Books of a Feather (14 page)

With a semblance of a plan, we got out of the car and walked the half block to Taylor's.

Derek pushed the door open and ushered me inside. Once again, I breathed in the luscious scents of aged vellum and aromatic leather. And just like that, I was in my happy place.

For me, electronic readers would never take the place of a real book. The feel of vintage paper, the clean smell of a brand-new book, the experience of picking it off the shelf and making a new friend that would take you on a journey of discovery.

“You're getting that dreamy look in your eyes again,” Derek whispered. “I like it.”

I smiled at him. It was good to be understood.

Derek nodded toward the counter that ran along the side of the store. Billy was standing near the cash register, writing something on a pad of paper. “Is that him?”

“Yes,” I murmured. “I don't see Genevieve, but she might be in the back office.”

“You go browsing,” he whispered. “Try not to let him see you.”

“Okay.”

“Greetings, my good man,” Derek announced in his best lord-of-the-manor tone.

I grinned as I slipped unnoticed into the Antiquarian Room, by far my favorite space in the store—except for the fact that I'd discovered the dead body of Joe Taylor in this very room.
Behind
that very chair,
I thought, glancing over at the corner.

“Never mind,” I muttered under my breath. “Just browse.”

So I did, checking everything out while also trying to catch Derek's conversation with Billy. It wasn't a hardship to stare at the fabulous books available in the display cases of this room. I noticed that the nicely preserved copy of
The Little Prince
was the same one I'd seen the last time I was here over a year ago. The book had been signed by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, the author, and was still priced at twenty thousand dollars. I'd thought it a little steep the first time and wondered if Genevieve had considered lowering it a few thousand. It was a sweet little copy, however, and the author's signature was a bonus. Maybe she was just waiting for the right buyer.

I strolled back to the archway leading to the main room and tried to catch snippets of Derek's conversation with Billy.

“I say, you must know quite a bit about books,” Derek said,
laying it on a little thick. “A friend recommended your shop rather highly when I mentioned that I was desperate to get my hands on some rare books.”

“Are you looking for something in particular?” Billy asked.

“Excellent question. I knew you'd be able to help me. Yes, indeed, I'm very much interested in finding a first edition set of Ian Fleming's works. James Bond, you know. Personal hero of mine. Can you help me?”

“Oh, bummer,” Billy said. “We just got a set of five books in last month, but they were snapped up immediately.”

I rolled my eyes. By “snapped up,” he meant “ripped off.” Stolen by thieves that Billy himself had unknowingly aided and abetted.

I was being harsh, but honestly, Billy was the reason we were in this mess to begin with.

“Bummer, indeed,” Derek murmured. “In that case, let me put myself in your hands. Have you anything else along those lines that I might be interested in seeing? I could make it worth your while.”

“Oh, you mean, like, on the side? Heck, that's not necessary. I don't . . . I mean, unless . . . uh, no. I'm here to help and that's all.”

“Aren't you upstanding?” Derek declared. “I'm impressed. But I can't be the first person who's ever offered a finder's fee. It happens all the time, doesn't it?”

“Not here, sir.”

Okay, I felt a little better to hear Billy fighting the urge to walk on the wild side. Although he was obviously tempted. I figured Genevieve must've drummed the fear of God into him. Or more likely, the fear of cops.

And speaking of cops, I watched out the front window as Inspector Lee pulled up to the curb and parked.

I might've let out a tiny shriek of surprise, but I covered it up by coughing loudly. That caught Derek's attention and he abruptly ended his conversation at the checkout counter and headed for the front door. I met him there and with my face averted from Billy's view, I pushed the door open and rushed outside. Derek followed closely behind me.

“Oh, come on, you guys,” Inspector Lee groused as she approached. “This can't be a good thing.”

“Good day, Inspector,” Derek said, his accent still in
Masterpiece Theatre
mode.

We led her away from the bookshop, stopping two doors down the block so Billy wouldn't see us.

“You'd be so proud of Derek,” I said, gushing a little. “He really did a number on Billy. But to the kid's credit, he didn't bite.”

