One Book in the Grave: A Bibliophile Mystery

dishwasher.
     
    “Emily’s book was stolen three years ago,” Dereksaid as he rinsed out the bowls. “Why didn’t Angelica do anything about it until this week?”
     
    “Maybe Solomon is dead,” Gabriel put forward. “And now she wants you back.”
     
    “But why would she kill Joe Taylor?” I asked. “That’s what bothers me most. Only the sickest kind of mind would think that murder was the best way to attract attention.”
     
    “I think Solomon had to be the one who killed your friend Joe,” Max said, scowling as he scraped the leftover sauce into two containers, then stacked them inside the freezer.
     
    “Why do you think so?” Derek asked as he filled the pots with soap and hot water to soak.
     
    Max thought for a few seconds, then shrugged. “He had such a sadistic streak, I can’t put it past him.”
     
    “You may be right,” Derek said. A minute later, he tossed the dishcloth on the sink, and I watched him turn from domestic house guy to ruthless security expert. “Max, is there someone you can call on to watch your house and take care of the dog and cat?”
     
    “And the goats,” I added.
     
    “Yes, the goats,” Derek said dryly. “You see, we’re not leaving here without you.”
     
    Max bared his teeth and puffed out his chest. He was a few inches taller than Derek and probably outweighed him by forty pounds. But Max had the soul of an artist, not a fighter, and after a few long moments of posturing, he seemed to recognize who the true alpha dog in this pack was.
     
    “Fine,” Max said, throwing in the towel. “I’ll call my neighbor, Sam. I pay his sons to help me with the goats, and Sam has a key to the house. He’ll take care of Bucky.”
     
    “That about covers it,” Derek said. “What about the cat?”
     
    Max picked up the furry beast. “Clyde’s coming with me.”
     

Chapter 11
     
    Once Max resolved to leave, the first thing he did was call his nearest neighbors, who sent their teenage son, Nick, over to pick up Bucky. Since Nick also helped Max with the goats, he went to the barn and fed them while Max got his things together. Max was packed and ready by the time Nick came back inside. Nick promised Max he would come by every day to feed and check on the goats and pick any figs that ripened while Max was gone.
    I saw Max slip Nick a hundred-dollar bill and watched the kid’s eyes light up. Then Nick gathered up Bucky’s doggy stuff and took off.
     
    “Brooklyn, can you get Clyde into his carrier?” Max called from down the hall.
     
    Derek laughed at the look of panic on my face. “You can do it, darling.”
     
    “Easy for you to say,” I muttered, then dutifully searched the living room for Clyde’s carrier. I found the small, sturdy, duffel-type pet carrier in the front closet, then looked around for Clyde. “Here, kitty, kitty.”
     
    This was not going to be pretty. Clyde seemed to like me and I wanted to keep it that way, because it was such a rare experience. Cats didn’t generally take to me, even though I really liked them. For example, my neighbors’ cats, Pookie and Splinters, showed me nothing but contempt no matter how much I showered them with love,attention, and food. At best, they ignored me, and at worst, well, it hurt to think about it. Let’s just say that their pictures could be found on Wikipedia under the category Cats Who Hate Me
     
    “Meow.”
     
    “Huh?”
Hey, what’s this?
Clyde was rubbing his face against my ankle, purring loudly.
     
    “Hello there, cutie,” I whispered, then stooped down to stroke his furry coat. Would he scratch my eyes out if I picked him up? But he just looked up at me with something like adoration, and I wondered if maybe he’d been isolated on this farm too long. He really seemed to love me a lot. Was I delusional? But he bopped my ankle again and I wasn’t going to argue with the facts. This cat was into me.
     
    “Here goes nothing.” I picked him up and carried him over to the small carrier. He didn’t protest or drive his claws into me, just jumped inside, all on his own. I snapped the top shut.
     
    “Best cat ever,” I said proudly.
     
    “Excellent job, darling,” Derek said. I could tell he was trying not to laugh.
     
    “Clyde digs me.”
     
    He chuckled. “So do we all.”
     
    Max carried his own large duffel bag into the living room and left it by the front door. Walking into the kitchen, he opened another door and said, “Brooklyn, come with me for a