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faded gilded title. I opened it to the title page and read
Pilgrim’s Progress
. The printer was the legendary “Patriot printer,” Isaiah Thomas. The book was dated 1790.
    I let out a short, high-pitched shriek.
    “Are you all right?”
    I turned too fast to look up at Nathan and strained my neck. “Ouch. No. Yes. I mean, I’m fine, but no, not really. Will you look at this?” Still on my knees, I shook the book at him, but didn’t let go of it.
    “It’s a book,” he said cautiously, as if he were trying to calm down a nut case. “Where’d you find it?”
    “It’s not just a
book
,” I said through clenched teeth. “It’s a priceless jewel of a book. It’s the rarest of rare books. And it’s being used to hold up a damn table!”
    “Ah.” He inched away. “That’s not good at all.”
    “What was it doing there?” I demanded.
    “I swear I didn’t put it there,” he said as he held up both hands in surrender.
    “Of course you didn’t.” I wasn’t sure if he was teasing me or not, but I didn’t care. I was furious. Shaking. I wanted to beat somebody up. Or worse.
    “Who would do something so stupid?” It was a rhetorical question. I didn’t want to know. And I wasn’t about to ask my hostess and thoroughly offend her. Instead, I glared at the offending table leg, then gasped. “There’s another one!”
    I dropped down to my hands and knees and scuttled around the side of the table. Just behind it, another book lay halfway under the couch. I grabbed it and stared at the dappled brown cloth cover, then turned and checked the black leather spine.
Gulliver’s Travels
. Beneath that was the name of the author: SWIFT .
    A wave of fatigue overwhelmed me and I leaned against the couch and closed my eyes. This book was at least one hundred years old, possibly older. It had probably dropped off the side of the couch when someone fell asleep reading. How long had it been hiding back here, lonely and forgotten? Hadn’t anyone missed it? What was wrong with this world?
    I knew my questions would sound ridiculous to anyone who didn’t care about books as much as I did. For some reason, that thought depressed me even more thanthe missing books themselves did. I sighed, then opened my eyes and straightened up. Nathan Hayes stood nearby, watching me. Brave man. I almost felt sorry for him. It was obvious he thought I had gone off the deep end and now he was stuck with me for seven days.
    But I was too livid to care about his feelings just then. I was more concerned about myself, frankly. I knew this anger had less to do with finding these books than with that blasted phone call earlier. But admitting it, knowing it, did nothing to calm the fury still burning in my chest.
    The irony of the situation was almost funny. I had come to Grace’s party to relax, have fun, and avoid dead bodies. But now the only thing I wanted to do was murder someone.

Chapter 3
     
    “Let me help you up,” Nathan insisted, grabbing my elbow and lifting me off my knees.
    “Thanks,” I muttered, steadying my legs as I stood. I had completely embarrassed myself again, but I didn’t care. This was the kind of embarrassment I could handle. When it came to rescuing books, I was willing to do whatever it took. I pulled at my sparkly sweater to straighten it and brushed a few carpet fibers off my black slacks.
    Nathan stopped a passing waiter and grabbed two fresh glasses of champagne from the tray. “Here. You might need this.”
    “You’re right.” I tucked the books under my arm and took the flute gratefully.
    “Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass to mine. “Here’s to finding books where you least expect them.”
    “I’ll drink to that.” I took a sip of the expensive champagne, but I could barely taste it. And that was just sad. I’d lost the urge to indulge. I blamed it on the trauma of finding that poor book holding up the table.
    “So what are these books?” Nathan asked, his tone tentative. He was