“He's scared to death,” Derek said. “The entire time I spoke with him, his eyes were wide and fearful and he continually checked the front window. I can only hope it's because his cousin warned him and not because he's been threatened by his criminal friend.”

“I just spoke to a guy over at the Richmond station,” Lee said. “He told me that nobody's come by to get Billy's story yet. So his little friend is still out there.”

“Which means you don't have a description of him yet,” I said. “That's a drag.”

“Wait a minute.” Lee glared at me. “What are you doing here? What part of ‘your life is in danger' don't you understand?”

“I've got my bodyguard with me,” I said, tucking my arm through Derek's.

But Derek didn't look much happier than Inspector Lee. “I couldn't dissuade her from going out, so I insisted on accompanying her.”

I scowled at both of them. “Sure. Throw me under the bus. I've been there before.”

Lee jabbed her finger at me. “Under the bus is probably safer than being out in plain sight.”

Derek nodded but wisely said nothing.

“That doesn't even make sense,” I protested.

“Sure it does,” she said, grinning.

“Oh! Wait,” I said. “I'm starting to get an idea.”

“That can only spell trouble,” Lee muttered.

“What is it, darling?” Derek asked, instantly winning back my affection.

“Even if Billy gives you a description of the guy and even if he points out the guy to the police, you'll only get so far. You won't have fingerprints or a closed-circuit camera to nail the guy. You've got to catch him red-handed or else get a warrant and search his place. But you might not find anything because chances are he's already fenced the stolen books. Right?”

Derek nodded. “It's unlikely that he'd keep the books in plain sight.”

“Go on,” Lee said, reluctantly willing to listen.

“Okay. So suppose the guy saw me working in the store last week. Suppose he watched me walk out with all those books that Genevieve wanted repaired. He could've been curious, followed me home, and found out where I lived.”

Derek's jaw clenched. “Possibly.”

“And then suppose a day or so later, Billy told him about the
Almanack
and mentioned that it was being repaired. The guy might've imagined that I was the one who had it. So he scopes out our place, sees us leaving for the Covington, follows us, and is right there when Genevieve actually hands the book to me.”

“You've got a lot of
supposing
going on,” Lee said.

I held up my hand. “Bear with me for one more minute.
Suppose
he was tracking my movements around the Covington, waiting for the opportunity to steal the
Almanack
from my purse. Then he saw me talking to Jared Mulrooney and saw me slip something else into my purse. At least, that's what he thought he saw. Suppose he wanted to know what that was all about, so he followed Mulrooney into the back gallery and things went badly.”

Inspector Lee and Derek stared at me, then exchanged glances. Both had skeptical looks on their faces and I had to mentally scan back through my words.

“Okay, that didn't make sense at all,” I admitted.

Lee snorted. “You're right.”

“But then, none of this has made sense from the start.” I sighed. “My point is, the only way you'll trap this guy is with a book so phenomenal he won't be able to resist. And that's where I come in.”

“Not going to happen,” Lee said. “Look, you mosey on home and I'm going to go talk to Billy.”

“You'll think about my idea and call me if you need me?”

“You bet I will,” Lee said, laughing. “Be sure to wait by the phone.”

•   •   •

“I think she was being sarcastic,” I said on the ride home.

Derek squeezed my hand in solidarity. “You're nothing if not observant.”

I shrugged. “I thought it was a good idea.”

“Frankly, darling, I agree. It is a very good idea. Except for the part where you'd be putting your life in further danger.”

“I know, but still.” I squeezed his hand in response. “I have to
say, by the way, that your conversation with Billy was nothing short of brilliant.”

“Thank you, love. I think my use of the James Bond connection was a minor stroke of genius.”

“Absolutely.” I nodded firmly. “We are both brilliant and Inspector Lee is going to call any minute, just as soon as she realizes how essential we are to her success.”

“I expect to hear from her within seconds.”

I leaned my head against the passenger window and stared at nothing in particular. And wondered if it was too early for a margarita. Chips and salsa would be good right now.

And suddenly Derek's phone rang.

•   •   •

The following afternoon, I walked into Taylor's Fine Books, clutching my satchel for dear life.

