Charlie arrived for their morning walk to the senior center. Exquisitely neat in his white cotton jacket and canvas sneakers, he regarded Grandy with gentle affection. Peach came in with the old crate from the crawl space, greeting Charlie with a nod. “Your buddy was on a treasure hunt,” he said, indicating the dusty collection.

Charlie removed a few rusty tools and stoneware pots, then took out an old vase and rubbed off the dust. “This is beautiful,” he said, holding it up.

Natalie had seen similar vases in the curio shops of Chinatown. “Pretty. I’ll clean it up and put some fresh flowers in it, assuming it doesn’t leak.”

Charlie nodded. “Handle it with care. Might be another of your treasures.”

She grinned and took it from him. “Right.” As she upended the vase, a large, hairy-legged spider scuttled out. Natalie screamed, flinging the thing away from her. Peach’s hand shot out and grabbed the vase before it shattered on the floor.

“Damn,” he said, “you really don’t like spiders.”

“Sorry.” She sagged back against the edge of the counter. “Nice ninja move, by the way.”

Peach stooped and picked up a dusty object tied with twine. “This fell out of your vase.”

It was an old folio the size of a playing card. Natalie opened it carefully to reveal several onionskin pages covered in Chinese characters. She showed it to Charlie. “Any ideas?”

He studied the paper, then shook his head. “My Chinese reading ability is not strong enough.”

Natalie sent a picture of the vase and folio to Tess—Another treasure? Or someone’s Chinatown souvenir?—and then put the items on a shelf above the espresso machine.

A few minutes later, Tess returned the text. Could be something, could be nothing. I’ll send someone around from Sheffield’s to pick it up.

After Grandy and Charlie left, the day was quiet in the shop. Too quiet. Bertie had an audition for a revival of Waiting for Godot. Cleo had gone to work a school book fair. Natalie busied herself with ordering books. The shop featured about seven thousand different titles, but a steady stream of new material was needed to keep the inventory fresh. The budget didn’t allow for mistakes. It barely allowed for the requisite numbers of new books. Making a living as a bookseller was entirely possible, but only if the inventory was skillfully managed. Sometimes she looked at her mother’s bookkeeping and wanted to scream.