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Pickering pulled open the door, revealing a smooth wooden box large enough to hold two bottles of wine.
    The gunman stepped closer to it. “What’s in the box?”
    â€œAn old book. Just an antique.”
    â€œPut it on the desk.”
    He complied, placing the box on the desk near Remi.
    Sam grasped the handle-heavy knife by its blade, stepped into the doorway, aimed, and threw.
    The timing couldn’t have been worse.
    At that very moment, Remi jumped from her chair and swung the brass desk lamp against the gunman’s hand. Sam’s knife struck the man’s shoulder. A shot cracked the air as he twisted, his gun flying from his hand.
    Sam rushed in. The gunman pushed Pickering onto Remi,then grabbed the box. He slammed it into Sam’s head as he ran past and out the door.
    Sam wasn’t sure if it was the jangling of bells as the front door opened or the blow to his head causing the ringing.
    â€œSam . . . ?”
    It was a second before he realized his wife was speaking to him. “Everyone okay?” he asked.
    â€œAre
you
okay?” she replied.
    â€œFine . . .” He reached up, touched his head, his fingers covered in blood. “Looks like I came in second.”
    Remi set the gun on the desk, then pushed him into the chair she’d been sitting in moments before. Placing both hands on his cheeks, her skin warm, soft, she leaned down, searched his eyes, as if to ensure that he really was okay. “You’re always first in my book. Ambulance?”
    â€œNot necessary.”
    She nodded, took a closer look at his head, then turned toward the bookseller, who was using the desk to pull himself to his feet. “Mr. Pickering. Let me help you.”
    â€œI’m fine,” the old man said. “Where’s Mr. Wickham?”
    â€œMr. Wickham?” Remi asked.
    â€œMy cat. Wickham . . . ? Here, kitty, kitty . . .” A moment later, the Siamese wandered into the storeroom, and Pickering scooped it up.
    â€œWell, then,” Remi said, “everyone accounted for. Time to call the police.”
    Pickering eyed the phone as she put the receiver to her ear. “Is that necessary?” he asked.
    â€œVery,” she replied, pressing 911 on the keypad.
    The police arrived about five minutes later, sirens blaring, even though she told them the robber had left.
    One of the officers drew Sam aside to take his statement. When he’d finished, the officer asked Sam to show him where the gunman had been standing when his weapon discharged. Sam positioned himself next to the desk, then demonstrated the man’s movement as Remi bashed his hand with the lamp. The officer stood where Sam stood, looking around. “And where were you when you threw the knife?”
    â€œIn the doorway.”
    â€œStand there, please.”
    Sam did so.
    The officer walked over, placed his finger on the doorframe. “Here’s where the bullet hit.”
    Sam looked over, realized it was just a few inches from his head. “My lucky day.”
    â€œMr. Fargo. While I commend your actions, in the future might I suggest you call the police?”
    â€œIf this happens again, I’ll make sure to do that.”
    More often than not, he knew Remi would take the proactive approach.
    It was one of the many things he loved about her, he thought, glancing toward the front of the store. She had already given her statement and was waiting patiently by the door.
    A plainclothes investigator, Sergeant Fauth from the Robbery Detail, arrived and was questioning Mr. Pickering, who seemed distracted—understandable, considering his age and the circumstances. He opened the still-unlocked safe as the investigator asked, “Was anything else taken?”
    â€œNo. Just the box with the book in it. There’s really nothing else of value in there. A few old coins. Spanish gold, but nothing that—well, nothing. The coins are