One Book in the Grave: A Bibliophile Mystery

decided at that moment that I would build a storage box for
Beauty
and use Max’s thick crimson sheets of paper for the lining.
     
    The style of box I had in mind was commonly known as a clamshell because of its construction. A hinge on one side allowed it to spread open completely and reveal its contents, somewhat like the action of a clamshell. Most jewelry boxes opened this way, and many rare books were housed in similar style.
     
    Max, meanwhile, had discovered that one of the doors in my living room led upstairs to my small, private rooftop patio, and he had taken over the space. Moving the patio table and chairs around, he set up a makeshift papermaking studio in the southeast corner, where the walls blocked the worst of San Francisco’s winds.
     
    He laid out his tools and supplies, then went around my house, pruning the plants and small trees I had in pots inside and out on the patio. He gathered quite a selection of twigs and leaves and petals that he would use to work into the sheets of paper he would make. I loaned him a week’s worth of newspapers for turning into pulp, as well as my hair dryer, to speed up the drying process, and he was good to go.
     
    I spent the afternoon in my workroom, studying the endpapers of
Beauty and the Beast
. They were worth saving. There was a fanciful rendering of a magical forest in shades of green and brown and gold that would work beautifully against the vermilion leather. The details of the forest were charming. Cheerful flowers lined a winding path that led deeper into the woods. Small forestcreatures flitted among the trees. The picture was faded but still engaging, so I was extra careful to make a clean, razor-sharp cut along the inner hinge. I would splice the two sides together later and the little work of art would look as good as new.
     
    It always took me a while to get started when I was taking apart a faded, broken book. The first cut was the most difficult. I know it sounds silly, but I felt as though I was cutting open an old friend, and I wanted to make sure that initial slice of the knife was exact and effective. I was always relieved to get past that moment.
     
    I picked up my scalpel and used it to pick at the blobs of glue along the front inside cover. It was a mess and so thick that I wondered if some child had poured glue over the edges and their parent had tried to wipe it up to little avail. Stranger things had happened to books.
     
    My mind wandered to thoughts of Max working upstairs. I hoped he was as blissful at pulping and mashing newspapers up there as I was with ripping apart an old book down here. I pictured the two of us, happy as dancing toadstools, working away in our own private worlds all day long.
     
    Toadstools?
I shook my head in bemusement. I’d been staring at that magic forest way too long. I blinked to clear my vision and glanced over at the clock on my desk. It was almost five o’clock. I’d been working for four hours straight.
     
    “And didn’t make it past the endpapers.” Oh, well. I covered my tools and the book with a soft white cloth, slid down off my high stool, and stretched for a minute. Then I flicked off the bright ceiling light over my worktable and headed for the kitchen.
     
    Max came walking out of his bedroom minutes later.
     
    I stared, stunned by the change in him. “You shaved your beard off.”
     
    “I did. I felt like I was shedding an old skin.”
     
    “I love it,” I said, smiling up at him. “You look years younger and very handsome.”
     
    “Shucks. I bet you say that to all the guys.”
     
    I laughed. “Are you ready for a glass of wine?”
     
    “Sure. I’ll open the bottle.”
     
    I pulled three wineglasses down from the shelf just as the phone rang. I answered it, listened and talked for a moment, then hung up. “Derek will be home in fifteen minutes.”
     
    While we waited for Derek to show up, we sipped our wine, a rich, dry Rhône that I’d found on sale at the market and bought a case of last month. And I took the opportunity to beg Max to help me hone my cooking skills.
     
    “I only know a few dishes,” he said.
     
    “But you cook effortlessly. There’s no anxiety or kerfuffles in your kitchen. That’s the part I’d like to learn.”
     
    “
Kerfuffles?
I’ve never baked those before.”
     
    “Ha-ha. Are you going to give me some pointers or not?”
     
    He grudgingly agreed. “It’s not like I have anything better to do.”
     
    “You really