“That was thoughtful,” Zeb said.

“That stock includes several illustrated antique marital guides which you will find in a locked box in the storeroom,” Mr. Wainwright whispered to me.

“Oh, ew.” I shuddered.

“He just made a joke, didn’t he?” Mr. Mayhew asked.

“Why don’t you just let him see you?” I asked Mr. Wainwright.

Mr. Wainwright chuckled. “It’s more fun this way.”

“ ‘To Jolene McClaine, I leave the rosewood box in my bedroom. It contains a collection of best-loved recipes I have collected from werewolf friends all over the world.’ “

“That’s very sweet.” Jolene sniffed.

“I thought you could put it to the best use,” Mr. Wainwright said.

“ ‘To Andrea Byrne, I leave my silver claddagh ring.’ “

“Oh, thank you,” Andrea whispered.

“It should have been included in my personal effects when my remains were collected,” Mr. Wainwright said.

“Actually”—I reached under the counter and grabbed the velvet pouch where I’d stashed the ring—”I didn’t think it was smart to send you to the funeral home wearing it.”

“This belonged to a lady who was very special to me,” Mr. Wainwright said as Andrea slipped it on. “Her name was Brigid, and she was special and beautiful, like you. And I loved her very much.”

Knowing that Andrea couldn’t hear him, I said, “That belonged to the love of his life.”

Andrea smiled.

“You’re going to want to be careful how you handle that around us,” Dick told her. “Might as well be wearing barbed wire around your finger.”

“Well, that has possibilities,” Andrea said, wiggling her finger at him. Not the rude one.

Dick muttered something I couldn’t quite make out.

“ ‘To Gabriel Nightengale, the selection of his choice from my personal literary collection. To Dick Cheney, my personal spirits collection, including the wine and brandy.’ “

Dick and Gabriel smiled.

“ ‘To Jane Jameson, I leave the Specialty Books shop located at 933 Braxton Avenue and all of its contents, including the apartment upstairs and my personal effects contained therein. I trust you to allow my nephew, Emery, to look over my personal effects and select what he would like to keep as mementos.’ “

My jaw dropped. I had expected a few books. Maybe a memento or Mr. Wainwright’s personal collection of Ouija boards. I had not expected him to leave me anything as important as the shop.

My eyes stung as I smiled shakily at Mr. Wainwright. I really didn’t want to start crying again. I’d just managed to stop. “This is too much. I didn’t do anything to deserve this. And I don’t know anything about running a store. Look, with your nephew coming soon, I think maybe we should consider—”

“No one will care about the shop the way you will,” Mr. Wainwright insisted. “No one will take care of the books, take care of the customers, such as they are.” He turned to Dick. “If I had known about you, I would have planned differently—”

“Not your fault,” Dick interrupted. “And you left me the booze, so it shows how well you knew me, even before you knew we were related.”

“And anything you want from the personal effects is yours,” I told Dick. “The store stock will be available at a twenty-percent bereaved-ancestor discount.”

Mr. Wainwright guffawed. “See, you’ve got the makings of a brilliant entrepreneur.”

I protested, “I don’t know anything about running a business.”

“Then sell it. Do whatever you think is best. I trust you.”

Those words, combined with Mr. Wainwright’s earnest, ghostly gaze, left a weird, heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

17

When an undesirable suitor is unwilling to accept a werewolf female’s refusal, her family is likely to step in to help communicate her feelings more clearly. It can take said suitor six to eight weeks to heal up from the clan’s communication skills.

—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were

We all adjusted to our grief in different ways.

On this particular Tuesday, Jolene and Zeb were doing a family thing with the McClaines. I think it involved wrestling Jolene’s father. Andrea had a standing appointment with a client who was not afraid of Dick. Gabriel was in London. I didn’t bother asking why. This left me with Dick.

No pun intended.

