Maybe I'm studying; maybe I'm out having a good time.
Leave your name and number, and maybe I'll call you back." "Hey," I told Tad's answering machine.
"This is Mercy.
Phin wasn't home." I hesitated.
Safely back in my car, I thought that I might have overreacted about his neighbor.
The better I know the fae, the scarier they seem.
But it was probable that he was harmless.
Or that he was indeed really scary--but it had nothing to do with Phin.
So I said, "Met Phin's neighbor--who is fae.
He suggested calling the store.
Do you have the store's number? Have you tried calling him there? I'll keep looking for him." I hung up and put the Rabbit in gear with every intention of going home.
But somehow I ended up on the interstate headed for Richland instead of Finley.
Phin's mysterious call to Tad and the suspicion I felt toward Phin's neighbor made me nervous.
It was a short trip to Phin's bookstore, I told myself.
It wouldn't hurt to just stop by.
Tad was stuck on the other side of the country, and he was worried.
The Uptown is a strip mall, Richland's oldest shopping center.
Unlike its newer, upscale counterparts, the Uptown looks as though someone took a couple dozen stores of various styles and sizes, stuck them all together, and surrounded them with a parking lot.
It houses the sorts of businesses that wouldn't thrive in the bigger mall in Kennewick: nonchain restaurants, several antiques (junk) stores, a couple of resale clothing boutiques, a music store, a doughnut shop, a bar or two, and several shops best described as eclectic.
Phin's bookstore was near the south end of the mall, its large picture windows tinted dark to protect the books from sun damage.
Gilt lettering on the biggest window labeled it: BREWSTER'S LIBRARY, USED AND COLLECTIBLE BOOKS.
There were no lights behind the shades in the windows, and the door was locked.
I put my ear against the glass and listened.
In my human shape, I still have great hearing, not quite as sharp as the coyote's, but good enough to tell that there was no one moving around in the store.
I knocked, but there was no response.
On the window to the right of the door was a sign with the hours the shop was open: ten to six Tuesday through Saturday.
Sunday and Monday hours by appointment.
The number listed was the one I already had.
Six had come and gone.
I knocked on the door one last time, then glanced at my watch again.