And while the vampire healing was holding up so far, I’d hate for something else to change in my life and leave me with no healing and no insurance.

But despite my status as a student, I might be kicked out of the library. I’d been eighty-sixed by Anna herself not long ago. She considered me a risk to the patrons. A normal vampire certainly would be, and she’d outed me as a bat the minute I was turned. That was one reason I’d brought Dawna along. She could get through the magical barriers to the basement level even if I couldn’t and could give Anna the address where she could find Kevin. But I was hoping Anna hadn’t increased the shielding.

Dawna obviously had had similar thoughts. As we drove toward the library she said, “Why don’t I go in first? I can take her the note and see if you can come in. Just drop me off and drive around in case we’re being followed. I’ll call you in a couple of minutes.”

While I didn’t like the thought I could never go back to the library—because it was one of my all-time favorite places—the discretion made sense. Maybe hooking Anna back up with Kevin and making sure he was safe would get me back on her good side.

“Sounds good. And hey, if you manage it, I’ll give you your Christmas present early. It’s really nice.” Actually, I had no choice but to give it to her early. The reservations were for the coming weekend.

She lifted her chin and looked coy. “Not as nice as the one I got you, I’ll bet.”

Oh-ho. A competition. “Think so? Can you top a luxury weekend at the Oceanview spa—including hair, nails, facials, and massages? You, me, and Emma and the pampering of our lives?”

She squealed in delight and bounced in her seat, looking the most excited she had in months. “Omigawd! That place is the best! It got five stars from Resorts magazine. When is it for?”

I smiled. “This weekend. You hadn’t mentioned any plans.”

Her sparkling eyes got even happier. “That’s in the Napa Valley, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “Right in the heart. Not sure why they called it Oceanview, but the pictures on the website are gorgeous.”

She started bouncing again. “Omigawd! It’s perfect. I think we’re both psychic or something … because look at your present!”

Dawna reached into her purse just as we reached the library’s parking lot. I found a spot under one of the big twin fluorescent lamps and light flooded the car. She passed me a gilt-edged envelope of heavy pressed linen. Pretty snazzy.

I opened it and removed three slips of cardboard with more gilt scrollwork and engraved lettering. I turned the shining letters into the light and … “Oh, no way! There is no fucking way I’m seeing this!” My jaw was well and truly dropped. Somehow she had managed the absolutely impossible. I was holding a personalized ticket to the event of the year. “How the hell did you get tickets to the release party?”

She smiled smugly and shook her head, refusing to answer.

California is wine country, so anytime a new wine shows up it’s news. About two years ago, twin sisters with no grape-growing background came in and set up shop. They took over a little private winery and planted all new vines. It was very hush-hush and nobody really gave them a chance of success. Everyone expected them to do some big-time begging for press. Surprisingly, they didn’t seek attention. They wouldn’t even give interviews to the major wine magazines. There was a lot of buzz that they’d been in negotiations with the state growers’ association and the EPA about whatever they were doing, and nearly every week some scandal sheet would claim to have the inside track on what sort of wine the sisters were making.

Then they started entering European wine competitions. The little California start-up took gold medals in both the red and white categories. But no one wrote or spoke about the wine itself—even the judges of the contests kept silent. A couple of French and Italian winemakers’ groups protested, as did a consortium of Australian companies, and the courts got involved. The sisters’ company insisted the court records be sealed because of trade secrets—and they were.

In the end the sisters gave up the medals, which ended the case with the nature of the wine still concealed. There was a full-blown riot in the press. Nobody in the public had tasted the wine. Nobody could find it. Nobody could beg, borrow, or steal it.

After all that, Saturday night was the big event—the official, very exclusive, public debut. The wine was named Witches’ Brew and everybody who was anybody was going to be there. Connoisseurs from all over the world had been offering up to six figures for a single ticket, if Internet reports could be believed. But there were none to be had. And each and every one of the few legitimate tickets—like the one in my now-shaking hand—was engraved with the name of the guest.

“Oh, before I forget.” Dawna took the ticket away from me, turned it over, and pulled a strip of cellophane from one corner. “You need to put your right thumb there and hold it for five seconds.”

Okay, I was curious. I did as she asked. I felt an odd sensation on my skin, a sort of tickle. When I picked up my thumb after a count of five there was a perfect impression of my fingerprint on the gold foil, as though it was engraved. “Biometrics?”

