One Book in the Grave: A Bibliophile Mystery

feeling? Or was he just tuned in to me? I was tuned in to him, too, but I could no more tell what he was thinking than I could move that mountain on the other side of the pasture we’d just passed. It wasn’t fair.
     
    “I’m not really worried,” I lied. “I’m more angry. And hurt. I was just thinking about Max and Emily and
Beauty and the Beast
, and, you know, everything that was happening back then.”
     
    “This situation has brought up a lot of old feelings for you,” he said.
     
    “True,” I admitted, then realized that Ian had said the same thing to me. The men in my life were a little too observant sometimes. “But that’s not what’s bothering me.” I turned in my seat so Gabriel could hear me, too. “I’ve been thinking that it wasn’t Joe’s murder that set everything into action to draw out Max.”
     
    “What do you think it was?” Gabriel said.
     
    “It was me.”
     
    Derek took the curve too quickly and swerved, thenswore ripely as he maneuvered the Bentley back into the lane.
     
    “Are you okay?” I asked, clutching the dashboard.
     
    He said nothing, just glared at me with his teeth clenched in…anger?
     
    “What did I say?”
     
    “It’s okay, babe,” Gabriel said, and patted my shoulder. “Our driver’s got shaky nerves. Now, where did you get this idea that you’re the catalyst in all this?”
     
    I cast another uncertain glance at Derek, then related what Ian had told me on Friday. “The book’s so-called owner suggested to Joe that he call the Covington to buy the book. Ian thought it was because the new children’s wing was getting a lot of attention, but I think it’s because they knew about Ian’s connection to me, knew that he would call me in to restore the book. They also knew about my connection to Max and that as soon as I saw the book, I would recognize it and go looking for Joe.”
     
    “And find him dead,” Gabriel concluded.
     
    “Exactly.”
     
    I looked at Derek again. His jaw was clamped shut and it was pretty obvious why. Okay, so maybe I was able to tell his moods better than I had thought. And since it looked like he wanted to chew on the steering wheel, I decided to follow his lead, stop talking, and try to enjoy the scenery.
     
    It was noon when we drove into the deceptively sleepy town of Point Reyes Station. The center of town consisted of one main street that stretched for three short blocks. The town had a faded sixties vibe with an eclectic blend of upscale cafés, building-supply stores, bakeries, cheese shops, art galleries, a funky old auto-repair garage, and a fresh fruit stand. On one corner was the Old Western Saloon, a Victorian-era bar that was a little seedy but had clean bathrooms, a classic rock jukebox, and a friendly bartender who took only cash.
     
    It was hard to believe that this town was the driving force in the multimillion-dollar organic and artisanal food industry that served the San Francisco Bay areaand beyond. The cafés and restaurants in and around Point Reyes Station were like nirvana to food fanatics, who drove from all over northern California to sample the local artisanal cheeses, vegetables, baby lettuces, free-range chicken, grass-fed beef, pâtés, fruits and preserves, and oysters.
     
    Derek drove around the corner and parked the car in front of the Cowgirl Creamery store.
     
    I smiled tentatively. “Maybe we can get something to snack on here.”
     
    “You can snack all you want,” he muttered. “I need a drink.”
     
    He settled for a local beer on tap at the saloon. Gabriel had one, too. I ordered ginger ale. Gabriel took one long sip, then looked at me and Derek. He checked his pocket for change, winked at me, then walked over to the jukebox.
    “Here’s the thing,” I said to Derek once we were alone. “I know you don’t like that I might be a target.”
     
    “Don’t like it? I bloody well hate it.”
     
    “I hate it, too. But for some reason, it’s happening again. So let’s not make it worse by being angry with each other.”
     
    He slid an astonished look at me. “Do you think I’m angry with you?”
     
    I looked at him evenly. “Do you think I’m dumb?”
     
    He stared at his glass and absently smoothed away the condensation with his thumb, then finally met my gaze. “No.”
     
    “Thanks,” I said, not feeling it.
     
    “Come here,” he said, and pulled me into his protective embrace. I went gladly, needing to feel his hard chest pressing