One Book in the Grave: A Bibliophile Mystery

minute.”
     
    I flashed a puzzled look at Derek, but followed Max through a door I hadn’t noticed before. It led to a basement via a precariously steep stairway, so I took my time going down. Max stood in the center of the brightly lit but windowless room with his arms spread out. “What do you think?”
     
    I glanced around. It took me a few long seconds to figure out what I was doing down here, but I finally recognized that this was his papermaking studio. Dozens of samples of his work were pinned to the walls. Every surface was covered with rough sheets of handmade paperin various colors and shapes. And they were all stunning works of art.
     
    “Oh, my God, Max,” I said, my voice hushed in awe. “These are incredible. I can’t believe all this is hidden down here.”
     
    “I didn’t want to take the chance of working upstairs. Sometimes the neighbors come over for dinner.” He shrugged. “It was too risky.”
     
    I turned slowly in a circle, taking it all in. “And you’ve never sent anything out? To anyone?”
     
    He sighed. “I couldn’t.”
     
    “Now, that’s a crime. What’s this?” I approached a small, ancient letterpress machine in the corner. “No way. You’re doing your own typesetting now?”
     
    He shrugged. “I thought I might try to write a book.”
     
    “And using a computer is so passé.”
     
    Laughing, he said, “That’s right. You might have noticed I’ve got some extra time on my hands. I thought I would teach myself letterpress.”
     
    I picked up the setting stick and studied the neatly set metal block letters. “So essentially you can now craft a book from start to finish.”
     
    “Gives me something to do,” he said modestly.
     
    I laughed and shook my head in wonder. Turning, I stared at one wall covered in different sheets of beautifully raw, rough paper strewn with plant material, tiny flowers, twigs, leaves. There was paper in shades of green more vivid than anything I’d ever seen in nature, shades of crimson so vibrant I had to wonder if he hadn’t drawn his own blood to stain it red. But no. Not even blood could achieve such a startling hue.
     
    “How did you get this color?” I asked, touching the fibers to make sure they were real.
     
    “Beets,” he said. “I grow them myself. Saves time and money and trips to the store.”
     
    I turned and looked at him. “You’ve gotten better. I didn’t think it was possible, but all this is just more proof that you’re a freaking genius.”
     
    “And you’re still crazy,” he said, chuckling. “Whydon’t you grab a few sheets and take them with us? Maybe you can bind them into an album or something.”
     
    My eyes goggled. “You mean it? Seriously? I would love to.” Instantly, I reached for the pins in the walls and began to gather up all the sheets I could handle. “I probably shouldn’t take too many.”
     
    He laughed. “Too late. You’re a paper pig.”
     
    “Fine,” I said, laughing with him. “As long as I get all this paper, I can live with that.”
     
    “Take all you want, Brooklyn. I know you’ll treat my work with love.”
     
    “I will.” My eyes burned and I walked over and hugged him. “It’s so amazing to see you alive and…Oh. I need a minute.”
     
    He held me for a moment, rubbing my back. “I’m glad you came. And I’m sorry for hurting everyone, but I’m glad we’re going to end this thing.”
     
    “Me, too.”
     
    “Thanks, Brooklyn,” he whispered.
     
    I sniffled. “We should get going.”
     
    “Yeah.” He let me go. “Take some more paper. It’s better off going with you than sitting here in this basement.”
     
    “Okay.” I headed for another wall. “This is like Christmas. I feel like I’m taking Rembrandt paintings off the walls of the Louvre.”
     
    “Now you’re being ridiculous,” he said, then added, “They’re more like Van Goghs.”
     
    “Oh, shut up, Vincent,” I said, laughing. “I think I’ve taken more than enough.”
     
    “Not yet.” He waved toward another wall. “Come on, they’re all just going to rot down here.”
     
    To prove he was serious, he walked over to a table in the corner where more sheets of pale golden handmade paper, thick and rough with deckled edges, were stacked. “Let’s take these, too.” He held them up for me to see. “They would make some cool journals, wouldn’t they?”
     
    “God, yes.” I could already picture the bindings Iwould make for them. “Do