The bookstore was . . . busy. Nonplussed, Mr. Peppermint looked around as he followed Miss Chocolate into the store. There was a pair of little old ladies oohing over a book display for Jude Deveraux’s works, and a few student-looking types browsing through a shelf of second-hand text books. Resting on a tapestry cushion near the register, Athos looked up at the two of them and gave a slightly puzzled ‘mrrrrow?’ as they came closer.



Mr. Peppermint absently petted the cat, who tolerated it with a flick of his whiskers. Miss Chocolate reached over, scratched under the big cat’s chin and was quickly rewarded with a low, deep purr that rose above the light strains of Mozart that came from the radio behind the counter.



“Maynard’s been . . . . busy,” Mr. Peppermint commented, glancing around. “Very busy.”



“You sound annoyed.”



“I’m not annoyed, I’m concerned,” Mr. Peppermint replied, a trifle testily. “This is not what I meant by ‘taking care of the place.’ How am I to maintain a low profile if the bookstore is . . . popular?”



Miss Chocolate hid her smile. “Heaven forbid you actually make a profit.”



Just then, the towering figure of Maynard lumbered down the central aisle of the bookstore, golden hair flowing, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the shelves on either side of him. He wore a sleeveless denim vest, jeans, and a black tee-shirt with a Book Hive logo across his massive chest; Miss Chocolate thought he looked like the world’s most literate biker.



“Mr. Grissom, hey! I didn’t expect you back so soon, but that’s cool, that’s cool. I have all your mail, and William and I put together a list of priority requests for you, and . . . “ he lowered his voice as he got closer, “ . . . Your mom was on the computer.”



“Maynard, a word—“ Mr. Peppermint replied, waving towards the counter. Miss Chocolate wandered along the front window, noting that the knick knack shelf that held the first editions and teapots had been dusted. She kept one ear on the conversation behind her, grinning.



“Maynard, I appreciate what you and William have done, but I hadn’t actually intended to . . . make the bookstore popular.”



“Why not? It’s a neat place—a little run down, maybe, but you’ve got a lot of good stuff here.”



“I know, I know—it’s just that for the line of work I’m in, it’s not wise to draw a lot of attention. The key to what I do is to remain low key.”



She turned her head; Maynard was fidgeting a little, looking abashed. Miss Chocolate’s heart warmed when Mr. Peppermint reached out and touched his arm. “Your heart and savvy are in the right place, Maynard—tell you what. Let’s see how it goes, all right? I’m not adverse to change—“ here he looked over at her, making her blush, “—So let’s see what it is you’ve been doing.”



“Okay,” Maynard nodded, a little more relieved now. “William and I, we just cleaned around. You know, vacuumed and got the dust bunnies out. I shelved all those books you had in the reshelf cart, and William kinda tidied up the displays and stuff. Then he put a few flyers up in some of the shops so that people would stop by, and it worked.”



Miss Chocolate watched Mr. Peppermint’s face, amused at the quick shift of emotions across it: trepidation, gratitude, wary interest. He folded his arms across his chest and cocked his head at the bigger man. “You said something about priority requests?”



“Well yeah. Some of the ladies coming in wanted to know if you’d give them a trade-in deal for certain series and stuff. And one lady wanted to know if she could set up a hospital box so that if a customer wanted to donate a book to Desert Palms they could put it in there and she’d take them over every Thursday.”



“I see—that’s a good idea . . . where IS William?”



“Out getting cat food,” Maynard admitted. “Your cats are like, really picky, Mr. Grissom. They won’t eat anything but Fussbudget Fish Feast with anchovy bits.”



“Really?” This looked like news to Mr. Peppermint, and Miss Chocolate nearly laughed out loud. Maynard nodded sheepishly.



“Oh yeah. We were worried they’d run away or starve to death, but when we found out what they liked it was okay.”



Mr. Peppermint turned to Athos on the cushion and hefted him up; the enormous cat sagged in his arms, purring contentedly. “Maynard, it would take this beast about four weeks to even begin to starve to death. He and his brothers have been conning you.”



“Really?” Looking alarmed, Maynard stared at the cat, who stared back unblinking. Mr. Peppermint sighed and stroked the striped head gently.



“’Fraid so. When I’m here I give them Tender Vittles out of a pouch, no seconds.”



“But that’s . . . not a lot,” Maynard winced. Mr. Peppermint nodded.



“They can supplement their diet with anything they can catch around the shop. That’s generally been the deal I’ve had with them.”



