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and quieter. The buildings were sort of mashed together, as if they were supposed to prop each other up. Every other restaurant seemed to serve some form of fire-roasted pig. And most of the business signs were intentionally misspelled, which seemed odd.
    Miranda arched her dark brows. “Sure. Any particular reason?”
    “There’s a bookshop in that area I was hoping to visit after I’ve settled in,” I said, working to keep my tone casual. “I’d just like to know how to get there.”
    “Specialty Books?” she said. “That’s where my book club meets! You’ll love it.”
    I blinked at her. “Your book club meets at an occult bookshop?”
    Miranda gave a startled laugh. “How did you know about that? I mean, it hasn’t been an occult bookshop for a few years, not since Jane took over.”
    I could only assume she meant Jane Jameson, who was now listed as the shop’s proprietor on the updated Web site. According to what my cousin Ralph could find in county court records, Jameson had taken over the store a little more than a year before, when Mr. Wainwright left itto her in his will. I couldn’t find much information about Ms. Jameson online. Her Facebook privacy settings were stringent. She had no Twitter account. In 2002, she gave a comment for a Kentucky Library Association newsletter article about electronic card catalogues. At the time, she was listed as a youth service librarian for the Half-Moon Hollow Public Library, but the library now listed that position as “vacant.” Other than the Specialty Books Web site and a memorial Facebook page on the Half-Moon High School reunion group, her Google presence was virtually nonexistent.
    “The Internet,” I said. “I try to find little independent bookshops whenever I can. They usually serve great coffee.”
    “Well, if Jane offers to make it for you, wait for Dick or Andrea Cheney.”
    “My landlord works at this bookshop?” I asked as she turned the SUV toward Paxton.
    That seemed like a strange coincidence—the man who owned Mr. Wainwright’s former home also worked in Mr. Wainwright’s former shop? What sort of connection did Dick Cheney have to Mr. Wainwright?
    “Technically, I don’t think they pay him. He just spends a lot of time there. Anyway, he and his wife, Andrea, are the only ones who can make decent coffee for humans. Jane’s coffee experiments have been known to convulse innocent bystanders, living or otherwise. She says it’s not her fault. She couldn’t cook before she was turned, either.”
    Jane Jameson was a vampire?
    “Oh, sure, she was turned about three years ago,” Miranda said in response to the question I hadn’t realized I’d asked out loud. That explained the memorial page. “Nice lady. Married to her sire, Gabriel. And she made her own vampire son earlier this year. Collin says I should call him a ‘childe,’ but when I call Jamie her son, it makes Gabriel’s eye twitch. And that’s way more fun.”
    She slowed the car as we approached the one well-lit building on a sad, careworn street lined with dilapidated shops. Specialty Books was like a beacon, its bright windows and security lights accentuating the recent coat of sky-blue paint on the exterior brick. The inside appeared to be painted a darker purplish blue. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with light maple bookshelves. I could make out the shapes of four people sitting at a long polished bar, laughing and chatting. This was not what I expected.
    Given the neighborhood and the state of Mr. Wainwright’s house, I’d expected the shop to be sort of beaten and half-finished. What had Ms. Jameson had to do to get the building into this condition? How much of the stock had she moved around?
    “Are you sure you don’t want to stop in now?” Miranda asked, making me jump a bit. Apparently, the anxious expression on my face was coming across as eager. “They keep vampire hours, so customers are welcome any time of night.”
    I shook my head,