Dick seemed lonely, spending nights at the shop, talking to the ever-more-sprightly ghost of Mr. Wainwright, and helping me sort through boxes. We had a running bet about when Emery would show up. I had two weeks; Dick had six weeks and four days. Mr. Wainwright, who lovingly referred to his nephew as “a bit mealy-mouthed and milquetoast,” had twenty dollars on an even month, though how we were going to collect it from him, we had no idea.

I’d dropped my investigation into Wilbur’s background for the time being. I told myself that it would help me to step away, get a fresh perspective, but the truth was, I was getting nowhere. Instead, I worked from sunset to the wee hours of the morning cleaning areas that Mr. Wainwright had never let me touch: a rear storeroom, the area behind the counter, his office. For his part, Mr. Wainwright entertained himself by moving various objects around, walking through walls, and making videos float at the adult store next door, scaring several locals off porn forever.

Despite my recently developed fear of Realtors, I’d had one come by and appraise the shop. He suggested burning it to the ground and going for the insurance money. While my destructive urge was just as healthy as the next girl’s, I didn’t consider that a viable option. I was going to have to close.

It felt like packing up Aunt Jettie’s room after she died. Something important had ended, and I was left to pick up the pieces. Fortunately, Dick and Andrea seemed to pick up on this and somehow ended up at the shop every night to help me. On this particular evening, Dick was boarding over windows and putting a “For Sale by Owner” sign in the window. With Andrea quietly boxing up books, I went upstairs to Mr. Wainwright’s apartment, something I hadn’t been able to do since the funeral.

The air was dry and smelled of cinnamon and Lipton tea. As one would expect, the place was a wreck. Good antiques were covered in Mad Hatter–style stacks of books. Almost every surface not occupied by books held picture frames. There were photos of Mr. Wainwright’s mother, his sister, his nephew, Emery. There was a framed photo of a beautiful redhaired woman, who I assumed was Mr. Wainwright’s lost love, Brigid. There was a picture of a very young Mr. Wainwright in his Army uniform, one of him in a pith helmet exploring what looked to be an Egyptian tomb, and pictures of him bundled up against Canadian cold during his endless search for Sasquatch.

The latest addition seemed to be a picture of our Christmas party. Zeb had set up the camera timer to take a shot of the whole group. My eyes were closed, of course, but everyone looked so happy. Jolene had turned that million watt smile on Zeb. Gabriel had his arm around me. There were two little white orbs where Aunt Jettie and Grandpa Fred had stood. Andrea was wedged between Mr. Wainwright and Dick, who had his arm flung around both of them. Mr. Wainwright had placed it on the nightstand next to his low-slung single bed. It was the only photo from the last ten years in the apartment.

I felt him materialize behind me.

“It was the best time I could remember in a long time,” I heard him say as I put the frame back in its place. “You were a family to me, one I sincerely wish I’d had more time with.”

I smiled at him, even when he asked, “How’s the packing going? I saw that Dick has put up the ‘For Sale’ sign.”

I felt tears bubbling up, threatening to spill. I wiped at my nose as I focused on staring at the Christmas photo.

“Oh, no, dear. Don’t cry.”

“I can’t help but feel that I’m failing you,” I told him. “You didn’t leave me the shop to close it down. But I don’t know anything about running a business. I’m sorry. I got fired from the only real job I’ve ever had. I don’t know how to do taxes or handle staff issues. I’m just afraid I would screw it up.”

“You’re not failing, Jane,” he said, his clammy hands stroking down my arms. “Having the shop, having a purpose, gave me a reason to get up every morning. I knew the shop wasn’t making much money, just enough to keep me afloat. You’re just making decisions I couldn’t bring myself to make.” Mr. Wainwright squeezed my shoulder, sending shivers down my sensitive spine. “Everything has to come to an end, Jane. Except for you, of course.” With that, he winked at me and faded away, leaving me to my thoughts.

I went to the stairs and stared down into the store, chewing my lip and sulking. The shop could have been something. With renovation, new stock, a new business plan, I could turn it around. If anything, the slow migration of library patrons showed that people would come to the shop if they really needed to.