After talking to Billy yesterday, Inspector Lee had come to the conclusion that my half-baked idea could actually work. In fact, she thought it might be the only way to catch a thief—and possibly a killer—in the act.

Billy had been assured of complete immunity if he would tell them everything he knew and if he was willing to arrange a meeting at the store with his con man friend. He was eager to help catch the guy who'd made him look stupid, so when he got his friend on the phone, he explained that Genevieve's bookbinding expert would be coming into the store with the repaired
Almanack
at two o'clock that afternoon. If he wanted the
Almanack
, he would have to be there because the window of opportunity was about to slam shut. At least, that was Billy's story to him.

The story we'd made up for Billy to tell was that Genevieve
was planning to mail the
Almanack
to a client in New York later that afternoon. If that happened, Billy's friend would never have the chance to own—or steal—a fascinating rare piece of American history.

The guy took the bait and promised to be there.

So here I was, in Taylor's Fine Books, preparing to put myself and the poor
Almanack
in jeopardy and shaking in my shoes. Luckily, they were my best running shoes in case I needed to make a run for it.

Naturally, Derek and half of his security staff were close by. Two of them were stationed inside the bookshop, casually browsing the back rows. They were to be as quiet as possible but still act normally so as not to scare off Billy's contact.

Two more agents were parked in different cars on the street in case they had to give chase. A couple of female agents were window-shopping along Clement Street.

Inspector Lee and Derek were ensconced inside the back office with Genevieve.

Despite all the security, I was freaking scared to death. If this was the same guy who had killed Goose—and possibly Jared Mulrooney as well—then he was dangerous to the max.

For the hundredth time that day, I thought to myself,
Why did I open my big mouth in the first place? Why did I have to volunteer to play the starring role?

To stop a thief and avenge a homeless man's death,
I said to myself.

Oh yeah.

Billy was the only one working the checkout counter, and he was wired for sound. I hoped that the store would be empty of real customers. I didn't want anyone to get hurt, including me.

“Oh criminy,” Billy muttered. “Here he comes. Oh jeez.”

“Deep breaths, Billy,” I whispered. “Relax. Be cool. Don't blow it.”

“Easy for you to say. You're always cool.”

I almost laughed. Where in the world did he get that idea? But I didn't have time to disabuse him of that preposterous and completely wrong notion because the front door opened and the bells above it began to chime. So I simply murmured, “That's right, Billy. I'm cool. Be just like me.”

But
Oh criminy,
I thought.
Don't blow
it.

“Brooklyn, this is Micah Featherstone,” Billy said, sounding as cool as a cucumber all of a sudden. He turned to the man and said, “Brooklyn's the bookbinder I was telling you about.”

“I couldn't be more honored to meet you,” Micah assured me as he shook my hand enthusiastically. “I really admire the work that bookbinders do, so this is a real pleasure.”

“Thank you,” I said. “It's nice to meet you, too.” I didn't know what to think. His words seemed genuine, but then again, he was a crook, right? It followed that he was lying through his teeth, right? I would be a fool to trust one word he said.

I had to hide my surprise at finding him attractive. He was tall and slim, with startling green eyes, a charming smile, and a shock of white-blond hair that brought back visions of the punk rockers of my youth. Somehow my imagination had conjured up a snarling, broken-nosed thug in a dirty trench coat, but Micah Featherstone was nothing like that. Of course, if all thieves were trolls, we'd be able to spot them at a distance, wouldn't we?

Billy reached under the counter and carefully presented him
with a lush black silk book box. “Here's the
Poor Richard's Almanack
I was telling you about.”

“Oh, oh,” Micah whispered reverently, taking it in his hands. “This box is exquisite.” He turned the box around to examine the side seams and edges, the fabric loop with its elegant pewter fastener. Glancing up, he said, “And you made this, right? It's amazing.”

“Thank you.” It was foolish of me to feel flattered, knowing it was probably the exact reaction he wanted from me. But since I agreed that the box was gorgeous—if I did say so myself—it was easy enough to play along.

“May I open it?” he asked, his fingers touching the miniature pewter sword I'd used as a button for the loop latch.

“Of course.”

