Kate Carlisle - One Book In The Grave

“I’m not really worried,” I lied. “I’m more angry. And hurt. I was just thinking about Max and Emily and Beauty and the Beast , and, you know, everything that was happening back then.”

“This situation has brought up a lot of old feelings for you,” he said.

“True,” I admitted, then realized that Ian had said the same thing to me. The men in my life were a little too observant sometimes. “But that’s not what’s bothering me.” I turned in my seat so Gabriel could hear me, too. “I’ve been thinking that it wasn’t Joe’s murder that set everything into action to draw out Max.”

“What do you think it was?” Gabriel said.

“It was me.”

Derek took the curve too quickly and swerved, then swore ripely as he maneuvered the Bentley back into the lane.

“Are you okay?” I asked, clutching the dashboard.

He said nothing, just glared at me with his teeth clenched in…anger?

“What did I say?”

“It’s okay, babe,” Gabriel said, and patted my shoulder. “Our driver’s got shaky nerves. Now, where did you get this idea that you’re the catalyst in all this?”

I cast another uncertain glance at Derek, then related what Ian had told me on Friday. “The book’s so-called owner suggested to Joe that he call the Covington to buy the book. Ian thought it was because the new children’s wing was getting a lot of attention, but I think it’s because they knew about Ian’s connection to me, knew that he would call me in to restore the book. They also knew about my connection to Max and that as soon as I saw the book, I would recognize it and go looking for Joe.”

“And find him dead,” Gabriel concluded.

“Exactly.”

I looked at Derek again. His jaw was clamped shut and it was pretty obvious why. Okay, so maybe I was able to tell his moods better than I had thought. And since it looked like he wanted to chew on the steering wheel, I decided to follow his lead, stop talking, and try to enjoy the scenery.

It was noon when we drove into the deceptively sleepy town of Point Reyes Station. The center of town consisted of one main street that stretched for three short blocks. The town had a faded sixties vibe with an eclectic blend of upscale cafés, building-supply stores, bakeries, cheese shops, art galleries, a funky old auto-repair garage, and a fresh fruit stand. On one corner was the Old Western Saloon, a Victorian-era bar that was a little seedy but had clean bathrooms, a classic rock jukebox, and a friendly bartender who took only cash.

It was hard to believe that this town was the driving force in the multimillion-dollar organic and artisanal food industry that served the San Francisco Bay area and beyond. The cafés and restaurants in and around Point Reyes Station were like nirvana to food fanatics, who drove from all over northern California to sample the local artisanal cheeses, vegetables, baby lettuces, free-range chicken, grass-fed beef, pâtés, fruits and preserves, and oysters.

Derek drove around the corner and parked the car in front of the Cowgirl Creamery store.

I smiled tentatively. “Maybe we can get something to snack on here.”

“You can snack all you want,” he muttered. “I need a drink.”

He settled for a local beer on tap at the saloon. Gabriel had one, too. I ordered ginger ale. Gabriel took one long sip, then looked at me and Derek. He checked his pocket for change, winked at me, then walked over to the jukebox.

“Here’s the thing,” I said to Derek once we were alone. “I know you don’t like that I might be a target.”

“Don’t like it? I bloody well hate it.”

“I hate it, too. But for some reason, it’s happening again. So let’s not make it worse by being angry with each other.”

He slid an astonished look at me. “Do you think I’m angry with you?”

I looked at him evenly. “Do you think I’m dumb?”

He stared at his glass and absently smoothed away the condensation with his thumb, then finally met my gaze. “No.”

“Thanks,” I said, not feeling it.

“Come here,” he said, and pulled me into his protective embrace. I went gladly, needing to feel his hard chest pressing against me, marveling at how complete I felt in his arms.

Say what? What was I thinking? That I wasn’t complete a moment ago? Ridiculous. I shoved that pathetic thought right out of my head. I was a complete person, damn it.

“I can feel your mind working even when you’re silent,” he murmured, chuckling.

“I can’t seem to shut it down once I get going.”

He leaned back and made eye contact with me. “You’re right; I was angry. It was a knee-jerk reaction and I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I gave him a quick, hard hug; then I stepped away and took a sip of my drink.

“No, it’s not.” He drank his beer, staring out the wide picture window at the front of the bar. “But I promise I wasn’t angry at you.”

As Bob Seger’s whiskey-smooth voice wafted out from the jukebox, singing about secrets shared and mountains moved, Derek turned and looked at me for a long moment. “You know I’m in love with you. And I think you’re the smartest, most courageous person I know. So, yes, I’m angry at the thought that you might become some idiot’s target again.”

My eyes stung with tears at his words. “I’m…I’m angry, too, Derek.”

“I know.” He trailed his fingers along my forehead, smoothed my hair back. “Darling, I work in dangerous situations all the time. I’m used to it. I know how to protect myself. But you…the thought of you…” He shook his head, exhaled heavily. “The thought that you could be hurt and I would be powerless to stop it? That scares me to death.”

I slipped my arms around his waist and held him. The bar was beginning to fill with the noontime lunch crowd, but I didn’t care. If people didn’t like public displays of affection, they would have to get over it.

I pulled away finally and we both sipped our drinks in silence. After a minute, I faced him. “I need to rephrase what I said earlier. The book is the catalyst, not me. The book started everything. I’m just incidental.”

“You could never be incidental, darling,” he said, holding back a smile.

“Oh, stop it,” I said, smacking his arm, then rubbing the spot I’d hit.

“All right. I think you’re spot-on about the book being the catalyst.” He nodded as though it had already occurred to him, which it probably had. “Unfortunately, whatever the killer had in mind, I believe we’ve played right into his hands.”

My throat went dry and I glanced around the bar. “Do you think we were followed here?”

“No,” he said firmly. “I was careful to watch the cars all the way over here.”

“That was smart of you.”

“Occupational hazard,” he said, and drained the last of his beer.

“Must be. I never would’ve thought of it.” I tapped my fingers on the edge of the bar. “I’m more convinced than ever that Max had nothing to do with any of it.”

“You know him better than I,” he said, “but one thing is certain: someone wants him out in the open.”

“I hope we’re doing the right thing,” I said, then looked around for Gabriel. Right or wrong, we needed to get going.

As if he’d been watching for the right moment to return, Gabriel walked up just then. He plunked a ten-dollar bill on the bar and said, “Let’s go find this guy.”

We followed Sir Francis Drake Boulevard for almost fifteen miles. It was hardly a boulevard. More like a two-lane country road, I thought, as we wound our way up and down and around the rolling hills, through narrow, tree-shaded hollows and rich, open, green farmland, past pastures and ponds and farms so old they’d earned official state historic markers.