I put another pack of mints on the counter, followed it with two candy bars and then walked over to the fridge and grabbed two bottles of water and two diet pops.

On the way back to the counter, I grabbed a box of cream-filled, prepackaged cupcakes. I hadn’t had a cupcake in ages.

He happily started ringing up my purchases. “Who are you looking for again?”

“Rosie Coltrane. He works for me and didn’t come into work today and I’m worried,” I lied.

I was a good liar, I’d been doing it since Lee, Ally and I were caught behind the garage trying to smoke leaves when Ally and I were eight and Lee was eleven. I came up with the imaginative excuse that we were thinking about roasting marshmallows but didn’t know how. Malcolm bought it, kids, marshmallows, my cute, angelic smile. It all seemed benign and plausible.

After we got off with just a lecture about fire safety and the danger of matches, Lee tousled my hair.

Happy memories.

“I do not know a man named Rosie. What kind of man has a name like Rosie?”

“Rosey Grier?” Ally tried.

“I don’t know a Rosey Grier either,” the counter man said.

“Football player? Helped catch Sirhan Sirhan?” Ally prompted.

“I don’t follow American football. I know no Sirhan Sirhan. Is he a football player too?”

“No, he assassinated Bobby Kennedy,” Ally explained.

“Oh my gracious! I certainly don’t know of him!” the counter man exclaimed, horrified.

I decided to cut into the history lesson. “Our Rosie doesn’t live around here but his friend does, down and across the street about four houses. His name is Tim Shubert.”

“I know Tim, he buys lots of cheese puffs and frozen pizzas.”

If Tim was a stoner the caliber of Rosie, I had no doubt he bought a lot of cheese puffs and pizzas.

“Rosie’s thin, about five foot six, dirty blond hair, looks a bit like Kurt Cobain but his face isn’t as pointy,” Ally put in.

“I know no Kurt Cobain but I have seen a man of this description with Tim. Is his name really Rosie?”

“Nickname,” I said, “his name is Ambrose.”

“Ambrose is a perfectly fine name. Why does he not call himself Ambrose?”

Ally looked at me.

I decided to ignore that one. Any answer would have to span a generation and a culture gap. I didn’t have it in me today, in less than twenty-four hours, I’d been shot at, physically dragged out of bed and kissed by Lee Nightingale three and a half times (yes, I was counting and the half was the kiss he planted on my neck).

I was a woman on a mission and I didn’t have time to explain a dud name like Ambrose.

“Have you seen him lately, like say, today?” I asked as I paid for my purchase.

“No, not today.”

“Tim?” Ally asked.

“Not Tim either.”

He handed me the bag and I took it, at a loss for what to do next.

“Jeez, Indy. Don’t you read detective novels? You own a bookstore for God’s sake,” Ally hissed and then turned to the store owner.

The counter man smiled huge. “You own a bookstore? I love books. What bookstore do you own?”

“Fortnum’s, on the corner of Bayaud and Broadway,” I answered.

“I know that. My wife goes there. Books are cheap there and then you can sell them back and get cash money.”

“Yep, that’s it.” I nodded and smiled, happy to meet a customer-by-proxy.

Ally was busy scribbling my name and numbers on a piece a paper she found in her purse and when she was done, she handed him the paper. “Maybe you could give us a call if you see Rosie or Tim. Would you do that?”

“Of course. I’m an employer, only my wife works for me but I understand how important it is to trust your hired help. I will call you.”

“Thanks.”

We went out and sat in my car and stared at Tim’s house while we thought about what to do next. We both were new at this. Neither of us had tracked down a stoner-on-the-run before. We’d stalked plenty of guys, but we’d known where to find them.

We both ate a cupcake to get the brain juices flowing.

“That was a nice guy,” I said through yellow cake and cream.

“Yep,” Ally replied, her mouth equally full.

Someone tapped on Ally’s window and we both jumped and swiveled our heads to the side.

I nearly spewed better-living-through-chemistry cream on my windshield at what I saw.

It was Grizzly Adams, but the serial killer version. He was enormous, had lots of wild, blond hair, a thick, seriously overlong (we’re talking ZZ Top here) russet beard and was wearing a flannel shirt even though it had to be nearly ninety degrees.

He was also carrying a shotgun and had some kind of freaky-ass goggle apparatus on the top of his head.

“You want somethin’?” he growled.

“We’re looking for Tim Shubert,” Ally replied calmly.

“He’s not here,” Grizzly said, “move along.”

“Yep, yep. Going!” I shouted and started the car, put it into gear and took off.

“Where are we going?” Ally asked.

“Hell if I know.”

“We should have asked him some questions,” Ally said, completely at ease

“Right. No. We’re trying to avoid me getting dead. Definitely you getting dead. I don’t talk to people who carry shotguns around in broad daylight.”

“He looked interesting,” Ally said contemplatively.

Shit.

* * * * *

It was just after four.

After our introduction to Grizzly, we’d swung back by Fortnum’s to help out Jane for awhile and ask if she’d heard from Duke (answer: no).

Now, Ally and I were in my dark blue VW Beetle, windows down, sunroof back, sitting outside Rosie’s house sipping leftover water and waiting.

My Beetle wasn’t exactly a rock ‘n’ roll-mobile but it was cute. It had cream leather seats that were great in the winter because they heated up. Now that it was summer, the seats stuck to your legs and every time you got out, it felt like three layers of skin tore off (another reason to wear jeans).

Denver had killer weather, as in nearly perfect. Summers were hot but usually at night it cooled off enough to sleep under a cover. Spring and Fall were volatile and allowed for variety in wardrobe. Winter was never too cold because there was no moisture in the air. The occasional blizzard was a bummer and sometimes there were snowstorms in July but nearly every day was sunny and the blue skies of Denver could not be beat.