Peril in Paperback: A Bibliophile Mystery

books, isn’t it? Grace told me she was putting you in her Library Suite. How do you like it?”
    My eyes widened. “Oh, my God, you’ve seen it?”
    “Oh yeah.”
    I shook my head in wonder. “I’m still in shock.”
    He laughed again, then lowered his voice. “It’s like they moved the entire Library of Congress into that room. But I understand the bed is very comfortable. I mean, Grace said she bought a new mattress for the room, so that’s how I know the bed is…oh, boy. Not that I’ve…I wouldn’t…I mean…I’m going to shut up now.”
    He was blushing! How adorable and refreshing. And I was laughing. Having fun. I’d forgotten how flirting with a cute boy could change your attitude about life in general.
    Not that I’d be running off to marry the guy or anything. I really was devoted to Derek. But after that phone call with Thomasina, I worried that I’d be drowning in melancholy and uncertainty for the next week.
    Instead, for a half hour we talked and flirted and sipped champagne. Nathan confessed that he was the world’s biggest football fan, and I revealed my predilection for Ghirardelli chocolate with caramel. As we exchanged information and stories, Nathan glanced casually around the room. I didn’t take it personally because I was doing the same thing. It was what people did at parties. But as I chuckled over his amusing story about the one and only bookbinding class he’d ever taken, something caught my attention at the far end of the room. Something that didn’t belong there. I focused my gaze on it and lost the thread of the conversation.
    I held up my hand to interrupt his story. “I’m sorry, but would you excuse me for just a minute?”
    “Oh.” He was taken aback but recovered quickly. “Sure thing.”
    But I was already gone, weaving my way through the small groups of partygoers. I tried to nod and smile and say hello as I passed quickly, hoping they would forgive me for not stopping to talk.
    When I reached the distant corner of the room, I steadied myself on the firm arm of the couch and knelt down next to the heavy Chippendale end table. Lifting up the front end of the table, I removed the hardcover book that had been wedged under the right front claw foot to keep the table from jiggling.
    Still on my knees, I held the book up to the light and examined it. It was bound in brown leather with five raised bands on the spine, but it was so worn down and cracked that I couldn’t make out the faded gilded title. I opened it to the title page and read
Pilgrim’s Progress
. The printer was the legendary “Patriot printer,” Isaiah Thomas. The book was dated 1790.
    I let out a short, high-pitched shriek.
    “Are you all right?”
    I turned too fast to look up at Nathan and strained my neck. “Ouch. No. Yes. I mean, I’m fine, but no, not really. Will you look at this?” Still on my knees, I shook the book at him, but didn’t let go of it.
    “It’s a book,” he said cautiously, as if he were trying to calm down a nut case. “Where’d you find it?”
    “It’s not just a
book
,” I said through clenched teeth. “It’s a priceless jewel of a book. It’s the rarest of rare books. And it’s being used to hold up a damn table!”
    “Ah.” He inched away. “That’s not good at all.”
    “What was it doing there?” I demanded.
    “I swear I didn’t put it there,” he said as he held up both hands in surrender.
    “Of course you didn’t.” I wasn’t sure if he was teasing me or not, but I didn’t care. I was furious. Shaking. I wanted to beat somebody up. Or worse.
    “Who would do something so stupid?” It was a rhetorical question. I didn’t want to know. And I wasn’t about to ask my hostess and thoroughly offend her. Instead, I glared at the offending table leg, then gasped. “There’s another one!”
    I dropped down to my hands and knees and scuttled around the side of the table. Just behind it, another book lay halfway under the couch. I grabbed it and stared at the dappled brown cloth cover, then turned and checked the black leather spine.
Gulliver’s Travels
. Beneath that was the name of the author: SWIFT .
    A wave of fatigue overwhelmed me and I leaned against the couch and closed my eyes. This book was at least one hundred years old, possibly older. It had probably dropped off the side of the couch when someone fell asleep reading. How long had it been hiding back here, lonely and forgotten? Hadn’t anyone missed it? What was wrong