Peril in Paperback: A Bibliophile Mystery

my sweater, just in case it got chilly later. As we left my room, I looked up at Gabriel. “Are you ready for this talent show?”
    “If you’re wondering if I’m performing the hula or something, don’t hold your breath.”
    I chuckled. “How did you know I was hoping for a hula?”
    He grunted. “You got an act worked out?”
    “You’ll have to wait and see.”
    “I’m intrigued.”
    I put my hand on him arm. “Don’t be. I beg of you.”
    We walked together in comfortable silence up the grand stairway and into the Gold Salon. I was still stumped by Ruth’s role in Bella’s death. I was willing to give Grace the benefit of the doubt when she’d claimed that Ruth was blameless, but the question remained: Where had the woman obtained that poisoned glass? Had someone given it to her or had she picked it up at random off the bar?
    I’d told my story to the police so I assumed they had questioned Ruth about it. Since she was still here and not behind bars in the county jail, I figured her answers must have satisfied them. Or maybe they were just biding their time. Did they want to sift through more evidence before making any arrests?
    Maybe Ruth had completely denied handing Grace the glass. Maybe she’d told them a different story. Maybe the detectives had decided I was wrong or lying.
    Maybe I should just ask the woman myself instead of driving myself crazy.
    “Babe, you’re mumbling to yourself,” Gabriel whispered as we made our way to the bar.
    “Am I?”
    “Everything okay?”
    “Yeah. Sorry.” I frowned. “Just going over some things in my head.”
    “Memorizing lines for the big show?” he said, smirking at me.
    “Yeah, right,” I said weakly.
    “How about some champagne?” he said.
    “Definitely,” I said with a firm nod. Well, that was embarrassing. There was nothing wrong with talking to the voices in my head—unless everyone else was listening in. I sighed. It was just as well that Gabriel had interrupted me. My brain was starting to spin out of control with all the possibilities. I had to put the brakes on, so I changed the subject.
    “Have you talked to Kiki since you’ve been here?”
    “Grace’s niece? No. Why?”
    “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
    “Beautiful,” he said carefully. “Why do you mention it?”
    With a steady look, I said, “She would like you to talk to her.”
    He straightened up and his jaw moved back and forth as he took in my request. I guess I’d managed to surprise him. “What’s this all about?”
    “I’m merely passing on a message.”
    “Let me get this straight.” He enunciated each word. “She asked you to ask me to talk to her.”
    “Not exactly,” I hedged. “She just mentioned how much she admired you. A lot. I mean, really a lot. And she wished she could have a chance to spend time with you. Frankly, I’m not sure she’ll survive if you actually speak to her.”
    “I’ve heard enough.”
    “Wait,” I said. “I’m sorry. She’s a nice girl and I like her. I don’t mean to sound like I’m belittling her feelings.”
    He stared at me for another few seconds. “Thank you. I’ll take care of it.”
    “But will you—”
    “Brooklyn.”
    I smiled. “Got it.”
    “Good.”
    “Just…don’t hurt her.”
    His eyes narrowed again. “I don’t hurt women.”
    “You have no idea,” I said, shaking my head.
    The talent show was a huge success.
    Peter Brinker began the show by performing magic tricks. I loved magic tricks! I was the perfect audience for magicians, because I was easily distracted. I knew that was how most magic tricks were pulled off, but I was always willing to play along. And Peter was actually pretty good at it. My hands hurt from all the applauding and Peter seemed to appreciate my standing ovation. It was never easy being the first to perform.
    I thought Suzie and my flute and bongos act was stellar. Suzie’s spontaneous tap-dance solo brought new meaning to the phrase
Get the hook!
I couldn’t stop laughing and it seemed to be catching, because the crowd was cackling and hooting by the time we got to the big finish. Whether that was good or bad, I couldn’t say. The happy news was, nobody booed us off the stage.
    Ruth was next. We all straightened in our chairs and prepared for a decorous poetry reading. But who could’ve predicted that genteel Ruth’s preferred style of poetry for the evening was limericks?
    “There once was a gal from Nantucket,” she began.
    “Whoa,” a man