Kate Carlisle - One Book In The Grave

Gabriel shifted his shoulders philosophically. “It happens.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I said.

“Brooklyn’s right,” Derek said flatly, and looked at Gabriel. “You and I were out there together. There’s no way those two evaded us.” Then he gave Max some background on the survivalists in the Hollow and how, according to my dad, they all kept arsenals in their basements.

“All those people stocking up for World War Three?” Gabriel said. “Not sure we’ll get inside anyone’s house.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised to find out they’ve all got booby traps set up,” I said. “Bennie and Stefan sound like the type who would do that. Crystal called them immature, but they’ve also got intimate knowledge of munitions.”

“Immaturity and ammunition,” Gabriel said, shaking his head. “Bad combination.”

“Yes,” Derek said, nodding slowly. “Which is undoubtedly why Solomon decided to use them. For all we know, he might’ve sent them to kill Joe.”

“And flatten my tire with Max’s knife?” The memory of seeing that knife still irritated me. “I just don’t think they’re smart enough to pull that off.”

“It’s just sticking a knife in a tire,” Max said. “How smart do you have to be?”

“But their timing had to be perfect,” I explained. “They had to know I was coming. They had to know my car. They had to plan exactly when to kill Joe and escape out the back door, then vanish into thin air. I know I’m sounding paranoid and persnickety, but I just don’t believe those two could pull off that sort of precision maneuver.”

“I believe you’re right, darling,” Derek said, typing something into his smart phone. “Tomorrow I’ll contact the feds to see if they’ve any information on this local band of survivalists. I’m also interested in that church you mentioned.”

“The True Blood of Ogun?”

“Yes.” He frowned. “Seems I’ve heard of that group before.”

“You have.” I smiled. “Do you remember Mary Ellen Prescott, your new best friend at Abraham Karastovsky’s memorial service?”

He thought for a moment. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

I laughed and reminded him of how Mary Ellen had tried to convert him. It’s what happened when you let your guard down around Dharma.

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?