One Book in the Grave: A Bibliophile Mystery

recommendations. Perched on the floor of each narrow aisle were step stools that allowed customers to reach the highest shelves.
     
    But for the discerning collector in search of true treasures, one could bypass the untidy shelves and follow the arrows and signs that read ANTIQUARIAN ROOM. They pointed the way through a narrow, arched doorway and into another world.
     
    It was like entering the innermost cave. Joe’s rare-book room was filled wall to wall with beautifully polished wood display cabinets with glass fronts, each holding a selection of priceless books and ephemera. In the center of the room, under an ornate chandelier, were three waist-high glass cases resting on pedestals. In these were Joe’s most valuable antiquarian books. A number of Oriental rugs overlapped one another, so the entire floor was covered. The chandelier cast a warm glow over the room.
     
    In the largest cabinet was a whimsical display of all fourteen books in the L. Frank Baum Oz collection. They were all first editions, all in excellent condition. Who knew there were so many adventures to be had in the Land of Oz?
     
    Each of the Baum covers was bright and colorful, with an odd Oz character featured on the cloth binding. The price tag for the collection was hefty: one hundred fifty thousand dollars. All I could think was,
Wow.
     
    Displayed in one of the center cases was a well-preserved copy of
The Little Prince
, signed by the author, Saint-Exupéry. A description of the book and its condition was typed on a small card along with the price: twenty thousand.
     
    That seemed a little steep for a book that was still available on the market, but maybe the author rarely signed his work. I moved past two wingback chairs that Joe had provided for his customers to sit and enjoy or study a particular book, engraving, or ephemera. I thought about sitting and waiting for him in here, but there was too much cool stuff to see.
     
    I hurried to the next display case on the other side of the chair. It held a stunning antique Russian bible with a thick cover fashioned out of a sheet of hammered and engraved silver attached by rivets to thick wood boards. I moved closer to examine the foreign symbols carved in the silver—and stumbled over something. I grabbed onto the edge of the sturdy display case to steady myself and looked down to see what had caused me to trip. It was a man’s shoe.
     
    A man’s shoe?
     
    I looked closer. It was still being worn by the man lying on the floor behind the chair.
     
    “What the…” Pure terror coursed through me, sending chills and shivers out to every part of my body. I was shaking too much to think straight. I gulped in a breath and forced myself to stay calm instead of running screaming out into the street like I wanted to. It wasn’t easy.
     
    “This is not happening again,” I whispered aloud, needing to hear the sound of a human voice, even my own.
     
    Stomach spinning, mind racing, I grabbed the arms of the chair and yanked it forward. It was so heavy, it barely moved two inches, but that was enough to allow me space to peek around the side. Enough space to make out the inert form of Joseph Taylor lying on the faded Persian carpet, his throat slit. He was dead.
     

Chapter 3
     
    I stared into the sightless eyes of the dead man lying on the floor. My shoulders were still shaking, but now my knees were wobbling, too. Spots and spirals flooded my eyesight.
    “Oh, no.” I backed away from the body, away from the chair.
     
    “Oh, God.” Poor Joe. He was a sweet man. He didn’t deserve this.
     
    And neither did I.
     
    Yes, I felt really, really bad for Joe, but why was it always
me
who discovered the dead body? I was getting a complex. What was going on with me? Not that it was all about me, but, seriously, this was insane.
     
    My heart started beating so hard I could hear it in my ears, and those dots in my vision got bigger.
     
    “No, no, no. Don’t you dare faint,” I muttered as I backed farther away from the body. “Don’t you dare. I mean it.”
     
    I repeated the words again, louder this time, because I couldn’t hear myself think over my own moans. The thing is, I’ve been known to faint at the merest sight of blood.
     
    “Not now, not now, not now.” I repeated it over and over again in between sucking in great globs of air. I couldn’t faint just yet. Nobody would catch me.
     
    I’d seen so many dead bodies by now that you’d think I’d be a little