He set the box on the counter and slowly lifted the top. The inside bed was lined in the same black silk. For the inside of the lid, I had used a complementary shade of rich gray silk. For extra protection I had slipped the
Almanack
into a slim pouch made of the same gray silk. It was masculine and very elegant.

Micah frowned at Billy. “You introduced Brooklyn as a bookbinder, but she's clearly much more.” His gaze panned across to me. “You're obviously a magnificent artist and I would venture to say you're also a master at book restoration.”

“Yeah, she's really good,” Billy said.

“Billy, Billy, Billy,” Micah said, shaking his head in mock dismay. “Another pitiful understatement.”

I chuckled. Yes, he was a thief, but come on, everyone loves a good compliment. “Thank you, but you haven't even seen the
Almanack
yet.”

“I can't wait to see it,” he said, lifting the box again and
continuing to study it from every angle. “And yet I'm enjoying this feeling of anticipation building up inside me.”

I almost laughed, but I took one look at his solemn expression and immediately quelled my reaction. He quietly oohed and aahed over every little feature with such rapt appreciation I didn't dare speak. I also didn't dare mention that the box he was gushing over was one I'd whipped up last year for a completely different book. Last night I had taken an hour to futz with the inner walls so that they held the book more securely and I resewed the pouch to make it look as if it had been tailor-made for the
Almanack
. My trickery didn't take away from the fact that it was indeed a fabulous box. Again, if I said so myself.

Finally, Featherstone set the box down and picked up the gray pouch. He rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, then weighed the package in his hands. After carefully loosening the cord, he slid the
Almanack
out of its protective sheath.

“Ah.” He took a deep breath and let it out, as if he were entering a cathedral and uttering a sigh of veneration. Taking his time, he scrutinized the
Almanack
much more seriously, more reverently, more closely, than he'd done with the box.

After several long minutes, during which Billy shot me at least three nervous frowns and I tried to remain serene, Featherstone finally glanced up. “You completely resewed the loosened threads.”

“Yes. Several had come undone.”

“And you obviously must have cleaned these self-wrappers.”

“I did.” I was surprised to hear him use the term “self-wrapper,” which was what Benjamin Franklin had called the pages of his
Almanacks
. It was a term that was both historically and factually correct, and I wondered where he had come up with it. Was he simply a
quick study? Had he Googled everything there was to know about
Poor Richard's Almanack
in order to pass himself off as an expert?

“How did you track down the proper thread?” he asked, running his fingers over the linen strands.

“My job is to study the materials and techniques that were in use at the time a book was first created.” I shrugged. “In good conscience, I wouldn't dream of using thread or cloth or a knotting technique that wasn't in fashion at the time.”

“Did you read through the
Almanack
while you worked on it?”

“I did. It was truly enjoyable.”

He seemed pleased with my answer. After holding the pages up to the light for a long moment, he set it down on the counter. “I've seen a number of these
Almanacks
before, and this one is in better shape than any of them.”

“It is now,” I said.

He grinned at my minute correction. “The historical significance of this particular volume is breathtaking.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Which renders it beyond priceless.”

I nodded. I'd had the same thought while working on the
Almanack
, so I found it interesting that he agreed.

He gazed at me with his piercing green eyes and I had to fight to remain unaffected. It occurred to me in that moment that he was wearing contact lenses. Did he wear them to deliberately unsettle his opponent? I would bet money on it.

When he turned back to inspect the pages, I surreptitiously studied his white hair. Was he wearing a wig?

Frankly, the man confused me. Under normal circumstances, I would have been flattered by his compliments and his admiration for my work. I would have been disarmed by his charm, his rakish
grin, and that twinkle in his eye. He listened to me, laughed with me, and essentially treated me as though I were the only person in the world he wanted to talk to and spend time with. I should have been intrigued by his extensive knowledge of bookbinding. Not a lot of people were familiar with the sort of esoteric details that bookbinders handled on a daily basis, but this guy was. And he made sure I knew it. It made me wonder what his real background was. Was he a bookbinder? A bookseller? Or was he just an uncommon thief and a really good scammer?

Featherstone switched his attention to Billy. “How much are you selling it for?”

