“Can we purchase any of these books?” Ian asked as he read the cover copy on a couple of the new books.
“The special customers get first pick, but Julian didn’t say the rest of you couldn’t browse after they left,” I replied.
Michael rearranged a couple of titles to more prominently display his newest book. “So, these special customers usually show up at Julian’s bookstore at dusk and select some books. But they’re coming here instead.”
I think there was supposed to be a question in there somewhere about why the special customers were coming to The Jumble, but Michael didn’t actually ask, so I didn’t feel compelled to answer. “Yes.”
“And we’re supposed to stay out of sight while they’re here.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Ian asked. “We’ve seen—and talked to—other kinds of terra indigene. Wouldn’t talking about something we both enjoy be a positive experience?”
“Maybe at another time, but they were quite insistent that they didn’t want to interact with any of my guests.” Just me. The Jumble’s acknowledged Reader.
“Maybe if they had a chance to see us?”
I wondered why Ian was pursuing this when I’d already said they all had to stay away from this part of the main house. I hoped it was professional curiosity and not something that could be interpreted as sinister intentions. “They’ve already seen you. All of you. And they told Julian flat out that none of you were allowed to see them. I’m sorry. I know you’re curious, but . . .”
“Julian is nervous about this, isn’t he?” Michael said. “Not just cautious about the change in location, but truly nervous about offering these particular terra indigene this alternate arrangement so that they can get their books.”
I nodded.
“So we’re not talking about shifters like Crows or Coyotes or Foxes.”
I shook my head. “I’m pretty sure we aren’t talking about anyone like that.”
Michael and Ian exchanged a look.
“Before your customers are expected to arrive, I think your guests should make up a couple of platters of leftovers and stay in the TV room with one of your . . . larger . . . employees keeping an eye on things,” Ian finally said. “Temptation to ignore a request is easier to resist when someone is watching.”
“We’ll take care of the food and will make sure Jenna McKay is here in the main house before dusk,” Michael said. “You focus on . . . this.”
I didn’t have time to wonder what the two Intuits were sensing. The afternoon was slipping away, and I had to explain to my surly guests why they were going to be confined to the TV room to watch whatever might be on at that hour while something interesting was going on in another part of the house.
CHAPTER 39
Grimshaw
Watersday, Novembros 3
Chief?” Osgood pushed the Hold button on the phone. “It’s Mr. Sanguinati for you.”
Ignoring Viktor’s wary look—the expression of a teenager wondering if he’d done something wrong and this was about him—Grimshaw took the call.
“I need to see you in my office,” Ilya said. “Now.”
Hearing controlled anger in the Sanguinati’s voice, Grimshaw figured the meeting with the mayor had not gone well. And he wondered if he should call the EMTs to see if Roundtree was suddenly suffering from acute anemia—or something worse.
“Mr. Farrow will be joining us,” Ilya added.
“I’ll be up in a minute.” He hung up, then looked at Osgood. “Anything I need to know about?”
“A complaint from Ellen C. Wilson about Pops Davies not serving customers whose account is overdue and whose last check bounced. He’s now requiring cash, which, apparently, is insulting to someone of her status.”
“She doesn’t have any status outside of being the village pest.” The woman seemed to have enough money when it suited her, but he didn’t think she did any work—unless her job was to harangue shop owners to see how long it would take them to ban a customer.
“Pops has made a countercomplaint about Mrs. Wilson’s son, Theodore, stuffing a few things in his pockets and bolting out the door while Mrs. Wilson badgered Pops,” Osgood continued. “And a couple of other people complained about Pops limiting some items and keeping some things behind the counter.”
“Did you get the names and addresses of the people who made those complaints?” Grimshaw asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Anyone we know besides Mrs. Wilson?”
Osgood shook his head. “Newcomers.”
The rookie made it sound like he’d lived in Sproing all his life when, in truth, he’d been transferred here during the troubles that past summer and was still living at the boardinghouse—and didn’t seem to be in any hurry to find his own place.
“Go over to the general store. If Pops wants to make a formal complaint about the shoplifting, you take his statement, and we’ll deal with it.” Grimshaw paused. “And see what he has to say about any other newcomers.” He remembered something else. “Did you ask Pops about selling bleach to Adam Fewks?”
Osgood nodded. “The name didn’t mean anything, but he recognized the picture from the student ID and confirmed that was the boy who purchased a bottle of bleach on Trickster afternoon. He thought it was an odd purchase for a boy that age, but he saw no reason to question it.”
That crossed another item off the list. They didn’t know what Fewks had thought he could do with the bleach in the moments before the terra indigene came hunting for him, but at least they had confirmed where he’d bought it in the village.
Grimshaw walked over to the desk with the computer.
“Am I in trouble?” Viktor asked.
“Can’t see how,” he replied. “Have you sent those e-mails out?”
“I sent the message to the ITF agents.”
“Hold off on the messages to the police until I find out what’s scratching at Ilya.”
Grimshaw stepped out of the station and almost collided with Mayor Roundtree.
“You have got to do something about . . . them,” Roundtree said, poking a finger at Grimshaw.
“No, I don’t,” Grimshaw replied. “My job is to handle human-against-human crimes and to stop any fools from antagonizing the Others to the point of starting another purge.”
Roundtree’s face turned an alarming shade of red. “You think you’ll get reelected with that attitude?”