my e-mail and followed up on anything critical—well, anything my customers considered critical. Raoul hadn’t left a phone number, but he was available by e-mail. His assistant sent off an immediate “Call Lucas Cortez” message for us.
“Can we check out the grimoires?” I said. “Wait, let me guess. He keeps those locked up, meaning they aren’t available until he comes back.”
“I’m afraid so.”
I sighed. “Strike two. Well, let’s go find Jaime.”
Although the building was larger than most used book-stores, every available inch of space was in use, leaving a maze of narrow, serpentine aisles flanked by ten-foot-high shelves. The occasional murmur or shoe squeak indicated other shoppers, but they were lost among the stacks.
“Guess we should split up,” I said. “Should we lay a trail of bread crumbs?”
“Perhaps, though I may suggest a more prosaic solution. Do you have your cell phone?”
I nodded. “Whoever finds her first, calls. Got it.”
I tracked Jaime to the horror section and told her about Raoul.
“Shit,” she said. “There’s no luck like bad luck, huh? Guess we should get back to the hotel then, and Lucas and I can tap into the gossipmonger circuit.”
I looked at her empty hands. “You didn’t find anything?”
“Not what I was looking for.”
She turned to leave, but I put a hand on her arm.
“We can spare a minute. What were you looking for?”
“Stephen King. Now, every bookstore must have him. But he’s not here.”
I scanned the shelf, which appeared to be arranged alphabetically by author. “You’re right. That’s strange. Did you want his latest? Maybe it’s in general fiction.”
“I’m actually looking for Christine, which should be under horror.”
“Let’s check the map up front, maybe ask the clerk.” I started walking. “Isn’t Christine the one about the possessed car?”
“That’s it. I’ve been wanting to reread it ever since this show I did a couple months ago. A guy had this car that he swore was possessed, just like in the book. I don’t do private consultations, but my prodco was filming the show, and they thought it’d be cool if we checked out his car in the parking lot. Oh, here’s the map.”
I scanned the map. “Aha. Here’s our problem. King gets his own shelf in the Popular Authors section.”
As we walked to the section, Jamie continued her story. “So this kid—he’s maybe your age—has this gorgeous 1967 Mustang convertible. First thought: ‘Uh-oh, call DEA.’ The kid didn’t look like any trust-fund brat, so where’d he get a car like that? When I ask him, he gets all nervous. Says his grandpa left it to him. And sure enough, it really is haunted. Guess who by?”
“The grandfather,” I said.
“Bingo. The old guy jumped me the second I got within sensing distance, so spitting mad he could barely communicate. Seems he did leave the car to the kid. But on one condition. He wanted to be buried in it. No one else in the family would listen, but the kid promised to do it.”
“And then he stiffed him.”
Jaime laughed. “Yeah, the kid stiffed the stiff. Took the car, took the money, and plopped Gramps into the cheapest casket he could buy.”
“So what’d you do?”
“Told the kid the truth. Either he buried Gramps in the car or he had to live with a permanent pissed-off hitchhiker. Oh, here it is.”
The King section took up two eight-foot-long shelves, and the books weren’t alphabetized. As I skimmed the titles, I glanced at my watch.
“We can skip this,” Jaime said. “No biggie.”
“Another minute or two won’t matter. Oh, I forgot to call Lucas. He can help.”
“Why don’t I just grab something else.”
As if one cue, a book tumbled from the top shelf and landed between us. Jaime picked it up.
“Salem’s Lot.” She shook her head. “Not one of my faves. You ever read it?”
“I started to, because I thought it was about witches. When I found out it was vampires, I stopped. Not keen on the vamps myself.”
“Who is? Damned parasites.” Jaime stood on tiptoes to put the book back. The moment she released it, it jolted out and fell to the floor.
“I think it’s lonely,” I said with a laugh. “Looks like it’s gathering some dust up there.”
Again, Jaime put the book back. This time, before she could let go, the book slammed into her palm hard enough to make her yelp. Then it tumbled to the floor.
“Maybe there’s some kind of catch up there,” I said. “Here, I’ll find a new place for it.”