Books of a Feather (11 page)

“It's not him,” Mom whispered.

•   •   •

Ten minutes later, Mom had recovered from her shock. “How did we conclude that this man was Goose?”

Dad shook his head, clueless.

“It could still be Goose,” I said, offering another possibility. “Tattoos can be removed.”

“I looked at it pretty closely,” Lee said, then quickly amended
the statement. “I mean, as closely as I ever want to get to a homeless guy's butt. Anyway, there's no way he ever had a tattoo there. Even the best tattoo removal job leaves a remnant of ink. This guy's got nothing.”

“So how in the world did we mistake him for Goose?” Mom wondered again.

The two of them replayed the scene outside the Fillmore the night before. Dad finally decided that they'd simply bought in to their friend Stewart's comment when he said, “Hey, that guy looks just like Goose, doesn't he?”

“How's that for the power of suggestion?” Mom muttered gloomily. She shook her head in dismay. “This is such a fiasco. I feel so bad. You kids have put up with so much from us.”

Derek tried to put her at ease. “We love having you here. It's terribly unfortunate that the man was killed, but it wasn't your fault. And I wouldn't dream of changing your generous nature and tender heart for all the money in the world.”

My father actually
beamed
at Derek and I had never loved him more.

“And as gruesome as it sounds,” I added, “this will be a visit we'll always remember.”

Dad chuckled ruefully. “You can say that again.”

“Do you still want to go to the wedding, Jim?” Mom asked.

“Of course I do and so do you, honey. It'll make us both feel better. And it's the right thing to do.”

“You'll see so many old friends there,” I said. “After a while you'll be able to relax and enjoy yourselves.”

Dad said, “And a few of the wedding guests were with us last night when we thought we saw Goose, so maybe we can put our
heads together and figure out how we all mistook this guy for our old friend.”

Feeling better about the wedding, they went off to their room to get ready.

I found an old sheet to cover the body and that was when I remembered what I'd been itching to do for the last hour.

“I'm going to check my safe,” I announced to the cops.

Inspector Jaglow came over and rearranged the sheet cover. “Let's move this sheet closer to the closet door so in case there're any footprints to be found, you won't disturb them.”

“Good thinking,” Lee said.

The first positive sign was that the closet door was still locked. I pushed the jackets aside and knelt down to key in the combination numbers. The lock didn't look as though it had been tampered with. Another good sign.

After working the combination lock, I opened the door to the safe and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Pulling all eleven books out, I carried them over to the dining room table to make sure everything was as it should be. While the police did what they had to do, I spread the books out and in my detail-oriented brain, I listed the title of the book and the work I'd been commissioned to complete.

Poor Richard's Almanack
—clean; resew cords; create storage box; write up an appraisal.

Dracula
—clean soiled boards; regild spine; remove foxing if possible; talk to Genevieve regarding bleach.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
—repair torn book jacket.

The Grapes of Wrath
—repair and resew text block; new cover (ask Genevieve if she would prefer leather, with original color illustration
set into leather and beveled); regild title and flourishes on spine; regild front cover.

The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood of Great Renown
—replace cloth cover because of considerable fraying along the head and spine and corners; replace second free endpaper to get rid of previous owner's unsightly signature.

The Maltese Falcon
—loose front and back hinges (already repaired).

Lonesome Dove
—another broken hinge and a fraying spine.

The Great Gatsby
—general cleaning and do something about foxing, if possible.

Amo, Amas, Amat: A Little Book of Latin
—this was a classic old schoolbook that Genevieve wanted refurbished. She said it reminded her fondly of her days in Catholic school, so she planned to keep it for herself. Both front and back endpapers were torn from the cover at the hinges so the papers would have to be replaced and sewn back into the book; a few interior tears needed repair; other minor cleanup work.

Songbirds in Trees
—the Bird-watchers Society book I'd received from Jared Mulrooney. I'd almost forgotten about the charming little Audubon book with the bluebird on the cover. I wasn't sure what I would do to repair the damage from the wine spill, but I was fairly certain I would have to take the book apart and wash and press each page. But I might be able to get away with leaving the book intact, I thought, as long as I could effectively shield the leather cover from any liquid or solvent I might use.

And finally, Inspector Lee's art book for her mother—repair and reaffix torn pages; create a storage box with title plaque.

“Everything's safe,” I announced, glancing at Inspector Lee.

“Thanks,” she said with a brisk nod.

Derek gave my shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “That's good news, love.”

“Yeah, glad to hear it,” Inspector Jaglow said.

