Homicide in Hardcover

“It’s not.”

“I appreciate that you think there’s a difference, but I don’t-”

“Are you, or are you not, trying to track down a killer by yourself?”

I licked my lips. A tell? “No.”

“I believe you are.”

I laughed but it sounded ti

I glanced around as I said it and suddenly realized something was very wrong.

Abraham’s studio was a mess. I mean, a real mess. Torn apart. Things were tossed across the countertops and on the floor. A heavy punching cradle was upended on the floor, the hard object I’d stumbled over. There were papers pulled from drawers and reams of book cloth strewn around the room. Several glass jars used to mix PVA glue were shattered on the floor.

“Look at this mess,” I said in alarm. “Somebody’s been here.”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, somebody’s been here?”

I waved my hands around frantically. “Everything’s tossed every which way.”

He looked around. “I assumed Karastovsky liked it this way.”

I stomped my foot. “No! I was just here an hour ago and it was fine. Somebody’s been here and done this. You were waiting for me. Did you see anyone?”

He scowled. “No. I followed you up the hill to your mother’s and missed catching whoever did this.”

I sagged against the counter.

“Don’t touch anything else.” He rubbed his jaw in frustration. “I’ll call the police.”

Derek didn’t have to follow me home but he did it anyway. When I detoured and pulled into the Whole Foods parking lot, he insisted on accompanying me inside, then carried my bags out to the car when I was finished.

I had a tendency to eat when I was overly nervous, and tonight’s mood qualified.

Derek had called Inspector Jaglow to tell him the news of the break-in at Abraham’s. We’d dutifully waited the hour and a half it took him to get there with one of his crime scene investigators. Jaglow had asked a few questions, then cleared us to leave the premises.

Halfway across the Golden Gate Bridge it had occurred to me that if my timing were different, I might’ve run right into Abraham’s killer.

What had the killer been searching for? Was it the missing item from the secret pocket inside the Faust? Something else? A book? Gems? If I could find Abraham’s journals, I might have a better idea what it was that was worth killing for.

“You’re an intense shopper,” Derek said.

“It calms my nerves. You didn’t have to follow me here.”

“I needed a few things as well.”

He carried six grocery bags, five of which were mine.

“I suppose you’re going back up there to look for Karastovsky’s journals,” Derek said as I punched the security button and unlocked my car.

“Of course,” I said more boldly than I felt, then opened my trunk. “I don’t want to duplicate his work and he may have some thoughts and insights I haven’t considered.” That was a lie, of course. All I wanted was the missing piece of paper, whatever it was.

“I’ll help you look for them.”

“Oh, thanks.” Sweet, but awkward. I didn’t want him in the studio while I searched for the missing item, especially since I had no clue what it was. Could this get more convoluted?

“But it won’t be necessary,” I added lightly. “I’ve got to go up for the memorial service anyway, so I’ll have the whole afternoon to find the journals.”

“You really are an appalling liar,” he said conversationally, as he loaded the shopping bags into my trunk.

“I’m not lying,” I lied. Could he see my face turning red in the dim light of the parking lot? He was right. I really was bad at lying. I needed to take lessons from Robin. If there were a baseball team for liars, she would be the cleanup hitter. And she would consider that a compliment.

“You’re lying about something,” he countered cheerfully as he shoved the last of the bags into the space. “But not to worry. I’ll be heading up for the service as well, and I will help you look.”

I bit my lip to keep from groaning. “Cool.”

He stared at the plethora of bags in my trunk. “You’re actually going to consume all this swill?”

Why did an insult uttered with a sexy British accent have less of a sting? “If you’re referring to my purchases, it’s not swill; it’s perfectly good food.”

Slamming the trunk shut, he folded his arms. “I counted six frozen pizzas, eight bags of chocolate and a gallon of ice cream.”

“Ice cream is an excellent source of calcium.”

“It’s swill.”

“Nutritious swill,” I pointed out.

“If you’re a fourteen-year-old boy.”

“You’re getting offensive again.”

“It’s a gift.” He brushed his hands together. “Get in your car. I’ll follow you home.”

I held up my hand. “That’s not necessary.”

“It is.”

“Okay, first of all, I’m not a killer, remember? So you need to stop following me. And second, seriously, you should get a hobby or something. What about sports? Is there a gym near your hotel? You could work out more often.”

He just smiled and waited. It was exasperating. And seeing as how we were standing in the middle of the parking lot of Whole Foods Market, it was also ridiculous.

I sighed. “I’m going straight home to feed my neighbors’ cats and watch some TV. As strongly as you may believe to the contrary, I assure you I’m not a foolish person.”

“Your eating habits betray you.” He gave a significant nod to the back of my car where my bags of swill were stashed.

“I happen to have a speedy metabolism.”

“That can’t last forever.”

“Oh, thanks for that.” I threw up my hands in defeat. “Fine. Follow me. Whatever.”

He shooed me toward the driver’s door. “Off you go, then.”

“You’re incredibly a

“I assure you it was pure entertainment.”

I jogged around to the driver’s side, climbed in and slammed the door shut, then started up the engine. I looked over and gave him a weak smile.

The gaze he gave me was anything but weak. I gulped, then drove away, watching in my rearview mirror as he jumped into the Bentley, started it up and followed me out of the lot.

I tossed and turned all night and woke up the next morning feeling groggy and out of sorts, with a dull headache accompanied by an impending sense of doom. I wasn’t sure whether to blame Derek Stone or the pint of Coney Island Waffle Cone Crunch I’d consumed the night before while watching Survivor: East L.A.

I was happier blaming Derek, I decided, as I stumbled to the kitchen to grab my first cup of strong coffee before heading for the shower.

I stared at the contents of my closet and remembered I’d most likely be meeting the Winslows today. I chose a semiconservative, fitted gray pin-striped suit with a short flared skirt, crisp white shirt with a stand-up collar and black heels.

Robin had insisted I buy this suit because it made me look like a defrocked postulant. I’d figured it was a compliment but later had to Google the word postulant. I’d found a Web site of a nu

There were no photos of the defrocked variety, but it no longer mattered. Sometimes it was better not to examine Robin’s words too closely.

After I poured my second cup of coffee, I went next door to check on the cats. Somehow I’d forgotten to feed them last night, another offense I would lay at the feet of Derek Stone. I washed their kitty bowls and gave them fresh water and some mushy food from a can mixed with kibble bits.

Pookie and Splinters were in a playful mood, so I stuck around for ten minutes to keep them company as they careened around a massive redwood log and a couple of hunks of burl, then zoomed up the tower of their deluxe carpeted cathouse and back down again.