Peril in Paperback: A Bibliophile Mystery

for you.”
    I opened the door. “A package? Who would send me anything here?”
    “It doesn’t say who it’s from, but I found it inside the mailbox,” she said. Then with excitement brimming in her voice, she asked, “Is it your birthday?
    Frowning, I said, “Um, no. Thanks, Merrilee.”
    I took the box from her and she waved and strolled away. Closing the door, I stared at the box. It was similar in size and shape to a shoe box, and it was wrapped in brown postal paper. It was addressed to me, care of Grace Crawford, with her address printed in large block letters. But there were no stamps, no return address, and that was a big fat red flag waving in my face. I knew Ishould toss it out the window or call the bomb squad. And maybe I would later. But right now I was too curious to find out what was inside it.
    Curiosity was quickly becoming my Achilles’ heel. I knew it. Nevertheless, I shook the box. There was definitely something inside. It moved around slightly, but it sounded like it was well protected with paper or Styrofoam pellets. It was heavy enough that I thought it might be a book. Maybe one of the guests had hidden a valuable book in their room, thinking they would steal it, but their conscience had gotten the best of them and they’d sent it to me anonymously. It was possible.
    I wouldn’t know unless I opened it. I looked for an edge in order to begin ripping off the paper, then stopped and stared again at the empty space on the box where a return address should have been. And reconsidered.
    I pulled out my cell phone and punched in Gabriel’s number.
    “Babe,” he said on answering. “What’s up? Where are you?”
    “Do you have a minute?” I asked. “Could you come to my room?”
    “Be there in sixty seconds.”
    He hung up and I resumed breathing. My insides glowed at the fact that he hadn’t even asked why. He had just agreed to come when I called. He really was a true friend and I was so grateful that he was here this week with me. Maybe I was kidding myself, but his presence made me feel much safer.
    Less than a minute later, there was a brief knock on the door; then Gabriel opened it and slipped inside. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
    “Thank you so much for coming.” I held out the box. “Somebody just sent me a present.”
    “Give it to me.”
    I handed him the box and watched him search the paper for a hint of its contents. He shook it, turned it upside down, held it up to his ear and listened.
    “It’s probably nothing,” I said.
    “Who knows you’re here?”
    “Well, everyone staying in the house, of course. My mom and dad. Derek. Well, sort of. He knew I was coming here for the week with Suzie and Vinnie. He just doesn’t know exactly where here is.”
    “Right.” Gabriel nodded, then placed the box on the dresser surface. He pulled a small switchblade out of his pocket and sliced away the thick brown paper. Sure enough, it was a simple shoe box from a well-known company.
    He looked up. “I doubt there are shoes inside.”
    “Me, too,” I said.
    I stood beside him as he pulled off the top, then slammed it closed.
    I gasped and jolted back.
    He whipped the box out of my sight, holding it behind his back. “You don’t want to see what’s in there.”
    “It’s too late,” I said, pressing my hands to my stomach as it roiled and burned with fear. “I saw it.”
    Inside the box a dead blackbird lay in stark repose, packed and held in place by lots of crumpled white paper.
    “Oh, jeez.” I slumped into a chair as Gabriel searched the box more thoroughly.
    “Who brought this to you?” he asked.
    “Merrilee found it inside the mailbox.”
    He rubbed his jaw with his knuckles. “Merrilee isn’t capable of doing something like this.”
    “I don’t think so, either.”
    “But almost anyone else in the house is.”
    “True. Except for Vinnie and Suzie. And Grace. And, well, I don’t think Kiki is the type to kill a bird and stuff it in a box in the hope of scaring the life out of anyone.”
    “No, she isn’t,” he said gruffly. He knelt down on one knee in front of the small coffee table and pulled bits of paper out of the box, studying each piece, then lining them up on the table’s surface.
    “Someone is trying to frighten me into leaving,” I said. “They think I’m getting too close to solving Bella’s murder—which I’m not.”
    “Maybe not, but that’s what it looks like.”
    “But who would do this? It’s not like I’ve