Discovering all my books safe and sound was a tremendous weight off my shoulders, despite the horrible scene that had taken place within inches of the closet door. I returned the books to the safe and locked it securely.

Two uniformed officers arrived to get instructions for knocking on doors in the building. Inspector Jaglow moved into the main hall outside our apartment to search for any clues or footprints.

Two crime scene techs showed up soon afterward. One of them worked out in the hall with Jaglow and the other, a muscular man in his forties, stayed inside. He spent a few minutes talking to Inspector Lee and then unpacked his fingerprint kit and began to dust the doorknobs and -jambs for prints.

I let go of another sigh. I really hated fingerprint powder. It got all over everything and was so hard to get off again.

And wasn't it a little sad that I'd had so much experience with fingerprint powder? I tried to overlook that detail.

I walked into Derek's office. “Are you working?”

He looked up and smiled. “It's a little difficult to concentrate with all the activity.”

“I know. That's why I thought I'd come and bother you.”

“Come in and sit down. You're never a bother to me.”

I sat in the chair next to his desk and leaned forward. “I feel like someone should mention to the police that there's an elephant in the room.”

“Only one, darling?”

I blinked. The fact that he thought there was more than one
elephant told me that Derek was thinking along the same lines as I was. “And that's just one reason why I love you.”

“Because we're on the same wavelength?”

“Yes. Among other things.”

He sat back in his chair. “So tell me about your elephants.”

“Okay. First, there's Billy, Genevieve's cousin. I think we need to talk to him and maybe get a sketch of the guy who's been hustling him. Because I can't help thinking that there's some connection we're missing in all this. After all, everything started to fall apart soon after I took the books home from the bookshop.”

“The guy who's been hustling Billy is a man, though. Our intruder was a woman. As far as we know.” Derek did not look any more surprised that a woman had gotten through his security and past his well-trained associate than a man. We had both dealt with cold-blooded killers of both genders.

“They could be working together,” I said. “One could be a lookout for the other.”

“True.”

“Or, even though our intruder from the other night was a woman, today's break-in could've been done by a man.”

He considered this, then said, “It's a bit of a stretch to think that we're dealing with two different thieves.”

I shrugged. “I know, but stranger things have happened. In fact, stranger things have happened to
us
.”

“True enough. We'll tell Inspector Lee about Billy and the hustler.” He began to make notes on a legal tablet, then glanced up. “You have another elephant.”

“Yes.” I took a deep breath, then blurted out, “The other elephant is Jared Mulrooney.”

Derek's eyes narrowed on me and I had a feeling he'd been considering the same possibility. “Go on.”

“Am I the only one who thinks it's more than a coincidence that both Goose and Jared Mulrooney were killed in the same fashion?”

“Namely, a knife in the stomach?”

“Yes.”

“You're not the only one, darling.” He wrote something on the tablet. “It's entirely too coincidental to my way of thinking, but we can't make assumptions, either. It'll take a medical examiner to determine if the murder weapon was the same.”

“So we'll have to talk to the police.”

“Talk to the police about what?” Inspector Lee said. She quickly added, “I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but I was looking for you. The medical examiner is here and wants to make sure everything is in order before he takes the body to the morgue.”

Her words gave me a chill. It was the mention of taking Goose to the morgue. It was so . . . final. Not to mention the autopsy procedure, which was nothing but creepy. Necessary, of course, but creepy. So, in true
me
fashion, I forced that image out of my mind.

“I'm glad you found us, Inspector,” Derek said. “We were discussing the similarities between the murders of Jared Mulrooney at the Covington Library the other night and our friend Goose here in our home this morning.”

She considered his words. “Both took a knife in the gut.”

“Exactly.”

“I'll have the ME track those two CODs.”

Causes of Death,
I thought, and tried not to be too pleased that I had caught on to the jargon of violent death.

Lee leaned against the doorjamb and crossed her arms, getting comfortable. “But what do you think it means? What's the connection between the two?”

I knew she was asking Derek, but I had a possible answer. “The only connection is the book Jared gave me. It's in the safe, but it's nothing, really. I mean, it's worth a little money, but it's a book of bird paintings. I can't believe someone would kill for that little bird book when I've got books in my safe worth five or ten times more.”

“Are you sure the bird book is the only connection?”

“To tell you the truth, until I saw how Goose was killed, I was sure the intruder was after the
Poor Richard's Almanack
. But now I don't know what to think. Is getting stabbed to death in the stomach enough of a connection between the two?” I brushed my hair off my forehead as I thought for a moment. “I did receive both books at the Covington that night, but that's hardly noteworthy.”

