Page 34 of Fresh Old Bounties

“But good at what he does?”

“Unfortunately.”

That word kept popping up whenever Desmond Crane entered the conversation. I wondered if his apparent gift for accounting was the only thing separating him from sharing Vicky’s grave in pack territory.

“I guess I should set up an appointment with him.”

“Want me to call for you?”

“You? Why?” It didn’t sound like they were friends.

“So he knows you have the pack’s support and won’t rip you off.”

Aww. “That’s so sweet, but there’s no need.” I had to maintain my neutral status and not show favoritism. If the paranormal population of Olmeda thought I was under the pack’s protection, they might be too scared to come to me if they had any problem related to a shifter.

“Just say the word,” Keith said, unperturbed by my refusal. “Now, about those yoga mats…”

I managed to extricate myself without spending money and moved on to check the bookstore Preston had visited as his last stop before driving to his hotel. Even though it wasn’t operated by a paranormal—that Dru knew of—Preston had left without any purchase.

In my experience, people took longer to browse than he’d spent inside, so either he’d had a specific book or magazine in mind, or he’d met with someone. Could he have left some sort of message?

The bookstore was small and cramped full of secondhand books. Definitely the kind of store you entered intending to browse.

Very suspicious.

I ambled between two of the stuffed shelves, looking for anything out of place or any nook where one could leave a message. It was impossible. There were too many books ordered with no rhyme or reason, and even more haphazard stacks covered the floor.

For a moment, the disorder was so overwhelming that my heartbeats began to increase in pace and I felt the fabric of my T-shirt stick to my lower back under my light jacket. I suppressed a shudder and forced myself to move deeper into the shop until I reached the counter at the end. An old man sat behind a mahogany monstrosity with a cash register older than Grandma sitting on top.

He was reading Sense and Sensibility, which I’d have found endearing were my instincts not screaming at me to run out of here and return to my nice, dust-free, organized store.

Before I had a chance to speak, he grabbed a stick with a rubber pointing finger at the end and directed it toward a piece of paper stapled to the wall.

“One for .50, three for a dollar,” I read aloud. “Really? That’s cheap.”

He harrumphed.

“I was wondering if you remember a man coming in yesterday? Tall, dressed in a striped dark blue suit.”

The stick rose again, and for a moment I thought he was going to smack me with it, but at the last second, it pointed toward the wall again.

“If I buy three books, will you answer?”

“Not likely,” he muttered.

“Six?”

“What about the entire store, so I can finally retire in peace?”

That seemed a bit extreme, so I politely refused his generous offer. “Mind if I leave some business cards for my tea shop in here?”

“Yes.”

One had to try.

I thanked him and escaped the confined, dusty atmosphere of the shop.

“You over there!” someone shouted. “The one with the green hair.”

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