I glowered at him. “You should talk.”
I heard him sigh as he followed me, coming up close behind me as I surveyed the first room. Twin beds, nightstand, dresser. No frills. It appeared to be a guest bedroom. There were no books, no boxes, nothing that indicated a bookselling business was being operated in there. And nothing that indicated it might be the missing “GW1941.”
“Did you see Enrico leaving?” I asked.
“No.”
“He must’ve forgotten I was coming.”
“Yet he left the door unlocked.”
“Maybe he just ran out for a minute.”
“Which means he’ll be home any second to find us trespassing.”
“I was invited. What’s your excuse?”
“I told you, I was waiting for you.”
“I didn’t tell anyone where I was going,” I insisted.
“You’re not exactly subtle,” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The room across the hall was empty except for an ironing board and a television set. I couldn’t see Enrico standing here ironing his shirts while watching Oprah. Maybe he had a housekeeper.
“I overheard your conversation with him at the memorial service. You said you’d meet him at two.”
I put my hand on my hip. “You were supposed to be talking to Mary Ellen Prescott.”
He thought for a moment. “Ah yes. Lovely woman. Completely insane.”
I chuckled. “I was hoping she’d convert you.”
“She worships someone’s blood. I envisioned goats on an altar.”
I smiled. “You’re close. Chickens.”
“Good Lord.”
“It’s okay, nothing’s wasted. They eat the chickens after they’re sacrificed.”
He put up his hand to stop me. “More than I wish to know about dear Mary Ellen.”
The next door on the left was closed. I opened it and found Enrico’s library.
There were shelves of leather-bound books from floor to ceiling on all four walls with cutouts around the two windows and the closet. Two brown leather chairs sat in the middle of the room with a mahogany table in between. More finely bound books were stacked on the table. The chairs looked lived in, comfortable and cozy. The rug beneath was an elaborate Persian style with swirls and curlicues in multiple shades of blue and black and beige.
I focused again on that stack of books on the table.
“Ah.” I stepped into the room and picked up the beautifully bound book lying on top. It was Plutarch’s Parallel Lives, bound in burgundy calfskin, heavily gilded, nearly five centuries old, in perfect condition. Nearly priceless.
“What is he doing with this?” I turned to show it to Derek, and that was when I saw Enrico lying in the corner, curled up on that fabulous rug. A dark halo of blood puddled around his head.
“Oh no. Oh God.” My vision wavered; then Enrico’s head telescoped out, in, then out again.
I tried to scream but it sounded like a whimper.
Derek grabbed me, shook me, then pulled me close. “No fainting.”
“He’s dead,” I mumbled into Derek’s shirt.
“Yes,” he said crisply. “Pull yourself together. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“But…” I looked at him. “We should call the police.”
“We will.”
How long had he been lying here, dying? The whole time I’d been poking through his desk and his papers? All that time I’d been hiding in the pantry with Derek while another intruder ransacked the house? Had Enrico still been alive when I walked through the front door? If I’d found him earlier, could I have kept him alive? Called for an ambulance? Would I feel guilty about it for the rest of my life? Right now I thought I might.
“I should’ve-”
“No.”
“But I might’ve-”
“No.” He drew me back into his arms.
“He was here all along,” I whispered.
“Yes.”
“You knew.”
“No.”
I was relieved to hear him say it whether he was telling the truth or not. He moved his hands up and down along my spine.
“Come on, let’s go,” he said quietly.
“Shouldn’t we-”
“No, we’ll call from elsewhere.”
“We might’ve helped him.”
“I’m certain he was already dead.”
“You don’t know.”
“Yes, I do.” He placed his hand on the back of my head and eased me closer to him. It shouldn’t have felt so good, but it did. I felt completely enveloped, secure. Loved. An illusion to be sure, but nice for the moment.
Finally, I leaned back to look at him. “You honestly didn’t know he was back here?”
“Honestly.”
“Then how do you know he was dead when we-”
He looked me straight in the eye. “The fact that he’s got a bullet hole in his head makes me think he died rather quickly. And since we heard nothing…”
He let it go at that.
I tried to swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. “Right. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
He hung his head, in defeat or contemplation, I couldn’t say. But when he looked at me again, it was with determination. “Come here.”
Call me weak, but I went willingly back into his arms.