“It could be,” Lee said. “Tell me what happened.”

“I ran into Genevieve Taylor earlier that evening.” I backtracked to explain my relationship with Genevieve, the owner of the bookshop, then told her about our cryptic conversation in the foyer of the Covington, during which she'd handed me the
Almanack
. That was followed an hour later by my meeting with Jared and Ian when I'd been given the bird book. I'd carried both books in my purse the rest of the evening for safekeeping. And now two people had been killed and I was pretty sure it was because of one of those books. That thought was enough to give me another chill.

Always the skeptic, Inspector Lee said, “Okay, even though all that happened, there still might not be any connections to be made. Except for the fact that the two men died in a similar manner.”

“True.”

“A lot of people die of stab wounds,” she muttered.

“Yes, so you could be right. There might not be any connection at all.” Even though I doubted it, saying the words aloud made me feel a tiny bit better.

“It'll take a few days,” Lee said, “but once the ME determines the actual cause of death and can verify the type of knife used in both killings, he'll pass the word on to me and I'll let you two know.”

Derek's expression was somber. “I'd appreciate your contacting me as soon as possible, Inspector.”

Lee pushed away from the doorjamb, no longer relaxed. “You got it, Commander.”

I frowned. She sounded way too cooperative. Was I missing something? I was naturally worried that someone could still sneak in here and steal the book, but why were they both so tense all of a sudden? “What's wrong with you two?”

They exchanged a solemn glance.

“Think about it, darling.” Derek reached for my hand. “If you're right and Goose's and Jared Mulrooney's murders are both connected to one of the books inside your safe, it means your life is in mortal
danger.”

Well, duh. Of course I was in danger.

But I stared at Derek and had to admit that the thought hadn't really sunk in until he said it out loud. So did that make me dumber than a stick? No! At least, I didn't like to think so. The fact was, I'd been working with books since I was eight years old, and my life had been wonderful—until a few years ago when I first ran into trouble and had to learn a hard lesson. That was when I found my bookbinding mentor dying in a pool of his own blood and began to realize there were people out there who were willing to kill or steal or blackmail or threaten others in order to get their hands on something rare and beautiful—and expensive. Namely, a book.

That trouble hadn't gone away. In fact, it had been snowballing since then. In many cases, I was the only thing standing in the way of one malevolent person and the rare book he or she desired more than life itself.

For me, an exquisitely bound book was no less than a masterpiece. A work of art. But while most great art was guarded and
treasured and well beyond the reach of thieves and evildoers, a book was generally smaller, more portable, and easier to steal.

So nowadays I was always aware of the possibility of danger. And I was always careful.

Except for those times when I wasn't.

“I'll be more careful, I promise.” I grabbed Derek's hand. “But if I'm in danger, then so are you.”

“I can take care of myself, love.” He sent Inspector Lee an imploring look, as if silently asking for backup.

“Derek carries a gun,” she said, her tone blunt. “He knows ten ways to kill someone with a toothpick. You don't.”

I scowled at both of them, mainly because they were right. I'd grown up in a loving, peaceful, rustic environment, running through the fields as free as the birds, my hair fluttering in the breeze and Birkenstocks strapped on my feet. I couldn't shoot a gun to save my life. And forget about toothpicks. “All right, fine. So what do I do? Besides double up on the self-defense lessons with Alex?”

“That would be a good start,” Lee said. “But beyond that, I want you to be aware of your surroundings at all times. Be suspicious of everyone you see. I don't want you putting yourself in harm's way.”

“I won't,” I grumbled, ready to change the subject. “So what comes next?”

“First thing tomorrow I want to interview Billy at Taylor's Fine Books. Let's see if there's a clear connection between your break-in and this guy.”

“Oh.” I recalled what I'd heard during my eavesdropping session at the bookshop. “Genevieve might've already contacted the police.”

“Good,” she said. “I'll check with the Richmond District
Station to see if anyone's been over there to see him yet. And even if they have, I'm going to pull rank and take over Billy's case. There's a fifty-fifty chance his hustler is linked to our murder investigation.”

“That's great news,” I said. “You're the best.”

Her smile was dripping with irony, metaphorically speaking. “I won't argue with you this time.”

It made me laugh, despite the gloominess of the conversation.

“If Billy's con man is associated with our intruder,” Derek said, returning to Lee's point, “there's your connection.”

Lee scowled. “Can't get much clearer than that.”

•   •   •

Minutes after the police and medical examiner left, I was able to get in touch with my old friend Tom and ask him to bring his team over to our place to clean things up.

