwright.”
     
    It felt good to laugh.
     
    “As soon as you leave,” he said as he walked me to the door, “I’m going to call Joe and have a little talk with him about conducting better due diligence on his clients.”
     
    “I’ll be glad to tell him for you,” I said, “because I’m driving over to see him right now.”
     
    “You are?”
     
    “Yeah. I want to find out who sold the book to him.” I figured that even if Joe didn’t get the seller’s real name, he would at least be able to give me a description of whoever had sold the book to him.
     
    Ian had a weird look on his face. “I just remembered something Joe told me. He said the seller had urged him to call the Covington Library to see if we wanted the book, and that’s why he came to me first.”
     
    “Maybe they heard you were starting the children’sgallery.” I frowned. “But why wouldn’t the seller just call you himself?”
     
    “I don’t know.” Ian pursed his lips in thought. “Is it because I’m so intimidating?”
     
    I chuckled, then let go and laughed out loud. “Yeah, right. Not.”
     
    Affronted, he glared at me. “I am.”
     
    “Mm-hmm,” I said, reaching for the door handle.
     
    He shrugged. “To everyone but you, apparently.”
     
    “You just keep on believing that, sweetie,” I said, and stretched up to kiss him on the cheek. “Talk to you soon.”
     
    Back in my car, I took a chance and called Information in Sonoma County for Emily’s phone number. The mobile operator gave me the number of an Emily Branigan in the Santa Rosa area. I don’t know why I’d thought it would be so difficult to track her down. It hadn’t even been three years. She might be teaching at the same grammar school.
    I punched in the number and got her voice mail. At least, it sounded like Emily’s sweet, birdlike voice, and it gave me a chill to hear her familiar tones. I didn’t say why I was calling; I just left my name and number and asked her to call me back.
     
    Pulling away from the curb, I drove down Pacific, skirting the Presidio until I could zigzag over to Arguello and head for the Richmond District. A number of used bookstores were miraculously still thriving in a five-block stretch of Clement Street. I drove past Joseph Taylor Fine Books and parked a half block away.
     
    When I got to the door of Joe’s bookstore, I saw a sign hanging in the window of the door.
     
    BE BACK SOON—GODOT
     
    It caught me by surprise and I had to read it twice before I started to laugh.
     
    I must’ve just missed him,
I thought, glancing up and down the sidewalk. He couldn’t have gone far, maybe just down the street for a sandwich.
     
    Then it occurred to me that he might keep that sign up all the time, just for laughs. So I twisted the doorknob and the door opened easily.
     
    “Joe?” I called as I stepped inside. There was no answer, but maybe he was back in the stockroom. I knew he wouldn’t mind if I ventured inside.
     
    The first thing I did when the door shut behind me was close my eyes and inhale the lovely, musty scent of aged leather and vellum. I hated that so many rare-book stores were disappearing faster than the northern spotted owl, so whenever I got the chance to walk inside one of the few stores left in the city, my senses jumped up and did a happy dance.
     
    Glancing around, I remembered what it was that I loved about Joe’s store and Joe himself. His place appealed to two divergent types of book hounds, and the space had been divided to appease them both. The front half of the store was jammed with old cloth-bound books and pulpy paperbacks crammed into the tall, bursting shelves that ran floor to ceiling across the width of the room. Tacked to every shelf were book reviews and