Ian had a weird look on his face. “I just remembered something Joe told me. He said the seller had urged him to call the Covington Library to see if we wanted the book, and that’s why he came to me first.”

“Maybe they heard you were starting the children’s gallery.” I frowned. “But why wouldn’t the seller just call you himself?”

“I don’t know.” Ian pursed his lips in thought. “Is it because I’m so intimidating?”

I chuckled, then let go and laughed out loud. “Yeah, right. Not.”

Affronted, he glared at me. “I am.”

“Mm-hmm,” I said, reaching for the door handle.

He shrugged. “To everyone but you, apparently.”

“You just keep on believing that, sweetie,” I said, and stretched up to kiss him on the cheek. “Talk to you soon.”

Back in my car, I took a chance and called Information in Sonoma County for Emily’s phone number. The mobile operator gave me the number of an Emily Branigan in the Santa Rosa area. I don’t know why I’d thought it would be so difficult to track her down. It hadn’t even been three years. She might be teaching at the same grammar school.

I punched in the number and got her voice mail. At least, it sounded like Emily’s sweet, birdlike voice, and it gave me a chill to hear her familiar tones. I didn’t say why I was calling; I just left my name and number and asked her to call me back.

Pulling away from the curb, I drove down Pacific, skirting the Presidio until I could zigzag over to Arguello and head for the Richmond District. A number of used bookstores were miraculously still thriving in a five-block stretch of Clement Street. I drove past Joseph Taylor Fine Books and parked a half block away.

When I got to the door of Joe’s bookstore, I saw a sign hanging in the window of the door.