A Wrench in the Works

by Kate Carlisle

  I would’ve kissed him right then, but we had a villain to restrain. I let go of Mac for the moment and when Blake tried to stand, Mac used his foot to shove him down again. He grabbed the hammer from Blake and flung it across the floor, out of harm’s way.

  “You are the most wonderful man in the world,” I whispered.

  “And you are the bravest woman.”

  “Thank you for being here.”

  “Hey, I couldn’t let you have all the fun,” he said.

  We heard sirens approaching. “Did you call the police?”

  “Wade did,” he said.

  “Oh God.” I was still breathing heavily. “I thought you’d left. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “You were doing pretty well there on your own,” he said.

  “I just tried to keep him talking. I was scared to death.”

  “I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered. “Eric called a little while ago to let me know that he’d settled on Blake Bennett as his prime suspect. He was on his way over here, but meanwhile, he asked me to give Blake a bit of room to see what he was going to do.”

  My mouth gaped. “So I really was the bait?”

  “Well, not for long. We saw Bennett walk into the house and I knew you were already inside. So I came inside through the back door and was able to hear every word he said.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  “Your father and Uncle Pete wanted to come inside with me, but I talked them into guarding the front door so Blake couldn’t escape.”

  “Even more brilliant,” I said.

  “Come on in, guys,” Mac shouted. And Dad and Uncle Pete stormed into the house and stood sentry over Blake.

  That’s when I grabbed hold of Mac and kissed him with every ounce of love and gratitude I had welling up inside me. And he kissed me right back. With his arm around me, I rested my head on his shoulder. A minute later, the police pounded up the front steps and ran into the house.

  I kissed Mac again. “Let’s get out of here.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The line of people went out the door of Lizzie and Hal’s bookshop on the town square.

  Inside, Lizzie had arranged a beautiful spread of cupcakes and champagne with little takeaway baggies filled with plastic tools and an adorable pink measuring tape. It was the perfect touch for Chloe’s book signing.

  Chloe was blown away by the crowd. It looked as though every single person in town was here and she must’ve signed three hundred books. I couldn’t have been prouder.

  Dad and Uncle Pete were there, along with every teacher Chloe ever had in school, including the principal of Lighthouse High. I almost laughed when I saw her walk in. Having Mrs. Fielding show up at her book signing was something Chloe would remind us of forever.

  But when Eric Jensen walked into the store, and I saw how her eyes lit up like stars, I knew we had trouble.

  I turned to Dad. “Did you see that?”

  He was frowning. “You don’t think . . .”

  Uncle Pete, who wasn’t always aware of the underlying emotional current, looked from Dad to me and back to Dad. “Is Chloe going to move back home?”

  Dad and I stared in shock at each other. “This was not on my radar,” I said.

  “Well,” Dad said, nudging me away. “Scope it out, work the room, get back to me.”

  “Yes, Father.” I strolled away laughing. And walked right up to Eric Jensen. “Why is my sister looking at you like that?”

  He smiled, and I could see the answer in his eyes.

  “Really?” I said. “One night in jail and this is what happens?”

  He laughed and gave me a big hug. “She makes me happy.”

  And just like that, I turned to jelly. My eyes started watering and I sniffled until he finally handed me a tissue. Leave it to Thor to have me weeping like a baby.

  “Thanks.” I blew my nose, then scowled at him. “Way to bury the lead, Eric.”

  He held up both hands. “The plan was to keep things quiet for a while. So you didn’t hear anything from me.”

  “I didn’t hear anything from her, either.”

  “Really?” he said, looking a little dazed. “Because she likes to talk.”

  “Well, there is one nugget she shared, something about you in drama class . . .”

  He groaned. This was going to be fun.

  I laughed again, gave him another hug, and walked away to find Mac. Things were moving and shaking in Lighthouse Cove and I couldn’t wait to see what tomorrow would bring.

  Keep reading for a sneak peek of

  THE BOOK SUPREMACY,

  the next Bibliophile mystery by Kate Carlisle!

