One Book in the Grave: A Bibliophile Mystery

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    After a few more seconds, I calmed my features, turned, and smiled tightly. “Hi, Inspector. Long time, no see.”
     
    “Not long enough, Wainwright,” she said, smirking, then sobered up and glanced around the front room of Joe’s shop. Janice Lee was a first-generation Chinese American woman who took care of her mom, dressed way too fashionably for a cop, and had the most beautiful hair I’d ever seen. Lately, she was always sucking on a mint, probably to keep from smoking, a habit she’d given up only a few months ago. She was about my age, tall, thin, smart, and snarky, and I liked her a lot. We could’ve been great friends if only I weren’t such a dead-body magnet, as she’d pointed out.
     
    “Figures we’d be surrounded by books,” she muttered, peering around at the bookshelves. “So where’s the body?”
     
    “Right through there,” I said, gesturing toward the antiquarian room.
     
    She pulled her notepad out of the pocket of her gorgeous black Burberry trench coat. I was the furthest thing from a fashion maven, but I knew it was Burberry because I could see the coat’s signature plaid lining when she moved. Forgive my weakness at a moment like this, but I was having trench coat envy.
     
    “Stick around, Brooklyn,” she said. “I’m looking forward to hearing all the gory details on this one.” Then she strolled off down the narrow center aisle to check out the crime scene.
     
    By late afternoon, I’d given Inspector Lee and her partner, Inspector Nathan Jaglom, every ounce of information I could think of, right down to which art-supply stores I’d purchased my own inexpensive, square-bladed shearing knives at. Several uniformed officers had left to canvass the neighborhood for possible witnesses, and the medical examiner had taken Joe’s body away.
    After Inspector Lee told us she’d be in touch, Derek walked me to my car. Good thing, too, because I had a flat tire.
     
    “Damn it. This day just gets better and better.” I stomped over to the driver’s side and squatted next tothe tire. It wasn’t just flat; it looked like it had been slashed by something sharp. Had I run over something on the way to Joe’s?
     
    “Don’t touch anything,” Derek said abruptly, and yanked me back up. That was when I noticed the object sticking out of the tread. It looked like the handle of a small knife.
     
    “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said, thoroughly disgusted and, yeah, frightened.
     
    “Somebody’s not kidding,” Derek muttered, grabbing my arm and pulling me out of the street, onto the sidewalk. He called Inspector Lee immediately. He caught her just as she was driving away from Joe’s, and she said she’d meet us in less than a minute.
     
    It took Derek exactly thirty seconds to rush over and take pictures of the knife and my tire with his phone. He finished and was standing next to me on the sidewalk by the time Lee dashed up.
     
    “This is getting stupid,” she said.
     
    “Tell me about it.” I rubbed my arms to keep the scaredy-cat chills from overwhelming me.
     
    “You okay?”
     
    “No, I’m taking this all very personally,” I said.
     
    “I kinda don’t blame you,” she said. With her phone in her hand, she also took pictures of my tire and the knife. Then she slipped one rubber glove onto her left hand and eased the knife out of the tire. She walked over and showed it to me, turning it so I could see it from different angles. “Look familiar?”
     
    It was an expensive Japanese paper knife with a beautifully tooled handle. I recognized it because I owned one like it; I’d bought it a few years ago for almost two hundred dollars. The entire knife was about nine inches long, with a fat, curved blade that looked razor-sharp.
     
    I moved closer and studied the Japanese figures that had been carved along the length of the handle. At the pommel, or butt end of the handle, three ornate letters were also carved into the hardwood surface. The knifewas old enough that the design was worn smooth, but I knew the letters spelled out
MAX.
     
    “Max?” I whispered as goose bumps formed on my skin. “Max Adams?”
     
    “Who’d you say?” Inspector Lee demanded.
     
    Alarmed, I shook my head. “Nothing. Nobody. It’s not possible. He’s been dead for years. This knife could belong to anyone.”
     
    “Don’t screw around with me, Brooklyn,” she said, her eyes narrowing.
     
    “I’m not,” I cried. “The only person I know