Kate Carlisle - One Book In The Grave

Again, Max paused and frowned, uncomfortable with the questions.

That was when I lost it. Jumping up from the table, I said, “Max, were you going to live in hiding forever? Did you guys have an endgame strategy? What the hell were you going to do here for the next twenty years? Was anyone monitoring Solomon and Angelica for you? What about Emily?”

Max threw his napkin down and glared at me. “I did this for Emily! For her parents. For those little kids in her class, damn it! God, how much more damage was I willing to inflict on them? I needed to get out of their lives before anything else happened. I told you I was desperate, Brooklyn. Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight, but I did what I thought was right at the time.”

He pushed away from the table, grabbed his empty bowl and utensils, and put them in the sink.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” I said, grabbing him from behind in a hug. “I just…God, I mourned you. I missed you. I’m sick about what they did to you. I wish you would have said something. We have solidarity in Dharma. We could have protected you. We could have helped.”

He turned and returned my hug. “Robson helped. Your father helped. We talked about finding the right time for me to return. We came up with all sorts of excuses to explain why I’d been gone. I decided I would claim amnesia from the dive off the cliff. Your father was the one monit‹?oring Solomon’s activities to figure out when I could return, but nothing had changed so far.”

“My father is quite the little spymaster,” I muttered, realizing now that the three of them had to have been in contact over the past three years.

Derek stood and took his bowl to the sink. “Angelica must have suspected all this time that you weren’t really dead, since she’s the one who suggested you disappear.”

“Yeah, she is,” Max said warily as he carried the two pasta pots to the sink counter.

Derek turned. “But if she is indeed the one behind all this, why did she never do anything about it until recently? Why wait until now?”

“I have no idea.”

I gathered up the napkins. “Do you think she stole the book from Emily?”

“It had to be her,” Max said with certainty. He took the napkins from me, opened a side door to reveal a small laundry room, and tossed them into a basket on top of the washer. “She was so jealous of Emily. Every time Angie called, she’d make some snide remark or take a dig at Emily.” He closed the laundry room door. “Look, I hope you all know I’m not being boastful when I talk about her jealousy and possessiveness. It was sick and twisted, nothing to be proud of.”

“We know that, Max.” I patted his shoulder, then began to clear the rest of the pasta bowls and the bread basket off the table. I stacked them in front of Derek, who had appointed himself chief dishwasher.

“Emily’s book was stolen three years ago,” Derek said as he rinsed out the bowls. “Why didn’t Angelica do anything about it until this week?”

“Maybe Solomon is dead,” Gabriel put forward. “And now she wants you back.”

“But why would she kill Joe Taylor?” I asked. “That’s what bothers me most. Only the sickest kind of mind would think that murder was the best way to attract attention.”

“I think Solomon had to be the one who killed your friend Joe,” Max said, scowling as he scraped the leftover sauce into two containers, then stacked them inside the freezer.

“Why do you think so?” Derek asked as he filled the pots with soap and hot water to soak.

Max thought for a few seconds, then shrugged. “He had such a sadistic streak, I can’t put it past him.”

“You may be right,” Derek said. A minute later, he tossed the dishcloth on the sink, and I watched him turn from domestic house guy to ruthless security expert. “Max, is there someone you can call on to watch your house and take care of the dog and cat?”

“And the goats,” I added.

“Yes, the goats,” Derek said dryly. “You see, we’re not leaving here without you.”

Max bared his teeth and puffed out his chest. He was a few inches taller than Derek and probably outweighed him by forty pounds. But Max had the soul of an artist, not a fighter, and after a few long moments of posturing, he seemed to recognize who the true alpha dog in this pack was.

“Fine,” Max said, throwing in the towel. “I’ll call my neighbor, Sam. I pay his sons to help me with the goats, and Sam has a key to the house. He’ll take care of Bucky.”

“That about covers it,” Derek said. “What about the cat?”

Max picked up the furry beast. “Clyde’s coming with me.”

Once Max resolved to leave, the first thing he did was call his nearest neighbors, who sent their teenage son, Nick, over to pick up Bucky. Since Nick also helped Max with the goats, he went to the barn and fed them while Max got his things together. Max was packed and ready by the time Nick came back inside. Nick promised Max he would come by every day to feed and check on the goats and pick any figs that ripened while Max was gone.

I saw Max slip Nick a hundred-dollar bill and watched the kid’s eyes light up. Then Nick gathered up Bucky’s doggy stuff and took off.

“Brooklyn, can you get Clyde into his carrier?” Max called from down the hall.

Derek laughed at the look of panic on my face. “You can do it, darling.”

“Easy for you to say,” I muttered, then dutifully searched the living room for Clyde’s carrier. I found the small, sturdy, duffel-type pet carrier in the front closet, then looked around for Clyde. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

This was not going to be pretty. Clyde seemed to like me and I wanted to keep it that way, because it was such a rare experience. Cats didn’t generally take to me, even though I really liked them. For example, my neighbors’ cats, Pookie and Splinters, showed me nothing but contempt no matter how much I showered them with love, attention, and food. At best, they ignored me, and at worst, well, it hurt to think about it. Let’s just say that their pictures could be found on Wikipedia under the category Cats Who Hate Me

“Meow.”

“Huh?” Hey, what’s this? Clyde was rubbing his face against my ankle, purring loudly.

“Hello there, cutie,” I whispered, then stooped down to stroke his furry coat. Would he scratch my eyes out if I picked him up? But he just looked up at me with something like adoration, and I wondered if maybe he’d been isolated on this farm too long. He really seemed to love me a lot. Was I delusional? But he bopped my ankle again and I wasn’t going to argue with the facts. This cat was into me.

“Here goes nothing.” I picked him up and carried him over to the small carrier. He didn’t protest or drive his claws into me, just jumped inside, all on his own. I snapped the top shut.

“Best cat ever,” I said proudly.

“Excellent job, darling,” Derek said. I could tell he was trying not to laugh.

“Clyde digs me.”

He chuckled. “So do we all.”

Max carried his own large duffel bag into the living room and left it by the front door. Walking into the kitchen, he opened another door and said, “Brooklyn, come with me for a minute.”

I flashed a puzzled look at Derek, but followed Max through a door I hadn’t noticed before. It led to a basement via a precariously steep stairway, so I took my time going down. Max stood in the center of the brightly lit but windowless room with his arms spread out. “What do you think?”

I glanced around. It took me a few long seconds to figure out what I was doing down here, but I finally recognized that this was his papermaking studio. Dozens of samples of his work were pinned to the walls. Every surface was covered with rough sheets of handmade paper in various colors and shapes. And they were all stunning works of art.