Peril in Paperback: A Bibliophile Mystery

bedside lamp on, so the room was cozy and warm enough. I got ready for bed, but something told me I wouldn’t get much sleep tonight. Now that I was alone, I couldn’t help but think about Derek.
    I was over my angst about the phone call, but I still wondered why I hadn’t heard from him yet. Did he even realize that I’d called? Did he know that the other woman had answered his phone? If he knew, did he wonder how I was reacting? Did he consider that I might be hurt or upset? Since I’d never known Derek to be unkind, I had to conclude that he didn’t know about the phone call. I reminded myself again that I’d never known him to lie or cheat. He’d told me on more than one occasion that he loved me. And since he didn’t lie, he had to have meant it.
    So why was my stomach in knots?
    “Why not?” I answered myself after I thought about the day I’d just lived through. This wasn’t about Derek. It was about the scary run-ins I’d had with Madge Crawford, Sybil Brinker, and Stephen Fowler, three of the rudest people I’d ever met in one house. It was about bookshelves on the ceiling and a bizarre tarot card reading that still made my head spin. So my anxiety had nothing to do with Derek. How refreshing.
    “So just go to sleep,” I said aloud.
    With determination, I lay down and pulled the covers up to my chin. The blanket and duvet were warm and toasty. The pillow was soft and fluffy. I would just close my eyes for a minute….
    I was startled awake by a heavy creaking sound, as if someone were sneaking into my room.
    I lay very still, listening, wondering if I should roll off the bed and hide underneath it. At times like this, I missed having Derek around, but mostly I missed thevery large semiautomatic weapon that he always carried with him.
    Frozen in place, I scanned as much of the room as I could without lifting my head from the pillow. Light from the full moon streamed through the bay window, casting shadows on the walls and throwing parts of the room into complete darkness.
    One thin shaft of light bounced off the glass-topped table by the love seat, illuminating the ceiling panels above.
    One of them was swaying.
Oh, God.
    I rolled off the bed, certain that the ceiling was about to fall down on top of me. Slipping to the carpeted floor, I curled into a protective ball and waited. And listened. And shivered in dread.
    When the noise wasn’t repeated after several tense minutes, I decided I was being ridiculous and climbed back into bed. I tried to fall back asleep but couldn’t. With my mind racing, I finally gave up trying. Instead, I sat up and turned on the light and glanced around. Sure enough, my room was not being invaded and the panel’s swaying had stopped. I spotted Grace’s manuscript on my nightstand and reached for it.
    I was surprised by how quickly I got caught up in the story. Grace’s main character, Greta, was a lonely child who spent most of her time inside her own imagination. She loved cards and magic, loved making up stories and games. She created her first original card game when she was seven years old.
    Grace was obviously describing herself, except that Greta was an only child, while Grace had grown up with a brother and a sister. I figured she’d made Greta an only child to add more drama to the manuscript.
    I was halfway through the fourth chapter when I finally drifted off to sleep, but it wasn’t a relaxed sleep and the next morning I awoke feeling tired and a little groggy. I must have been too discombobulated by all the strange things that had happened yesterday, because I usually slept like the dead, even away from home.
    I could blame my tossing and turning on that Euro wench Thomasina, of course. I was so ready to jump on a plane and fly six thousand miles just to experience the joy of smacking her upside the head. But in the light of a new day the effect of her behavior on me had faded, and I knew she had little to do with why I’d slept so fitfully.
    I was literally surrounded by four walls and a ceiling filled with thousands of books. My mother had recently delved into feng shui and now insisted that if I slept near bookshelves, all those printed conversations in the books would keep me awake nights. How could you sleep with all those characters talking at once?
    Yes, my mom could be a little wacko sometimes, but now I was beginning to wonder if some of her theories were true.
    I climbed out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom to wash my face.