The book looked ancient. From its cracked leather binding to its brittle parchment-colored pages, the book exuded antiquity. It smelled ancient, too, giving off a slight whiff of vanilla mixed with something earthy and just a hint of mildew.
But even though it looked ancient, the printing was modern. The letters didn’t have the flourish of an old printing press, and the ingredients listed didn’t seem that old.
The recipes were a little usual. Grewel, wasters, and barley water weren’t exactly modern fare. I flipped the pages carefully, and the letters swam before my eyes. I blinked, and they came back into focus. Yep, definitely not that old.
“A pretty good replica,” I said as I flipped to the next page. Again, the letters seemed to transform before my eyes, and I squinted. The eye doctor had warned me that I would soon need reading glasses since I was in my late forties. I guessed the time had come. I made a mental note to make an eye doctor appointment.
“Mew!” Pandora, my cat, hopped up onto the counter. Every bookstore should have a cat, and Last Chance Books was no exception. I brought her to the store with me every day as my grandmother, who I’d inherited the shop and the cat from, had always done. Her sleek gray fur shone in the sunlight. She looked at me with reproachful, luminescent green eyes.
“What? It is a fake.”
She twitched her tail, the slight kink on the end pointing toward the recipe section of the bookstore as if trying to tell me something.
“Yes, I know it’s just a recipe book. Maybe it’s just made to look old as a gimmick or something.” I swear, the cat was almost human, and there were times when I actually thought she was trying to tell me something. But I also didn’t need her bossing me around. Naturally, I knew it belonged in the cookbook section of the store. But not just yet. I had a list of people wanting to buy quirky cookbooks with old-fashioned recipes, and if I could sell this one without even putting it on the shelf, all the better.
I rummaged through the filing drawer under the counter, pulled out the list, and scanned the names.
Mary Ashford, Sonja Peterson, Danielle Norden, and—ugh—Felicity Bates. I had forgotten that my arch-nemesis had asked to be put on a list for recipe books months ago. She would be the last person I called. Hopefully one of the others would buy the book first. Maybe it was childish, but I secretly didn’t want Felicity to have it, especially since I suspected she had designs on my boyfriend, Sheriff Eddie Striker.
“Speaking of Striker…” I glanced at the clock. It was almost time to meet him for our dinner picnic date.
“Merow?” Pandora brushed her cheek against the side of the box. Her eyes seemed a little brighter at the mention of Striker. I couldn’t blame her. He had that effect on people—and cats.
“I’m going to dinner with Striker. Picnic in the park. You’ll have to stay alone.” I grabbed my purse, my brain conjuring up visions of cold fried chicken and wine atop a red-checked blanket on the grass.
Pandora purred and licked her paws innocently, which made me nervous. On a few occasions when I’d left her alone in the bookstore, I thought I’d seen her wandering around town. But it couldn’t be. The store was locked, and there was no way for her to get out. Perhaps she had a doppelgänger.
I pulled the thick oak door open, flipped the closed sign, and took one last look at Pandora. She was lying on the counter, lazily twitching her tail as if to imply she was just going to lounge around in my absence, which made me very nervous.
My stomach grumbled, and I exited the shop, locking the door behind me. Hopefully, I wouldn’t return to find that she’d spooled the toilet paper off the roll or thrown up a hairball on the purple microsuede sofa. Her nonchalant demeanor on the counter gave me the feeling that something just wasn’t right.
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