Marsha wandered through the crowded stacks of Digressions, searching the shelves for books on mice as pets. It was not a subject that commanded a lot of shelf space in a store whose inventory of new and used books was heavily weighted towards women’s literature, natural remedies and quilting, but she had never yet failed to find exactly what she was looking for here. In that way, she’d often thought, Heather and Ginny’s store was as magically oriented as her own.
There had to be a book here, somewhere, that would contain the information she needed. The trick was in recognizing it.
“Okay, I think I got it,” Heather called from the back room. Marsha smiled as her friend bustled towards her bearing a slim volume. “I thought I remembered seeing this back there. We just hadn’t had a chance to shelve it yet. Guess it was waiting for you, kid. Must be your lucky day.”
“That would be a switch,” Marsha muttered, as she followed Heather through the narrow aisles. “Because so far, the week’s been lousy.”
“What’s that?” Heather asked, half turning. She accidentally brushed against a hip-high stack of books as she did. The stack started to topple and both women reached to steady it.
“Oh. Cool.” Heather raised her eyebrows as the top book slid neatly into Marsha’s outstretched hand. “I gotta tell you, Marsha. You do that really well.” 3
“Yeah, thanks,” Marsha answered faintly. An uncomfortable awareness washed through her as she stared at the book in her hand, at the silver foil cover and the bold black type. Unlocking the Patterns, Keys to Understanding Japanese Candlesticks.
“So, you want that one, too?” Heather inquired, lips twisting into a crooked smile.
“I guess so.” Marsha sighed unhappily, tearing her gaze away from the cover with an effort, and handing the book to her friend. “Sure. Ring me up.”
Marsha was soon headed back up Main Street towards her teashop, but the tingles of apprehension that had hit her as soon as she’d touched that book grew worse with every block. She found her footsteps slowing as she passed through the small redwood grove that lay at the heart of Oberon’s downtown, bordered on all sides by shops and restaurants, and the city’s municipal buildings.
Reluctantly, she sank down onto one of the benches there. She was aware of a chill that had nothing to do with the perpetual shade cast by the big trees. There was a terrible heaviness in her heart as she fished the silver book out of the bag Heather had given her.
According to the jacket, the book had been written by a top trader, one of the masters in the field, a man by the name of Sam Sterling. Marsha skimmed past the laudatory appellations. The name meant nothing to her, except for the strange misgivings in her heart. She turned to the back jacket flap, read an even more laudatory biography, and still found nothing to disturb her. Then she turned the book over. She found herself faced with a photo of the author, and forgot how to breathe.