  It was our last day in Paris.

  My husband, Derek, and I ate breakfast on the private terrace of our hotel suite, while enjoying the spectacular view of the city that spread out before us. Nearby, the tall, thin spire of the American Cathedral speared up into the sky like a javelin. The immense Eiffel Tower loomed impressively in the distance. There was a smattering of fluffy white clouds dotting the blue sky, and the early morning sunshine reflected brightly off the windows of the surrounding buildings. The air was still cool, but I could already feel it beginning to warm up. Lovely Paris was pulling out all the stops for our last day.

  I grabbed a thin slice of delectable ibérico ham from the small plate of charcuterie and couldn’t help but smile in delight. Not because of the ham, which was utterly delicious and melted in my mouth. No, it was because it had been three weeks since our wedding and I still felt a tingle up my spine whenever I thought about those three little words: my husband, Derek.

  I shook my head. Honestly, on any normal day I didn’t have such silly, sappy thoughts. Maybe it was some kind of honeymoon fever, but these days, with just the right look, Derek could render me light-headed and woozy. He’s so gorgeous, I thought. I’d been ridiculously smitten from the very first time we’d met. And oddly enough, the feeling was entirely mutual.

  That first time had occurred about two years ago during a fancy charity gala at the Covington Library. It was the night my mentor died. Derek had been in charge of the security detail guarding the priceless books and antiquities on display. I had seen him stalking the crowded floor, studying faces, observing body language, watching reactions, and looking completely isolated despite the crowd. He was tall, dark, and frankly dangerous. His thousand-dollar suit made him look lean and muscular, and his eyes were darkly compelling as he scanned the room. And when our gazes met, he frowned at me. Frowned! It was annoying, to say the least.

  Later though, he’d explained his reaction by confessing that I had taken him by surprise. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I’d asked, still a little put out.

  He’d sighed, then grabbed hold of my arms and kissed me. “That’s what it means,” he had murmured.

  I exhaled slowly at the memory of that first kiss and dizzily reached for a slim slice of buttery Brie. Gazing around the terrace, enjoying the sight of cascading purple orchids by the wrought-iron railings, I sighed as well. Honeymoon fever or not, the man could still turn my insides to jelly.

  Derek touched my arm. “What shall we do today?” With a grin, he added, “As if I didn’t know.”

  “I’m so predictable,” I said, smiling self-consciously. “But yes, I’d really like to visit the bouquinistes one more time. I have a feeling that there’s a fabulous old book just waiting to be discovered.”

  As we walked along the river, we gazed around at the imposing sights on our right. The Hôtel des Invalides, the Palais Bourbon, and finally the Musee d’Orsay, the former train station transformed into a popular art museum. On the opposite side of the river were the pretty trees of the Jarden des Tuileries, and up ahead sat the impressive and historic buildings that made up the Louvre. Finally we came to the place on the Quai Voltaire whe
re the book stalls began. I stopped to browse at the very first stall, and Derek moved ahead to the next stall. I told him to keep going and I would catch up eventually.

  Captivated by the extensive collection of mysteries, I studied each title in each row of books and occasionally pulled one from the stack to examine the cover and see what sort of condition it was in. They were mostly used paperbacks, but they were each wrapped in plastic, so their condition had remained fairly decent. There was also the occasional hardcover, and I examined those even more closely.

  I glanced around to see how far Derek had wandered. Much like the fictional James Bond, Derek had been a commander in the Royal Navy and had gone on to work for British military intelligence. Also like James Bond, Derek was dashing, sexy, brave, and daring. One of these books would make a perfect, slightly silly gift to give him as a memento of our time in Paris.

  But which one? I continued to skim through the books, trying to figure out which title would be best. I leaned farther over to catch a glimpse of the books stacked near the back of the stall. And that’s when I saw it. I reached out, lifted the book gingerly, and stared at it. I had to admit I was shaking with excitement. “It’s too perfect.”