Maynard reached over and petted the cat, sighing. “Okay Mr. Grissom. I guess tonight’s feast will be their last one then.”



Miss Chocolate came over and joined them, reaching to pet Athos again herself. Maynard brightened at seeing her. “Hey Miss Sidle.”



“Maynard. Been busy?” she asked sweetly. The big man nodded, grinning.



“Oh yeah. William’s been working on some new audition tapes—just singing ones,” he rushed to add, blushing, “—And I’ve been looking into some courses over at the college. Mr. Grissom’s mom gave me some really good advice.”



The expression on Mr. Peppermint’s face was priceless; his brows went up and Miss Chocolate had to bite her lips from laughing aloud.



“Really?” he commented dryly.



“Oh yeah, she IMed while I was online and I told her who I was and stuff. She told me that there would always be a market for a mechanic, especially in Vegas, and that if I was serious about it, I should brush up on some basic office and business skills. And geez, she sure knows a lot about investing!” Maynard enthused. “Made me promise to check back with her before tax time, and she’d get me started on my first IRA and stuff. She also asked about you.”



“What did you tell her?” came Mr. Peppermint’s slightly ominous question. Maynard gave a small smile and shrugged.



“I told her you were off with a lady friend and you’d be back in a few days. She seemed to be really happy about it.”



“Ah.”



“I mean like, REALLY happy,” Maynard continued, his grin striving for innocence. “All those smiley emoticons and exclamation points, sheesh! I’ve never READ a woman so happ—“



“—Yes, okay, I get the picture, Maynard. Good,” Mr. Peppermint broke in wearily. “You said something about the mail?”



“Sure, let me go get it,” he responded, winking at Miss Chocolate before heading to the back of the store. Mr. Peppermint set Athos down again and the cat settled back on the pillow, grooming a foreleg.



A young girl came up with an armful of books, and Grissom moved behind the register as Miss Chocolate lounged against the counter, petting the cat. “Are you like, the owner?”



“I am the owner, yes,” Mr. Peppermint admitted, ringing up her stack of Max Allen Collins paperbacks.



The girl smiled wistfully at him. “Cool. Hey, did you know the pizza place next door is going out of business?”



Mr. Peppermint paused. “No—is there any reason I should?”



The girl shrugged. “Nah, I guess not. It’s just a bummer that Eiger Enterprises are going to turn it into a strip club because that’s going to make the whole street different, you know? I bet you won’t be selling too many books when it happens.”



Miss Chocolate waited until the girl had paid and left before looking across the counter at Mr. Peppermint. “Leave for a few days and the whole neighborhood does downhill, hmm?”



Mr. Peppermint looked concerned. “It’s probably just a rumor, but still, the thought of Eiger in Henderson is not a comfortable one.”



Maynard returned with a fistful of mail and a package. “This came all the way from Egypt—man, you really go all out on those book buying trips!”



“You never know how far you might have to go to find good romances,” Mr. Peppermint replied with a small smile.



He took a carton opener from the drawer and cut the seam of the box, pulling open the flaps and shifting the newspaper packing material. The pair of old ladies drifted over, watching as he pulled out two small pyramids made of sandstone, a book on Giza, a small bronze letter opener with an eye of Horus on it; a glass crocodile and a tooled leather collar with little gold designs of hieroglyphics embedded in it.



“Oh how charming! Are you going to do a display for Death on the Nile?” one of the little ladies asked sweetly. Mr. Peppermint paused for a moment and smiled.



“Not this time, but that’s an excellent suggestion. These are just a few souvenirs.”



“Oh Hilda, he’s a world traveler! TOLD you so!” the woman whispered loudly to her companion. “Sophisticated and suave!”



“Oh completely,” Miss Chocolate murmured, her gaze on him soft. “A man for all continents.”



Mr. Peppermint shot her a warning look even as a faint flush of pink crossed his face. Maynard picked up the collar. “Is this for one of the cats?”



“No, that’s for a dog, and the rest are for a few friends in town.”



“You bought a souvenir for a dog?” Maynard asked, “And not your cats?” He sounded slightly scandalized, and Mr. Peppermint sighed.



“The dog will have missed me—it’s clear that my Musketeers didn’t.”



At that moment Porthos sauntered up and rubbed against Mr. Peppermint’s shin, purring loudly.



Miss Chocolate grinned, bending down to pet him. “I think you’re going to be stuck feeding them Fussbudget Fish Feast—“



“—With anchovy bits,” Maynard added gently, handing over the rest of the mail. He rang up the two little old ladies while Mr. Peppermint opened the envelopes and tried to regain some dignity.



