The Dirty Book Murder by Thomas Shawver

Inn. I’d paid for a room, but she had to get back. It seemed so important to her and I was too sloshed to talk her out of it.”
    Alice turned away, putting her hands to her face.
    I got up from the table to put my arms around her.
    “What’s the matter?”
    “You know perfectly well,” she said softly. “My baby shower was the next day. Carol couldn’t miss your damn rugby match knowing how much it meant to you, but she wasn’t going to miss my party, either. God damn it all.”
    We stood clutching each other like we were in love. But when Alice brushed my lips with hers I pulled back.
    She shot me a peculiar look; a spiteful glint similar to the one I’d seen long ago when I introduced her to Carol. Just as quickly, it dissolved into a gentle glaze of regret and acceptance. We weren’t in love, it seemed to say. We were merely partners in grief.
    Still, I might have returned her kiss for old time’s sake if her husband hadn’t pulled into the driveway. We dabbed our eyes, straightened our clothes, moved into the living room, and practiced smiling.

Chapter Ten
    Tim Winter was my age and just as fit, but his restless eyes and stress-lined forehead made him appear a decade older.
    Whether in his study, in a court of law, or on top of Mount Kenya, he presented a rugged, somewhat damaged look: a veteran linebacker eager to start the next series of downs despite a long history of injuries.
    This particular morning he wore rubber-soled hiking boots, khaki trousers, and a knit shirt soaked with sweat. A towel hung around his neck like a waterlogged boa constrictor.
    He greeted me with what passed for a smile and shook my hand. He had a wrestler’s grip, but I gave as good as I got until both our hands turned white.
    He released first.
    “You’re too damn competitive, Bevan.”
    When Alice stifled a laugh he looked at her as if surprised.
    “One of these days I’ll take you on a climb,” he said, looking back to me.
    “And afterward we’ll attend the Pope’s wedding,” I answered, mangling Ronan Gill’s line.
    “How’s sales at the bookstore?”
    “Grand. You should come by more often.”
    “Of course. Let me know when you get something I’d be interested in.”
    “I’ll be sure to do that,” I said, stung by the putdown of my stock.
    He was a knowledgeable collector and, while he had put up the seed money for Riverrun Books, he had yet to find anything to match his refined tastes there.
    A young man with the buoyant friendliness of a golden retriever and wearing a T-shirt with the Greek letters of Phi Delta Theta fraternity entered the room. His face and manner displayed an attractive combination of confidence and civility. He was deeply tanned and his long brown hair, bound in the back by a rubber band, had bits of red in it from the sun.
    He kissed his mother on the cheek, then turned to me, extending his hand.
    “Hello, Mr. Bevan.”
    “Hi, Mark. How’s college?”
    “It’s great. I’ve decided to major in English literature.”
    “Followed by law school?”
    The room temperature plunged fifteen degrees.
    “I don’t think so,” he said, glancing briefly at his father, who returned the look with a face that might have done a dried carp credit.
    “Time will tell,” Alice interjected diplomatically.
    “I took the rocks out of the packs and put them by the pond,” Mark said to his father. “Will we need them next week?”
    “No,” Tim said, rubbing his lower back. “We’ll do some weight lifting instead. It does no good to practice suffering.”
    “It wasn’t suffering. It was training.”
    “I suppose that’s how it seems from your end of the age spectrum.”
    Mark shrugged his broad shoulders and excused himself.
    “He’s a fine boy,” I said.
    The Winters nodded simultaneously. Their unabashed pride and love for their son was one of the couple’s more endearing qualities. I suspected it was also the glue that kept their marriage intact.
    “What brings you here?” Tim