  The book was a hardcover English edition of The Spy Who Loved Me. If nothing else, the title of the book made it the perfect choice for Derek. But as I examined the book, I was pleased that its dust jacket was still intact. The cover showed a red carnation, and the book title was written cryptically on a burned note with a stiletto stuck in it. There were small tears in the dust jacket, and the book itself was a bit cattywampus due to a weakened front hinge that would be easy enough to fix.

  I opened the book to check out the copyright page. Published in 1962. I wondered briefly if it was a first edition. Probably not. The price, written in pencil on the flyleaf, was only seven euros.

  Still, I was thrilled that I found it. I stepped down off the stool and looked over at the woman who ran the stall. I smiled and held it up to her. “Perfect,” I said. “Parfait.”

  “Très bon!” She clapped a few times, sharing my happiness. “It is a good find.”

  “Oui. Yes, it is.” I handed her a five euro note along with a heavy coin worth two euros. She slipped the book into a small white paper bag and thanked me.

  “Merci, madam,” I said. “Au revoir.”

  “Merci. Au revoir,” she said cheerfully.

  I spotted Derek almost three blocks farther down the Quai. He stood near another book stall, and I wondered if he had found his own little treasure as I had. I headed his way, but slowed down when I noticed that he was talking to another man. I didn’t recognize him, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t a bookseller. At least, he sure didn’t look like your usual bouquiniste. This man wore a tweed jacket and khakis, and he looked almost as tall as Derek. He had bushy gray hair that he covered with a sporty driver’s cap. He had to be British. The two men were talking to each other as though they were old friends. Derek patted him on the shoulder, said something, and the other man threw his head back and laughed.

  Derek clearly knew him well. It had to be an old friend. Or at least a friendly acquaintance.

  I was almost a block away when I skidded to a stop. Someone else was staring at Derek and the other guy. He stood near the curb, about halfway between me and the two men. Maybe he was simply waiting for the bus, but I didn’t think so. He was staring too intently. The observer wore an olive green hoodie pulled up over his head—or was it her head? He—she?—was wearing a pair of baggy denim jeans and white sneakers that could’ve belonged to a man or a woman. The hoodie prevented me from seeing their hair or face.

  I stopped at the nearest bookstall and pretended to browse, but I was watching Hoodie’s every move. His shoulders were tense and his hands were fisted in his pockets. I had to admit that he was freaking me out a little. Maybe that wasn’t fair. Maybe he was just hanging out. Why would I think he was staring at Derek and his friend? Maybe he was simply gazing out at the stately buildings across the Seine. Or the beautiful trees lining the river. Anyone might be mesmerized by all those silvery leaves shimmering in the breeze. But I didn’t think so.

  I sucked in a breath and continued walking toward Derek. When I got within Hoodie’s eyesight, I looked right at him. He saw me and quickly walked away. I wanted to chase after him, but that was crazy. Or was it?

  “Derek,” I said.

  “Darling,” he said jovially. “Come meet Ned.”

  I smiled and extended my hand. “Hello, Ned.”

  “So this is the girl who stole your heart,” Ned said, and grinned as he gave me a hearty handshake.

  “This is she,” Derek said.

  “You’re a lucky man,” he said, gazing fondly at Derek. He winked at me. “This bloke here pretended to be my friend but was actually the bane of my existence for years.”

  I smiled weakly and glanced at Derek.

  “He was a shark,” Ned continued. “We played poker once a week and I couldn’t beat him. Not once. It was uncanny.”

  “He’s pretty good,” I admitted. I’d seen him play cards with my brothers. He knew what he was doing, for sure.

  “Ned and I used to work together,” Derek explained briefly, then changed the subject. “Did you buy something special?”

  “Oh.” I held up the bag. “Yes, wait till you see it. It’s kind of perfect.”

  “Well, let’s have a look then,” Derek said.

  “Um.” I flashed him an awkward smile. “Actually, it’s sort of a gift. For you.”

  “For me? You got me something?”