It was an ugly little fact that when a violent death occurred and blood was spilled, a crime scene officially became a biohazard site. Tom and his guys had worked for me a few years ago when a man died inside my best friend Robin's apartment.

Tom and his two helpers showed up early that afternoon and four hours later, every surface of the living room and hall had been cleaned and disinfected. There was also no trace whatsoever of the dreaded black powder used for fingerprinting, and for that alone, I was grateful. I signed a few forms so that Tom could collect his payment from our homeowner's insurance. It was nice that, under the circumstances, no money had to change hands, but what I appreciated most about Tom was that he and his guys were always kind and empathetic toward whoever was left to deal with a friend's or loved one's death. Or in our case, a stranger's death inside our home.

Since it was Sunday night and tomorrow was a workday, Derek
and I stayed home and had a quiet dinner of grilled chicken, asparagus, and roasted rosemary potatoes. I was beyond proud of myself for preparing and cooking the vegetables from scratch. Gazing joyfully at the way the veggies were artistically arranged on our plates, I was struck by the realization that I was getting to be a pretty darn good cook. Not as good as my sister, of course, who was a Cordon Bleu–trained chef and owned one of the top restaurants in the wine country. But hey, I could roast potatoes like a champ—if you overlooked those few chunks that were scorched beyond recognition.

We went to bed early, well before Mom and Dad got home from the wedding. But we both woke up when we heard the front door open and close. I checked the clock. Midnight. Must've been a fabulous wedding, I thought, and hoped they had had fun.

Derek went out to greet them and make sure we were all locked up for the night. I knew he was also making sure there were no surprises this time. No strangers spending the night. We didn't want a repeat of the horror of the evening before. I heard Mom and Dad wish Derek a good night's sleep and I dozed off soon after that.

•   •   •

The next morning, Derek and I woke up early, slipped on sweatpants and sweaters, and wandered out to the kitchen to start the coffee. I was surprised to see Mom and Dad already up and dressed and sitting at the kitchen counter, reading the paper and drinking coffee.

“Good morning, sweet people,” my mother said, way too cheerfully for this early hour of the morning. Even for her.

But she'd already made coffee, so after I'd taken a few sips, I found I could handle her perkiness. “How was the wedding?”

“Oh, it was lovely,” Mom said. “We had the best time.”

Dad set down his coffee cup. “We talked to Stewart and a few of the other fellows who were outside the Fillmore when we met Goose.”

“And what did your friend Stewart have to say for himself?” Derek asked.

Dad grimaced. “He was standing outside after the show and a homeless man approached him for money. Stewart thought he looked familiar and asked him, ‘Goose, is that you?'”

“So the fake Goose decided to play along?” Since we still didn't know the man's name, I made the decision to continue calling him Goose until the police informed me of his real name.

“That's what we figure,” Dad said. “So things went along from there and finally we offered him a place to stay for the night.”

“We must've seemed so silly to him,” Mom said, sounding sad and a little flustered.

Derek protested. “You don't have a silly bone in your body, Rebecca. And I'm quite sure the faux Goose was grateful to have a place to sleep, a shower, food. No doubt he felt very fortunate indeed to have run across you.”

“None of this is your fault, Mom,” I insisted. “Like Derek said, you made it possible for him to get a good night's sleep and a lovely shower. He probably felt better than he had in years, thanks to you. And I know it doesn't help much, but as far as I'm concerned, he died a hero.”

“Oh, sweetie.” She wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tightly.

We were all silent with our own thoughts for a long moment. Then I grabbed the coffeepot and poured more for everyone.

“What are your plans for today, Mom?” I asked, determined to change the subject as I sat down at the counter.

“We're going to make you breakfast and then leave for home around noon.” She gave Dad a pointed look. “Right, Jim?”

Dad wiggled his eyebrows at her and I started to get a bad feeling. “Righto.”

“What's going on?” I asked.

Dad straightened and said, “Brooklyn, your mother wants to clear up any bad energy our visit might've stirred up.”

“What?” My head bobbed up and I twisted around in my chair. “No, Mom. That's not necessary. There's no bad energy here. We had a cleaning crew in to wash it all away. Right, Derek? It's all good.”

But Derek was fiddling with the toaster and pretending not to hear me. I could see his shoulders shaking, though, and knew he was laughing at my pain. What a coward!

Mom was gazing blissfully at nothing in particular and didn't seem to notice my panicked reaction. “The vibes are everywhere,” she said, “so it's important that I perform a transformational cleansing ceremony before we leave. I hope neither of you has to rush off.”

