One Book in the Grave: A Bibliophile Mystery

look very chic.”
     
    “Just like you,” she said, making me laugh.
     
    We drove four miles to the Art Institute and found a parking place in a local shopping area a block from the school. As we strolled briskly along the wide, tree-lined walkway of the campus, I noticed colorful banners on every light pole touting the latest artist retrospective being held at the institute’s well-respected art gallery. The banner’s image was blurry and I paid little attention to it, figuring it was some local artist I’d never heard of.
     
    “It’s a pretty campus,” Mom said. “Did you enjoy your time teaching here?”
     
    “I did, most of the time.” As I gazed around at the students hurrying to classes, I felt a rush of nostalgia formy college days. We passed the student union, and I considered walking inside to indulge in a little vicarious taste of student life, when someone shoved a flyer into my hand. I was ready to toss it in the trash, but happened to notice the large headline: GENIUS ON PAPER.
     
    I stared at the stippled face of the honoree, then glanced up at one of the banners flapping on the light pole. I could finally make out that blurred image. Gazing back at the flyer, I read all about the upcoming retrospective featuring the most important works of that late, great papermaker, Max Adams.
     
    “Oh, my God,” I whispered, and scanned the flyer as Mom read over my shoulder. The opening-night cocktail party for the monthlong Max Adams Retrospective was scheduled for two Saturdays from now. The party was to feature several prominent artists, a live jazz band, a cash bar, hors d’oeuvres, and one very special guest.
     
    “Look who the show’s curator is,” Mom said, pointing to the name at the bottom of the flyer.
     
    I read the name, then did a double take. “Angelica Johansen. You have got to be kidding.”
     
    What in the world is Angelica up to?
     
    “Didn’t you suspect she knew Max was alive?”
     
    “Yes, and now I’m sure of it.” I shook the piece of paper. “This could be why she set the whole thing in motion, starting with selling the book to Joe.”
     
    “Do you really think so?”
     
    “Of course,” I said. “She expects Max Adams to be her special guest.”
     
    Mom and I stepped inside the dark lecture hall and found ourselves on the top tier of an arena-style auditorium. In the front of the class, standing at a podium next to a large slide screen that showed a photograph of the Greek Acropolis, was Solomon.
    With a slide-change clicker in one hand and a laser pointer in the other, Solomon was delivering a stirring account of his last visit to the famous ancient ruin.
     
    He glanced up at the top row and I shivered involuntarily.The lights were dimmed and he was busy lecturing, but I felt as though he could see right through me from twenty rows away. He seemed taller, older, better-looking, and more solidly built than I remembered him.
     
    “Do we have latecomers?” he asked acerbically, his deep, smooth voice resonating through the room.
     
    “Sorry, wrong classroom,” I said loudly, and pushed Mom toward the door.
     
    Once in the hall, I had to take a few deep breaths to calm my stuttering heart. I hadn’t seen Solomon in almost ten years, but all it took was a few short seconds in the same room to leave me certain that the man could be a cold-blooded killer.
     
    “I had no idea he was so forceful,” Mom said, breathless herself.
     
    “I’d forgotten,” I muttered, wondering if I’d simply been too young and naive to recognize Solomon’s potent sexual energy, or if his unpredictable, domineering ways back then had blinded me to his magnetism.
     
    “No wonder Crystal is so in love with him.”
     
    “I know. He’s got some lethal pheromones at work.”
     
    Mom’s eyes narrowed in disgust. “Which helps mask the fact that he’s a psychopath.”
     
    I looked at her in amazement. “Well put, Mom.”
     
    “I have my moments.”
     
    Laughing, I grabbed her arm and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
     
    We made one quick stop at the gallery store. I wanted to find a poster of the retrospective to show Max. Wouldn’t he be surprised?
     
    The store had all different retrospective items available, from postcards to wall posters. I chose a medium-sized poster on good-quality card stock. Mom wanted one and so did I, so I ended up buying three.
     
    “Oh, Max Adams,” the salesgirl said with excitement. “I love his work. Don’t