  “Well, now we must see it,” Ned said.

  “Okay.” I glanced around. “By the way, did either of you see that guy in the green hoodie a minute ago? Looked like he was watching you.”

  Derek’s eyes narrowed and he glowered as they both scanned the street.

  “Didn’t see him,” Ned said, with a shrug.

  “Probably nothing.” But I frowned as I looked back at the spot where I’d last seen Hoodie. “Anyway, here’s what I found.”

  Derek took the bag and slid the book out.

  “I just thought it would make you smile.”

  “It does,” he murmured. “It’s perfect, as you said.” He leaned in and gave me a soft kiss. “I love it, and I love you.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Back at you.”

  “Well, I know you two have big plans for the evening.” Ned gave Derek a manly slap on the back. “It was marvelous running into you, Derek.”

  “You too, Ned. Give me a call sometime. Let me know how you’re doing.”

  “I will.” The two men shook hands enthusiastically and then Ned waved and walked away, up the Rue de Seine toward the Luxembourg Gardens.

  Derek watched him go, then turned to me. “Well, are you ready for our last evening in Paris?”

  “I hate to see it end,” I said, with a sad smile. “But I guess I’m just about ready to go home.”

  “I feel the same, love.” He tucked the book under his arm, grabbed my hand, and we headed back to the hotel.

  Our dinner at Allard was perfect. It wasn’t a fancy restaurant, but it was delightful. A country bistro in the heart of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. The room was charming, the service was excellent, the food was mouthwatering perfection, and the wine was wonderful. After dinner we walked a few blocks up to Boulevard Saint-Germain and over to the taxi stand where we caught a cab back to the Hotel George V. Once we’d greeted the doorman and the concierge, we walked down the hall and took the elevator up to our suite.

  As soon as we walked into our room, Derek grabbed me arm and whispered, “Stay here.”

  “What is it?” But I didn’t hesitate to do exactly what he’d told me. Meanwhile, he bent over and pulled a mean-looking pistol from a holster strapped to his calf.

  Oh. My. God. I didn’t say it out lo
ud. I couldn’t speak. I had no more breath left in me. I stood as still as a statue as he prowled across the living area, then leaned against the doorjamb, took a quick peek, and creeped silently into the bedroom.

  Several moments later, he came back, crossed the room, and wrapped his arms around me. “Everything is fine,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I frightened you.”

  “That’s okay.” I’d seen him carry a gun before. We seemed to have the kind of lifestyle that demanded it once in a while. You know how you could stumble across the occasional dead body? And then follow it up with your basic showdown with a vicious killer? Yeah, that was us.

  “What made you think someone was in here?” I asked, leaning against him.

  “I took precautions before we left for dinner,” he said cryptically.

  “Okay.” I breathed in and exhaled slowly. “Well, maybe it was housekeeping.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But no one is here now, right?”

  “That’s right. But let’s check to make sure nothing is missing.”

  “Good idea.” Since we were leaving in the morning, our suitcases were almost completely packed. Still, we searched the entire suite to make sure everything was just as we’d left it.

  I ran to the closet safe, opened it, and was relieved to find my jewelry still locked inside. Not that I had anything particularly precious or rare, but there were a few sentimental pieces that I would’ve hated to lose. “It’s all here.”

  “Good.” He nodded, then smiled tightly. “So it must’ve been a false alarm. Everything is fine.”

  “Everything is fine,” I echoed softly. But I recognized that tone in his voice. And I knew that everything was definitely not fine.

  About the Author

  A native Californian, New York Times bestselling author Kate Carlisle worked in television for many years before turning to writing. Inspired by the northern seaside towns of her native California, where Victorian mansions grace the craggy cliffs and historic lighthouses warn fishermen and smugglers alike, Kate was drawn to create the Fixer-Upper Mysteries, featuring small-town girl Shannon Hammer, a building contractor specializing in home restoration. Kate also writes the New York Times bestselling Bibliophile Mysteries featuring Brooklyn Wainwright.