One Book in the Grave: A Bibliophile Mystery

him smiling at me in a way that was almost…victorious? Had I just capitulated to something? Was there a contest I didn’t know about?
     
    “Be careful, please,” he murmured, kissing me again. “I love you.”
     
    “And I love you,” I said. It was getting easier to tell him how I felt, especially when he said it first. Was that so wrong? It wasn’t like I needed permission to say it. But it was still nice to hear him say it first. Was I being neurotic? Hell, when it came to matters of the heart, when was I
not
?
     
    He pulled open the car door and slid into the driver’s seat. “I’ll call you this afternoon when I’m on my way out of the city.”
     
    “Okay. Be safe.”
     
    He flashed me one of his sexy, twisted grins that made my whole body sit up and take notice. I smiled and waved as he started the engine and drove away.
     
    Instead of racing back into the house, I stopped to pull some weeds growing among the flowers along Mom’s walkway.
     
    Derek and I had been together for almost six months now. The fact that we’d managed to maintain a strong relationship, given Derek’s secret security assignments and my odd predilection for finding dead bodies, was a monumental achievement. If that wasn’t love, what was it, right? So why rock the boat when it looked like smooth sailing ahead?
     
    I mentally rolled my eyes.
Rock the boat?
Smooth sailing?
So many clichés, so little time. It was never a good thing to hear myself thinking in clichés.
     
    I had a great-aunt, Aunt Jessica, my dad’s father’s sister, who spoke only in clichés and the occasional mixed metaphor. Instead of ever giving advice or admonishing, Aunt Jessica would nod gravely and say, “Sleeping dogs.” Or she would wink at one of us and murmur, “Bird in the hand.”
     
    So from an early age, my siblings and I recognized the true wisdom of her words. We would outdo one another trying to come up with some ridiculous comment to describe a given situation. Finally, my father outlawed all clichés and silly metaphors. He decreed that we were allowed to think only original thoughts. It was silent at thedinner table for a few nights until he relented. But we learned our lesson, and from then on we did try to avoid clichés like the plague. Ha!
     
    My point was that when I caught myself thinking in metaphors, mixed or otherwise, I knew I was either extremely tired or in serious danger of losing my heart. Both of these circumstances could cause brain cells to diminish. It was a well-known fact.
     
    I just hoped I wasn’t getting stupid where Derek was concerned. He’d told me straight out that he worked in dangerous situations all the time, but maybe I’d missed the subtext. Maybe that meant he didn’t want to face danger when he came home. Maybe that’s what he wanted to talk to me about. Maybe he’d rather come home to someone more settled, someone less likely to stumble over dead bodies. Someone who didn’t attract death like honey attracted flies. Or was it bees?
     
    Didn’t matter. Either way, it was another cliché. Good grief.
     
    “Well, that’s too damn bad, pal,” I said stoutly, as I stood and brushed bits of grass and dirt off my pants. “You’re stuck with me and I’m stuck with you.”
     
    And just like that, I felt better. Lighter. Happier. Weird, but I guessed I would have to pull weeds more often. No wonder Mom often looked and acted so Zen-like. Through her gardening, she had found a way to clear her mind. Good to know.
     
    Walking around the side of the house, I tossed the handful of weeds into the green trash can to be dried and mulched.
     
    Mom was waiting in the kitchen, putting away the last of the breakfast dishes. I smiled at her outfit: work boots and a faded denim jacket over a long-sleeved purple T-shirt and a calf-length crinkly skirt she’d tie-dyed several shades of sage green.
     
    I felt so plain standing next to her in my blue jeans, a thick navy sweater, and loafers.
     
    But her eyes lit up when I walked inside. “There’s my beautiful girl.”
     
    “Mom, you look fabulous.”
     
    She whirled around like a little girl and we both laughed. Then she sobered. “I’m feeling a little antsy about our mission so I’m going to perform a success ritual before we leave.”
     
    Our
mission
? Ooh, boy. And rituals? God help me. I thought about stopping her, but how could I argue with a success ritual? After all, I’d never admit it to Mom, but I was a little antsy,