One Book in the Grave (20 page)

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.

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 reached
high 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 clue what to say next. I would have to make it up as I went along, and even I
knew 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 of wine from him. I took a sip and checked the wall clock for the tenth time. Derek hadn’t yet called to say he was on his way, and I was feeling edgy. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe because I’d been driving around playing private eye all day. I got up from the table and moved around the kitchen, checking the refrigerator, checking the soup on the stove, glancing out the window.

I went into the living room and tried Emily’s phone number again. Even though her principal had verified that she was on a leave of absence, she would still be checking her messages. Wouldn’t she? So maybe my first message got lost in the telephone-answering void.

Listening to the sound of her voice on voice mail again brought back memories. The first time I called, I wasn’t absolutely certain it was her, but now I knew for sure. I left another message with my home and work numbers. I told her I lived in the city and could drive out to meet her anytime she wanted. I just really needed to talk to her, I said, then realized I was starting to sound desperate, so I hung up the phone.

I was agitated about more than just Emily not contacting me and Derek being late. I was homesick for my apartment, for my work, for the city. I’d been away from home too long. I imagined my mail piling up and deadlines being missed, even though my neighbors were collecting my mail and my clients had all been alerted that their books would be ready in the next two weeks. I
loved my parents, loved my hometown, but I still ached to get back to the city.

I came into the kitchen and idly tore a piece of paper from Mom’s notepad. I began folding it, first forward, then back, turning and twisting and making tiny folds. This was what I did when I was nervous. Within two minutes, I’d made an origami stork.

“For you.” I held it out to Dad.

He chuckled as he took it from me. It wasn’t much bigger than his thumb, but he held it carefully in the palm of his hand and shook his head in amazement. “You’re a genius.”

“Hardly.” It was my turn to laugh. “I do make an awesome paper bird, though.”

“A work of art,” Mom said lovingly.

The phone rang and Dad picked it up, listened, then handed it to me. “It’s Derek.”

I grabbed the phone. “Hi.”

“Darling, I can’t make it out there tonight. There’s simply too much going on.”

“You sound tired.

“Just aggravated.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes, I am, too. I want you to be extra careful. I don’t like to leave you alone at night.”

“I don’t like it, either.”

I asked him if he’d unearthed any information on the Ogunite church or the survivalists, but he confessed that he had been too busy to deal with any of that. We spoke for a few more minutes; then I hung up and called Gabriel to give him the news. He assured me he would stay at Jackson’s tonight and we would all talk tomorrow.

I hung up the phone and immediately felt lonely. And that was ridiculous. I couldn’t go one night without seeing Derek? What was wrong with me? I had a rich, full life and was perfectly capable of entertaining myself. I enjoyed my time alone. Besides, I wasn’t actually alone. My parents were both watching me carefully.

“Derek can’t make it tonight,” I said. “He’s still at work and it sounds like he’ll be there for a while.”

“In that case, we’ll just have to play three-handed Bananagrams,” Mom said.

The next day, I decided it was time to make a bold move. I asked Mom for the keys to her car, but when she found out where I intended to go, she refused to be left behind.

“All right,” I said, “but this isn’t a carefree stroll in the park. We’ll take one quick walk around the campus, gather whatever empirical data we can glean, and then we’re out of there.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” she said, saluting smartly.

“And don’t wear anything too colorful,” I warned. “We don’t want to attract any attention.”

“Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll dress just like you,” Mom said.

I looked down at my dark jeans and slim, black leather jacket, then back at her. “Ouch, Mom.”

She waved me off. “Oh, you know what I mean. You always look beautiful.” Then she ran down the hall to change clothes.

I wasn’t so sure she meant that, but ten minutes later, she came out in blue jeans, a thin red sweater, and a cropped navy jacket.

“Mom, you look very chic.”

“Just like you,” she said, making me laugh.

We drove four miles to the Art Institute and found a parking place in a local shopping area a block from the school. As we strolled briskly along the wide, tree-lined walkway of the campus, I noticed colorful banners on every light pole touting the latest artist retrospective being held at the institute’s well-respected art gallery. The banner’s image was blurry and I paid little attention to it, figuring it was some local artist I’d never heard of.

“It’s a pretty campus,” Mom said. “Did you enjoy your time teaching here?”

“I did, most of the time.” As I gazed around at the students hurrying to classes, I felt a rush of nostalgia for
my college days. We passed the student union, and I considered walking inside to indulge in a little vicarious taste of student life, when someone shoved a flyer into my hand. I was ready to toss it in the trash, but happened to notice the large headline: GENIUS ON PAPER.

I stared at the stippled face of the honoree, then glanced up at one of the banners flapping on the light pole. I could finally make out that blurred image. Gazing back at the flyer, I read all about the upcoming retrospective featuring the most important works of that late, great papermaker, Max Adams.

“Oh, my God,” I whispered, and scanned the flyer as Mom read over my shoulder. The opening-night cocktail party for the monthlong Max Adams Retrospective was scheduled for two Saturdays from now. The party was to feature several prominent artists, a live jazz band, a cash bar, hors d’oeuvres, and one very special guest.

“Look who the show’s curator is,” Mom said, pointing to the name at the bottom of the flyer.

I read the name, then did a double take. “Angelica Johansen. You have got to be kidding.”