“Oh.” Was my throat closing up? I had to struggle to swallow and to speak.

“Honey, you need a Heimlich?” Dad asked.

I waved him off. “I'll be fine,” I whispered. My mother's spells and cleansings were always dramatic and sometimes they even worked. But they were bizarre and noisy and I was pretty sure she made them up on the spot.

I gave Derek a pleading look, hoping he would help put the kibosh to her plans, but his broad smile signaled he was about to betray me. He'd always had a soft spot for my parents, so I knew he wasn't going to be any help with this at all.

I tried anyway. “Um, Derek has to go to work.”

“I can be a few minutes late,” he said jovially. “I wouldn't dream of missing your mother's transformational cleansing ceremony.”

I gave him a dark look, but he continued to grin unrepentantly.

“Wonderful!” Mom said. “Because when I woke up this morning, I realized I'd promised you my home-protection spell, and then in the rush of everything happening, I completely forgot.”

“That's okay, Mom. You've been preoccupied.”

“Boy howdy,” she said with a nod. “We've all had a tough weekend. But now I have some time and I owe you besides. I'll combine the protection spell with my ultrasuper cleansing-and-purification ceremony to completely wash away the bad spirits and usher poor Goose's soul onto his next adventure.”

“I've seen this one and it's a doozy,” Dad promised.

“Oh gosh. I can't wait.”

“Nor can I,” Derek said.

“You'll be happier without that underlying scent of death in the house,” Mom said with an offhanded gesture.

Derek and I exchanged looks of horror. “Mom, the Haz Mat team was here yesterday. You can't possibly smell anything.”

“Of course not. It smells as fresh as a daisy in here. But it's the psychic odor I'm referring to.” She shrugged philosophically. “The memories stick in your mind and your soul. Think about it: a killer was inside your home. The scent of blood fills your nostrils. The picture of a body lying on the floor floods your mind. The aftermath, when police and medical technicians disrupt your lives. And let's keep it real, sweetie. If all that doesn't bother you, let's remember that Goose had some world-class pungent body odor going for him.”

“Well, there's that.” I shook my head at my mother's ability to get down to the nitty-gritty.

After that little speech, the fact that any of us were hungry was
astonishing. But we managed to choke down a light breakfast of cereal and fruit anyway. Afterward, Mom steered us into the living room, where she had already laid out her equipment and supplies on the coffee table. Derek grabbed my hand and pulled me down next to him on the couch. Dad took the big red chair.

There was a round mirror lying flat in the middle of the coffee table. This was surrounded by twelve votive candles, all lit. In the center of the mirror was a small bowl of smoldering incense that wafted up and filled the room with an exotic, spicy scent.

Mom stood on the other side of the coffee table and addressed us formally. “Derek, Brooklyn, this ceremony is for your home, that we may keep out negative influences and bad people and also cleanse the souls of the departed so that they might find their way to the new frontier.”

“Wonderful,” Derek murmured.

“Oy,” I whispered.

“So let us begin. Join with me in spiritual oneness here at my Wiccan Altar.” She splayed her hands toward the coffee table to indicate its new role as Wiccan Altar.

I glanced at Derek, then back to Mom. “We're all in for you, Mom.”

She pressed her hands together in a namaste pose and closed her eyes. “Pour all of your energy and intention into my words. If you believe it, so it shall be. And your new home will be safeguarded from negativity and evil and bad vibes.” She cracked open one eye. “And, you know, annoying people and smells and stuff.”

“I'm all for that,” I said.

She gave a quick nod. “Then we begin.” Picking up the thin, smooth branch that she'd whittled into a wand, she stood before the Wiccan Altar and bowed. Then she walked around the coffee table—er, Wiccan Altar—circling it three times as she repeated,
“The mirror reflects the flames. The mirror reflects the flames. The flames cleanse the air. The flames cleanse the air.”

I gazed around the room, watching the reflected candlelight flicker and bounce off our walls.

Mom stopped circling and raised both arms into the air. Pointing the wand toward the heavens, she began to chant.

“Oh, Goddess of the Solar Light,

Oh, Mistress of the Trees;

Great Goddess of the lunar skies,

And of the deep blue seas.

Here in this place with candles bright

And with this mirror shining;

Protect my loved ones with your might,

And send all scoundrels flying.”

Mom lowered her arms, set down the wand, and grabbed a saltshaker from the table. Moving in a clockwise direction again, she began to shake the salt onto the carpet and the couch and the chairs.