“Of a magical variety,” Dawna replied. “They really want to make sure nobody crashes the party. You can’t scan or photocopy the ticket. It comes up blank.”

Wow. This was just so … wow. “Who did you have to kill or screw to get your hands on these?”

“No killing, no screwing, and very sorry, but no telling.” She stuck out her tongue and unlocked her seat belt. “I’m off to get you lots of books. Enjoy staring at the pretty gold letters and thinking of what you’re going to wear.”

“Uh-huh.” I really couldn’t take my eyes off the ticket. I liked wine and I’d been following the story for two full years, ever since I saw the first little page 10 blurb in the Times. I had to taste that wine. I already had an order in with my local store for a bottle when one became available. Now I had the chance to drink a glass before nearly everyone else in the world. Wow.

I only realized that Dawna had left the car when I saw her halfway across the parking lot, heading for the library entrance.

Well, either I could sit here and keep staring at the ticket until my eyes bled or I could do something constructive. First on the list was calling Gran.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t home. She’d been home a lot less since she’d moved, but I was glad she was spending time with friends. I waited for the beep, then said, “Hi, Gran. Sorry I missed you. I’ve got great news. Queen Lopaka said that Mom’s problem was being separated from the ocean. She convinced the judge to move Mom to the Isle of Serenity to finish her sentence. They’re going to get her into alcohol treatment and give her counseling. Isn’t that wonderful?” God, I hoped she thought so. “I’ll be out of town this weekend with Dawna and Emma, but give me a call. My phone should be on.”

I clicked off the call and heard the chime that told me someone had called while I was leaving the message. Typical. I expected it to be Gran because that usually happens. But the number was one I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t even a California area code.

I called my voice mail and heard a male voice: “Ms. Graves? This is Mick Murphy.” He let out a frustrated sigh. “I know you’ve been working really hard on our behalf, but Molly and I have been talking and we’re starting to think that … well, that maybe it would be better to just stop this whole thing. It’s ruining our life. It really is. I don’t know the laws in California, but I’d imagine there’s a way to refuse a bequest in a probate. I know there is here in Arkansas. Anyway, I just wanted to call and let you know. We’ll be calling the lawyer tomorrow to see how to get the paperwork started. Thanks again. We both appreciate it.”

Oh, crap. I mean, I understood what he meant. My bequest was a major pain in the butt—just thinking about owning a building and being responsible for the grass cutting, the perpetually leaky roof, and all of the other things that I usually had handled by the owner. His bequest was just cash, but it was a lot of cash.

And none of us knew the reason Vicki had left the Murphys all that money. Even Vicki didn’t know, though she insisted there was one.

I hit the calls-received list and dialed his number. He picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Mick? It’s Celia Graves.”

He let out a small, embarrassed breath of laugh. “You know, I was actually relieved when I got your voice mail. I didn’t want to have to defend our decision.”

I wasn’t going to pick on the guy. “Hey, it’s hard. I understand. The whole idea of that kind of money messes with your head.”

The sound he made was a sort of laugh but really closer to a donkey bray. “It isn’t my head as much as everyone else’s. The calls have been non-stop since it made the press here.”

“Press? What press? Nobody was supposed to know about the probate while the court case was going on.”

“This is a small town, Ms. Graves. Nothing, and I mean nothing, goes unnoticed in Fool’s Rush. Someone like your investigator comes to town and everyone knows the story before lunch.”

I winced. I knew all about bad press and people calling at all hours. “Everybody in town has probably called asking for loans, huh?”

“Or trying to sell me something I don’t need or want. People started out happy for us, but now they’re getting aggressive and pissy. I mean, yeah, it’d be nice to give my girls some security—a college education and a trust fund. Maybe buy a new house or expand the restaurant. But we get by okay. It’ll get worse if we keep going. I know it—”

A noise started in the background on his phone, making it hard to hear the last few words. “Sorry. I couldn’t hear that last part. There’s a really odd sound in the background, like a cat yowling on a fence.”

He let out a burst of sound that was part laughter and part struggling not to laugh. “It’s sad, but that really is what it sounds like. I’m at the school Christmas pageant. I didn’t want to take the call in the auditorium, so I stepped into the hallway. You just heard my daughter Beverly singing a solo. I love my baby to pieces, but she can’t carry a tune in a bucket. I know the choir director wants to be fair and give everyone a chance, but it’s torture to listen to.”