One Book in the Grave: A Bibliophile Mystery

Minka’s ample lower body. As God was my witness, the leggings were topped by a matching tube top (a tube top!) and a pixie band (a pixie band!) in her hair. She looked like a demented barber pole.
     
    I couldn’t make this stuff up.
     
    “I was invited to come here today,” I said, shielding my eyes from the glare. “I know you can’t say the same, so you should leave. Be sure to let the door hit your ass on the way out.”
     
    Baring her teeth, she snarled and said, “You’re such a bitch!”
     
    I smiled with concern. “Really? Is that the best you’ve got? Pitiful.”
     
    She moved in close—so close that I could smell her new perfume, Eau de Goat—and hissed at me. “If you don’t stop trying to take away my jobs, I’ll make sure you never work in this town again.”
     
    Never work in this town again?
Had she really said that? Of course she had. Minka was the queen of the tattered cliché.
     
    “Threats, Minka?” I backed away from her, knowing she had an unruly left hook. “Ian won’t like hearing that you threatened me.”
     
    She sniffed imperiously. “Ian is a jerk.”
     
    “I’ll be sure to tell him you said so.”
     
    “You’re a jerk, too.”
     
    Feeling disappointed, I shook my head. “Have you been sick or something? Your comebacks are so lame, it’s pathetic.” I didn’t stick around to hear her answer, but turned and hurried off. I didn’t look back, either—possibly a tactical error where Minka was concerned, since she was the master of the sneak attack. But honestly, I couldn’t take another violent shock to my nervous system.
     
    “You’ll be sorry!” she shrieked.
     
    I rubbed my arms against the chill but kept moving. Minka had the kind of aura that stirred up all the frigid, stagnant chi that existed in any space. Or maybe auras and chi had nothing to do with it. I just knew she scared the hell out of me. Once I turned the corner and was out of her sight, I breathed easier. It was warmer now. The spell was broken.
     
    I knew that sounded a little wacky, but I’d beenstalked and harassed and, yes, punched in the face by Minka LaBoeuf. I wasn’t about to question the possibility that she could cast spells with those evil eyes of hers.
     
    Strolling briskly down the wide hall, I entered the suite of business offices and greeted Wylie, Ian’s current assistant.
     
    “He’s waiting for you, Ms. Wainwright. Go right in.”
     
    “Thanks, Wylie.”
     
    I knocked, then opened Ian’s door.
     
    “Hey, you,” Ian said, jumping up from his chair and rushing to greet me with a hug. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been itching to get your opinion on what to do about this book.”
     
    Shaking off the last of my Minka-induced negativity, I smiled and hugged him back. “I can’t wait to see it.”
     
    “I’ll warn you beforehand that the outside of the book is less than impressive. Well, actually, it’s in horrible shape, but I know you can make it shine. The inside is exquisite.” He led the way across the room to his lovingly restored Chippendale conference table. We sat, and I watched him slowly unwrap several layers of white tissue paper to reveal a rather nondescript book.
     
    The book was big, probably twelve inches tall by nine inches wide, but it was less than one inch thick. The leather cover was green, or it had been at one time; now it was faded to a dull gray. The front cover was badly frayed along the inner edges and outer hinge, where it would probably break apart at the least jarring movement.
     
    And it was disturbingly familiar. I frowned and chewed my lip as I reached for it.
     
    “I know it’s ugly,” Ian reiterated, misreading my reaction. “But the paper is still in excellent condition, and just wait until you see the illustrations.”
     
    “Okay.” I picked it up cautiously, not only because it was old and falling apart, but because I was afraid of what I would find when I opened it. I stared at the spine.
Beauty and the Beast
, it read, though the letters had lost most of their gilding.
     
    I opened the book, bypassed the flyleaf, and turned to the front illustration across from the title page. It was colorful and sweet and classically Victorian. A tea party for two. Beauty wore a regal red cape and her golden blond hair flowed in waves down her back. She sat at a table, pouring tea for the Beast, who was depicted as a huge brown bear. His appearance was hairy and scary, yet he seemed dignified and well