Besides investment capital, the main problem was organization. Even people who knew what they were looking for couldn’t find it. Hell, I worked there, and I could rarely find what I needed. If I overhauled the selections, emphasized self-help and family dynamics, aimed for people who were newly turned or whose families were newly turned, tried to help them find the resources to deal with the changes, it might work. I could even offer the Friends and Family of the Undead a place to meet, since their usual spot, a health food restaurant called the Nomad’s Bowl, was on the verge of closing—again. I could put a comfy meeting area in the back, especially if I bought out the adult-video store next door and expanded through the wall.

If I added a fancy coffee bar and got a license to carry blood, people would come to the store and actually stay. And then they would buy.

It would mean selling off some of Missy’s properties. And hiring a cleaning crew. A very committed cleaning crew.

Maybe I could actually hire some staff. Would I hire living people or vampires? Maybe Andrea needed a night job.

Newly resolved, I marched downstairs and told Dick and Andrea to stop boxing up.

“I’m not closing,” I told them. “I’m going to keep the store open.”

Dick grinned broadly and whipped the sign out of the window. “I’ll just take this out to the trash.”

“Dick’s been weird all night,” Andrea said as we heard the sign clang into the Dumpster in the alley. “He’s barely propositioned me or anything. Is this what happens when you agree to date him? He loses interest before you even go out?”

“I still can’t believe you agreed to a date,” I said. “I thought you were getting some sort of sick, retaliatory pleasure from repeatedly rejecting him. I was getting sick, retaliatory pleasure out of your repeatedly rejecting him. Can’t we keep playing?”

“I don’t know,” Andrea said, laughing. “He just kind of grows on you, like …”

“Like fungus,” I suggested.

“Oh, hush. You like him, you know you do. And I do, too. I guess I was just looking for an excuse to like him.” She smiled to herself. “Beneath all his bull and his charm, Dick’s a good guy.”

We turned to the door as the bell jingled. It was Adam, still wearing his soft blue scrubs from the Half-Moon Hollow Veterinary Clinic. I smiled up at him, and he responded with a dazzling grin.

“Wow, so this is where you work?” he marveled, taking in the disheveled surroundings. “This is great, Jane. Really, really great.”

“Well, actually, it’s my shop now. My boss just passed away, and he left it to me,” I said, crossing to him and leaving a confused Andrea standing at the counter.

“That’s great,” he said.

I’d never noticed before how much Adam used the word “great.” Instead of offering him a thesaurus, I said, “This is my friend Andrea.”

Adam didn’t even acknowledge her presence. He was totally focused on me, looking at me the way I’m sure I looked at him all those times in math class. As if he were trying to memorize every word and gesture, so he could replay it in his head later. Now that it was turned around on me, I had to say it was unnerving.

“What brings you down here, Adam?” I asked.

He shrugged and stepped closer to me. “I just wanted to see you again.”

Giving me a confused look, Andrea made quietly for the office door. Whether it was emotional fatigue from Mr. Wainwright’s death or his being in the store where my friends could see him, it seemed wrong for Adam to be there. I couldn’t really be angry with Gabriel for sneaking around and not being honest with me when I hadn’t been exactly upfront about Adam. I could lie to myself and say I didn’t know what Adam was hoping for. But even I could recognize the signals he’d been sending out. And I’d done nothing to discourage him. Out in the open like this, the fairy-tale, adolescent-fantasy haze seemed to be stripped away, and I saw exactly how wrong I’d been. Some instinct had me backing away with every step he took closer to me.

“Have you recovered from your babysitting adventure?” he asked, that warm, familiar smile dimpling his cheeks.

“Yeah. Nevie may never be the same, but every kid needs something to talk about in therapy. So I feel I’ve served some purpose.” I tried to keep my tone even and friendly, even as I was cornered against the counter.

He laughed, but his expression turned serious as he asked, “Have you given any more thought to us spending more time together?”

My heart sank a little. I’d really hoped to avoid this. “I’m still seeing Gabriel.”