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I threw the bags on my bed and, without turning on the light, hurried to the window. The car was still there, and so was the driver.
But when I checked after dinner, I was glad to find the spot now empty.Thank God. I’ll sleep better.
When I woke up the next morning, Gran was already gone. She said I could come to the bookstore after lunch, so I slept longer, enjoying the last day of my holidays.
Still in my pajama shorts, I shuffled down to the kitchen. The coffee pot was empty, but the maker was fixed with beans and water. I pushed the button, and while it was brewing, I dropped on the chair and picked up the newspaper Gran had left on the table.
The police report on the front page sayingA man was found dead at the edge of the road next to the Misty Grovecaught my attention. News like that was a big deal in River Stones. Our town was small and safe; there wasn’t much going on here.
I ran my eyes down the short article. It didn’t give any details about what had actually happened, only that the man had a wound on his neck and died from blood loss.
I jumped in my seat at the sudden loud honk of a passing-by car.
“Really?” I grumbled as I got up to get my coffee.
* * *
Gran’s store for used books was placed in a hundred-year-old building, between a coffee shop and a hairdresser’s parlor. I’d spent a lot of time there when I was a kid. Mostly I came after school and curled up with some old book on the small, soft couch until Gran kicked me to the back room to do my homework.
I pulled the sunglasses on the top of my head, glanced at the familiar logo—an image of owl wearing glasses—and pushed the heavy wooden door. As the doorbell tinkled, both Gran and the man standing in front of the cash register turned their heads.
“Hello, Mr. Lancaster,” I said, walking inside.
“Hello, Nicky.” He smiled.
Mr. Lancaster was a member of the town council. He also was the town historian and had a big library at his mansion. As a regular customer, he was the first to receive a call from Gran whenever she got something rare that could be of his interest.
“Well,” he said to Gran, “thank you for your time, Bree. And thanks for this.” He tapped the two leather-bound books, or more like journals, in his hand.
“You’re welcome, Alan,” said Gran.
I dropped my handbag in the chair behind her and picked up an antique book with stiff, dark-brown binding lying next to the cashier. It had a pentacle on its cover and no title. When I pulled the cover aside, I saw a few words written on the first page:To my dear friend Bree. From Alan.
“Wow, Gran. This looks like a very special present.” I grinned. “Isn’t he like more than ten years younger than you?” I looked at her playfully.
“It’s nothing like that, silly.” She pulled the book out of my hands and closed it. “We just share the love—”
“Aha! Love,” I cut her off, raising my index finger.
Gran rolled her eyes. “Love for old bindings that hold together pages of valuable content.”
The doorbell tinkled again. It was Connie.
“Hi, Mrs. Callahan,” she said.
“Hi, Connie,” said Gran. “Thanks for coming. Are you sure this is how you want to spend the last day of your summer break?”
“Absolutely, Mrs. Callahan.” She glanced at the glass case with Gran’s collection of wooden, metal, and ceramic owls of all sizes, running her eyes along the shelves and inhaling the smell of old books. “I love your store.”
I glanced at the boxes stacked next to the back room’s door.
“That’s a lot of books. Who did you get them from?”
“From the Robinsons,” said Gran, making some notes in her journal. “They’re moving back to England, so they’re selling everything they can find a buyer for.”
Connie and I pulled the boxes to the PC sitting on the table in the far corner and started unpacking them. As I cataloged the books, Connie placed them on the right shelves.
We were done with two boxes and were about to open the third one when the smell of coffee Gran had just brewed in the back room hit our noses.
