One Book in the Grave

“Of course it’s not mine,” I mumbled. Why would it be? Just because someone had once stolen some of my bookbinding tools to use as murder weapons didn’t mean that my knife was the one used to kill Joe. I was just being paranoid. But come on. Who could blame me?

I had the strongest urge to grab the knife and throw it away, but it was too late. The police would be here any minute, and let’s face it: anywhere I hid it, they would find it, along with my finge<?rprints.

It made me sick to think someone in the book arts world had killed Joe. But with that knife as the weapon, who else could’ve done it? Joe probably knew a hundred different bookbinders in the city and probably a few papermakers, too. It was a small community and a fairly peaceful one, or so I’d always thought. And Joe was one of the most mild-ma

A more important question—to me, at least—was, Did the killing have something to do with me?

I stepped back and had to blink once or twice to clear my vision. As I did so, the colors and patterns of the rugs grew more vivid, the intricate inlaid wood designs of the cabinets more complex. The lights from the chandelier twinkled more brightly. It was as if the moment was being imprinted on my mind.

Some experts—like my mother—say that at traumatic times like this one, the smallest details are marked in your memory and you can recall every facet of the scene for years to come. That must’ve been what was happening to me now. Or maybe I was getting a migraine headache. Either that or I was going crazy.

“You’re not crazy,” I told myself, “but this situation is.”

Glancing around the room again, I noted that nothing seemed to have been disturbed—except for Joe. And once again, one incredibly selfish thought whirled through my brain: Why me?

How had I become the Angel of Death? Was it karmic? Some kind of payback for living a really bad former life? That life must have been a beaut.

Maybe I would talk to Guru Bob about this alarming proclivity for finding dead bodies. Would he have a theory or would he laugh at me? He was a pretty powerful guy when it came to knowing things that were ordinarily unknowable.

Where are the police? I checked my phone for the fourth time. Then, since I had it out anyway, I called Derek Stone.

I’d met Derek a few months ago when I was accused and later absolved of the murder of Abraham Karastovsky, my bookbinding mentor. Derek was tall, dark, handsome, and dangerous. He carried a gun and was willing to use it, and despite the fact that I’d grown up in the peace, love, and flower-power world of the commune, I had found Derek and his gun reassuring on more than one occasion.

Derek and I had become friends during Abraham’s murder investigation, and since then, we’d become even closer. Our feelings for each other seemed to grow stronger every day. He was a former intelligence officer with Britain’s MI6 and now owned Stone Security, a company that provided armed security to people and objects—rare books, artwork, buildings, and anything else that required safekeeping—all over the world.

Derek had recently a

“Brooklyn, darling,” he said after answering on the first ring. “What a nice surprise.”

“You won’t believe what just happened,” I said, stalking out of the antiquarian room and into the stacks out front.

“What is it?” he said, his voice edged with concern. “You sound as if you might’ve found another dead body.”

“That’s your first guess?” I said, my voice a little higher-pitched than I would’ve preferred. “That’s what I sound like? Because that’s exactly what happened. Do I have some kind of weird bull’s-eye on my back or something?”

“Of course not,” he soothed. “But I must confess, I’ve taken to fretting about the very same thing lately.”

“It’s only because you’re hanging around with me.” The fact that Derek ever “fretted” about anything was almost amusing. I walked up one aisle and down the next, rolling my shoulders and stretching my neck to shake off the tension. “Anyway, poor Joe Taylor is dead, murdered. I found him. And the fact is, things like this are happening to me with alarming regularity. Don’t you think?”

“I do indeed,” he said soberly. “But let’s talk about that later. Tell me, who is Joe? And where are you? I’m coming to meet you right now.”

I leaned against the last shelf of books. “I appreciate the offer, but you don’t have to do that. I’m sorry for snapping. I’ll be fine. It just gets a little old, that’s all.”

“Yes, of course it does. Can you tell me what happened?”

I sighed. “Joe Taylor is a bookstore owner I’ve known for a long time. He sold Ian a book that I needed some information about, so I drove over to see him and found him dead. It must’ve only happened a minute or two before I got here. His throat was cut.”

“So there’s blood,” Derek murmured, then added briskly, “What’s the address?”

I gave up pretending I didn’t need his help. “Thank you,” I whispered. Derek knew my aversion to blood and was willing to come and hold my hand. I was touched. “I know you’re busy. Maybe you shouldn’t—”

“It’s Friday and I’m the boss,” he said. “Besides, I’m never too busy for you, darling. Now give me Joe’s address.”

Chapter 4

Derek arrived ten minutes after the first police officers showed up. He walked right into the shop and pulled me close, and I just about melted in his arms. The man oozed dark sensuality and charm, but that wasn’t the only reason I was happy to see him. I’m not a wimp about this stuff; I’d faced the police alone plenty of times and I was used to it by now. But Derek and I, we were a team. Especially when it came to dealing with dead bodies.

Maybe that made us sound a bit suspicious, but with Derek’s intelligence background and his current work in security, he definitely came in handy around a crime scene. That was how we first met, after all. Me kneeling over Abraham with my hands covered in blood. Derek, the first to accuse me of murder. It was a match made in heaven. Call me a romantic fool, but when it came to finding a body dripping blood on an Oriental rug, there was no one else I’d rather have on my team than Derek Stone.

“The police officers are cordoning off the back room,” I said, pointing in that direction. “That’s Joe’s antiquarian room, where he died. They told me to wait out here.”

“Have they called Homicide?”

“I don’t know, but I went ahead and called Inspector Lee.” I shrugged. “I’ve got her on speed dial.”

“That’s handy.”

“Isn’t it? I had to leave a message.” I told Derek exactly what had happened from the moment I walked into Ian’s office at the Covington and saw the Beauty and the Beast to my arrival at Joe’s bookstore, where I found the body. I explained about the papermaker’s knife and concluded by confessing what I did when I heard the killer run out the back door.

That was when Derek pulled me back into his arms and held me tightly. “You scare the hell out of me, you know,” he muttered against my hair.

“You’ve mentioned that before,” I said, then admitted, “It was disconcerting.” I was still shaken by the reality of what might have happened if I’d managed to catch up to the killer. “I tried to be careful. But I’m not looking forward to telling the whole story to Inspector Lee. I’m sure I’ve left fingerprints on everything.”

I could just imagine what my favorite Homicide cop would say when she found out I’d stumbled over another dead body. This wasn’t going to be pretty.