One Book in the Grave: A Bibliophile Mystery

stopped him. “Be prepared for a shock, mate.”
     
    “Over there,” I said, pointing at the box.
     
    “Yeah, okay.” Max frowned, then straightened his shoulders and stalked over to the box. He took one look inside, then shouted an incoherent epithet and jumped back a foot. He began to swear like a sailor, then instantly found religion. “Holy Jesus! Mother of God!”
     
    Finally, he whirled around and grabbed his head with both hands. “Christ! That’s sick. Who would do that?”
     
    That was pretty much the question of the hour.
     
    “Put the cover back on the box, would you?” I asked.
     
    “Yeah,” Max agreed loudly. “Damn. Let’s do that.”
     
    As he and Derek lifted the heavy wooden top, I brushed my hair back off my forehead and tried to catch my breath. I was still shaking, could still feel the residual terror of that first moment when I realized that a dead body had been delivered to my home.
     
    What had I done? Why had someone sent me such a hateful, macabre message?
     
    More important, what had Angelica done? Well, she’d been a bitch, treated a lot of people badly, but had she deserved to be used as an object of horror?
     
    To someone, she obviously had. And I knew that someone was Solomon. That man had a lot to answer for.
     
    Was this all about Max? Or me? Both of us? Who was the message intended for? My head was spinning with questions and no clear answers.
     
    I watched as Derek and Max straightened the edges of the box; then they both stepped back. Max looked grim as he walked out of the room.
     
    “How did she die?” I asked Derek.
     
    He gritted his teeth. “I suspect asphyxiation.”
     
    “She was strangled?”
     
    “Suffocated,” he corrected.
     
    “Like, with a pillow, you mean?”
     
    “Perhaps,” he said, his eyes narrowed in thought. “Something plastic is more likely.”
     
    I winced. “Oh.”
     
    After a moment of silence, he pulled out his cell phone. “I’ll call Gabriel.”
     
    I nodded. “I’ll call the police.”
     
    “Look who’s moving up in the world,” Inspector Lee said cheerfully as she walked into my workroom.
    “What do you mean?” I said, lifting my head from the table. While she’d been observing the crime scene, I’d been resting my eyes for a few minutes. But it hadn’t helped to erase that vision of Angelica in the box. I feared it was permanently planted in my brain.
     
    “I mean, you’re not going out looking for dead bodies anymore,” she explained with a smirk. “Now you’re having them delivered.”
     
    I stared at her in amazement.
     
    “What?” she said.
     
    “That is just so mean.”
     
    She laughed. “Lighten up, Wainwright. We’ve got to keep a sense of humor about these things.”
     
    I made sure she saw me rolling my eyes before I walked away. I went into my bedroom, closed the door, and looked around. I loved this room, loved the colors I’d chosen. Pale greens in different shades from sage toapple. Crisp whites. Clean, soft lines. Nothing frilly, just all smooth and calm. I could relax in here, clear my thoughts, consider my options. I sat on the love seat and put up my feet. I didn’t feel like relaxing. I wanted to kick something.
     
    My life in the past week had been turned upside down. Two bodies discovered, one delivered in a box. A friend returning from the dead. Crazy survivalists. Someone taking potshots at me and my friends. I was sick of it.
     
    “‘Got to keep a sense of humor about these things,’” I muttered sarcastically. Not fair! I had a sense of humor.
     
    And I liked Inspector Lee—I really did. But, excuse me, I didn’t think calling me a murder magnet was all that funny. She’d said stuff like this to me before, stuff about seeing me at every murder scene and how we had to stop meeting like that. She’d made it clear that she noticed I seemed to attract dead bodies.
     
    Maybe
she
was the reason I’d developed this complex, the one I’d discussed with Guru Bob. But Guru Bob had seen it in a positive light. I wasn’t sure I agreed with him. Could I ever consider my apparent proclivity for finding dead bodies a good thing? Did he really intend for me to take on the role of Nemesis, finding justice for the dead?
     
    Did I even want to? Some of the dead were people I would never be friends with. Case in point? Angelica. She had treated me like a leper. Did I really care who murdered her?
     
    I punched the pillow I was clutching. Yeah, I cared,