“A few bills . . . a notice from the Chamber of Commerce about the pizzeria closing . . . and an invitation to---oh my,” he blinked.



Miss Chocolate rose up, peeked over his shoulder at the colorful little cardstock and her own face went a light shade of pink.



“Ohhhh. That’s . . . interesting,” she murmured.



“Me and William got them as well,” Maynard pointed out, turning from the register. “He’s really hyped on going, but I dunno--“



Miss Chocolate ran a finger over the bottom of the invitation, at the personal lines written there. “Looks like you gotten the personal appeal.”



“Hmmm,” Mr. Peppermint muttered, as much to himself as to the other two. “It’s bound to be . . . interesting.”



“Revealing, anyway--” Miss Chocolate pointed out, earning a quick, saucy glare from her companion. Maynard chuckled, his voice a deep rumble.



“For everyone but Dan I guess.”



Before anyone could say more, Mr. Peppermint’s cell phone rang and he excused himself with a quick nod before opening it. “Yes?”



“Code. One. Meeting. One. hour. Press. One. To. confirm,” came the recorded voice of Miss Lollipop.



Mr. Peppermint did so, and snapped the phone shut, turning to Maynard. His expression had lost all humor, and his voice matched, it, low and deadly serious. “Miss Sidle and I have an urgent appointment. Can you keep running the shop for today and possibly tomorrow?”



“Sure thing, no prob—“ but Mr. Peppermint had already herded Miss Chocolate out before he’d finished speaking.

“Turn on the radio—whatever local news station you can get—“ Mr. Peppermint requested, pulling the Miata out into traffic quickly. Miss Chocolate knew better than to ask questions and did, pressing the dial buttons to reach KNPR. For a moment they listened to the station tail end of an international news story. There was a pause, and then the voice of the local anchor came on, sounding slightly harried.



“In a breaking development, a major explosion occurred twenty minutes ago at the Las Vegas Police crime laboratories on Westfall Avenue. Firefighters and paramedics are currently at the scene and working to contain the fire and to evacuate personnel from the area. The explosion shattered the windows of several adjoining buildings, and was felt as far away as downtown Las Vegas. A spokesman for the Las Vegas Police Department has declined to comment on whether the explosion was accidental or intentional. Several persons are injured, two critically, and at least three people are reported missing.”



Miss Chocolate glanced up and towards the skyline of Vegas ahead; a dissipating cloud of black smoke trailed up in the sky. Mr. Peppermint’s profile looked grim. Her cell phone rang and hurriedly she fished it out of her Paddington purse. “Hello?”



“Code. One. Meeting. One. hour. Press. One. To. Confirm.”



Miss Chocolate swiftly pressed the one on her phone and shot a sidelong glance at Mr. Peppermint. “The earthquake wasn’t an earthquake, was it?”



He said nothing, but drove faster, towards the Truman Tower in the distance.

Portia hesitated before knocking. She was fairly sure both Sam and Reggie were . . . . occupied, but considering the gravity of the situation—



She knocked lightly on Sam’s door, and heard the slow footsteps coming towards it from the other side. It opened, and Sam peered out, looking bemused.



And only half-dressed. “Yes?”



“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but there’s been an explosion,” Portia murmured, looking up into Sam’s face. “At the police department, Sam. It looks very serious.”



Vartann drew in a breath and opened the door wider, calling back over his shoulder. “On the news?”



“Yes, all the local channels—“ Portia replied, taking in the situation with a sudden smirk. There was pink-cheeked Reggie on the other side of the little table; there where the cards, and yes, there were several items of Sam’s attire neatly draped on the back of the girl’s chair---



Sam snatched up his shirt with wordless speed and tugged it on, motioning to the television against one wall of his room. “Let’s see. Go ahead and turn it on—“



Portia did, shooting Reggie an amused look. Reggie laid down her cards in a fan on the table as a commercial blared out.



Sam hissed. “You were bluffing!”



“It’s poker, Sam—sometimes people DO that—“



“Yeah, but—“ his protest ended when the dramatic film footage filled the screen. Portia sank down into Sam’s vacated chair while he stood looking at the ruined building and the rolling clouds of thick black smoke behind the reporter.



“Oh Jesus—“ came his helpless murmur as he ran a hand through his hair. Reggie rose up and moved to his side, her expression equally stunned.



“Who would do that? Terrorists?”



Sam and Portia spoke at the same time, in exactly the same flat, knowing tone. “No.”