Peril in Paperback: A Bibliophile Mystery

more, her voice rising and falling, going deeper and then switching to a higher pitch. She would slow down, then speed up until she sounded like a record being played at the wrong speed.
    My thoughts were centered on how utterly ridiculous it was to sit here and listen to my mother crooning and bellowing nonsense words over the phone.
    And yet I could actually feel a comforting energy beginning to move through my body. It started in my handsand meandered up my arms to my shoulders. Then the energy split in two, half of it spreading up and warming my neck, then passing through my head, cleansing my thoughts and soothing my worries.
    A different, more vibrant energy traveled down my spine, livening each vertebra as it passed through. When it reached my middle its pulsations softened and my stomach calmed down. The muscles and nerves around my hip bones relaxed and I felt myself dip deeper into the soft cushions of the chair. I uncrossed my feet and felt them tingle with vitality. Suddenly, I had happy feet, even though I had no interest in moving anywhere.
    “Brooklyn?” Mom said. “Are you still there?”
    “You probably knocked her out,” my dad said in the background. “I’m feeling a little punchy myself.”
    “Wow,” I whispered.
    “It’s a good one, huh?” I pictured Mom smiling at me through the phone.
    “Oh yeah,” I murmured, my eyes still closed. “It’s a keeper. I feel great. Thanks, Mom. I really appreciate it.”
    “I love you, sweetie,” she said. “Your dad sends his love, too. Take care of yourself and come visit us soon.”
    “I will. I love you both.” I ended the phone call and got into bed. I felt warm and protected and happy for the first time in days. Whatever happened, I would handle it. I didn’t know if my mother’s crazy chant had given me the strength to take care of business or if I was just so happy to talk to someone from outside this house, but I had a new perspective.
    Either way, I wasn’t tired at all, so I picked up Grace’s manuscript and ended up reading another fifty pages. It wasn’t great literature. Then again, maybe that’s why I was enjoying it so much. Her writing was vivid and accessible. There were racy sections, plenty of industrial intrigue, and enough good gossip to qualify the book as a good old-fashioned potboiler. My strictly amateur opinion was that Grace would make a killing on this book.
    And by
make a killing
, I didn’t mean she would get herself killed. (I reached over and knocked on the wood surface of the nightstand. You couldn’t be too careful after even thinking something like that.) I meant only that she would make a boatload of cash. Not that Grace needed the money. Maybe she would donate her royalties to charity. But I was getting ahead of myself.
    Even though the names in the book had been changed—Greta was the name of the main character—I could picture Grace doing everything the fictional Greta had done. There were a number of scenes in which she had reached a crossroads where choices needed to be made and questions had to be asked. She was a genius, but did that make her happy? Would she marry or stay single? Would she have children? Would she be happy at home with the kids? Running a successful, highly competitive business took so much of her time and energy. Was she one of those women who would be married to her job until she retired? Maybe she would live with girlfriends and travel. Would it be too late to live a full life then?
    I put the book down and considered my hostess, Grace Crawford. Reading all of the life questions her character Greta was asking herself brought back a memory of the first time Suzie had driven me out here to meet her aunt. Ruth was there at the time, and while I didn’t remember the specific conversation, I did remember wondering if Grace was gay.
    Suzie had never indicated that her aunt leaned one way or the other, and Suzie was pretty open about things like that, considering her own situation.
    It didn’t matter to me. It was just interesting. Grace had introduced me to Ruth that day, and I had thought how remarkable it would be if they were lovers.
    Now after I had been here for several days, it seemed odd that I had thought that back then. The two women were obviously close friends, but I’d spent so much time wondering whether Ruth might be trying to kill Gracethat now I couldn’t see them as lovers. How could someone’s lover consider killing her? I suppose to some people the