“Y-you want to buy it?” Billy said, clearly thrown off by the quick switch in conversation.

“Of course I want to buy it.”

“I—I'll have to ask Genevieve. She's, um, not here right now.”

Micah smiled patiently. “I'll be happy to come back, but I want the
Almanack
and the box. I'll leave you a deposit of five thousand dollars. Will that be enough to forestall it being mailed to New York?”

“I'll make sure of it.”

Featherstone pulled a hefty money clip from his pocket and peeled off five thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills and handed them to Billy. He still had a thick wad of bills when he slid the clip back into his pocket.

As Billy counted the money and wrote out a receipt, the man took my hand and shook it gently. “I hope we'll have a chance to talk again. It's been such an honor.”

“Thank you very much. I hope you enjoy the
Almanack
.”

“I will cherish it, and the book box as well.”

Billy handed him the receipt for his deposit and Featherstone walked out of the shop.

Billy sagged against the back wall. “I think I'm going to throw up.”

“You did great,” I said. “You sounded surprised when he wanted to buy it.”

“I was.” He scratched his head, bewildered. “I still am.”

“Do you mean he's never bought a book here before?”

“No, never. Whenever I've seen him at the pub, he talks about coming into the store to buy something, but he never has. I thought it was because . . . well . . .”

“Because he broke in and stole them?”

“Yeah.”

“That's interesting,” I said, mystified as to why Featherstone was so willing to buy the
Almanack
today if he'd never done so in the past. “But you did great, Billy. I'm really proud of you.”

He grinned. “That was kind of cool.”

I smiled and patted his arm. “Totally cool.” But as I walked to the back office, I was more confused than ever.

•   •   •

“So maybe he's not the thief,” Genevieve said from where she sat cross-legged on top of her office desk. “Maybe he's not the one who stole the James Bond set.”

“You think it might be a coincidence?” I asked. “One day he was asking Billy about those very books and it just so happens that three days later, they were stolen?”

Gen grimaced. “It's so not a coincidence.”

“Probably not,” Inspector Lee said. “But we can't arrest someone without hard evidence.”

“Can you search his house?” Derek asked.

Lee scowled. “We don't know where he lives.”

“But Billy has his phone number,” I said. “Can't you track him down through the phone company?”

“We tried. It's a burner,” she said in disgust.

Gen blinked. “He uses a disposable phone? That proves he's disreputable, doesn't it?”

“Wait.” I pointed toward the front of the store. “He just left a few minutes ago. Someone should follow him. Derek and I can try to catch up with—”

“Cool your jets, Wainwright,” Lee said mildly. “I've got a car following him.”

I took a deep breath and let it out. Derek had agents watching Featherstone, too. “Sorry to freak out, but I really want to catch this guy. What if he's the one who killed Goose?”

“Did he strike you as a killer?” Derek asked.

“Good question,” Lee said. “You just spent twenty minutes with him, Brooklyn. What's your take?”

I hid my surprise. The fact that she would ask my opinion was another heady moment for me, since that didn't happen too often. “I was expecting someone less polished,” I admitted. My feelings were still percolating in my mind, but I tried to express them the best I could. “He knows a lot about books and bookbinding, and that surprised me. He came across as erudite and charming, frankly.”

“What does he look like?” Derek asked.

I glanced up at him. “Not quite as tall as you. Sort of attractive, but very intense. Green eyes, white-blond hair. But I think he was wearing contact lenses and I'm pretty sure his hair is dyed. He's thin. I know Alex thought she saw a tall, thin woman at our door, but I'm wondering if it could've been Featherstone. He's tall and really thin and could probably masquerade as a woman. That's another long shot, though.”

“Yeah,” Lee muttered as she made notes.

“He seems to love books, but if that's true, how can he justify stealing them?” I stared at the skeptical faces in front of me. “Okay, I'm being naive, but it just seems wrong. Anyway, despite him putting on a very charming act, I thought it was just on the surface. I saw something else in his eyes besides the contacts. He was very controlled, but once or twice I caught a flicker of pure, raw anger. Underneath the shiny, smooth veneer, I would bet he's a bubbling cauldron of rage. He could flip out at any moment. I wouldn't want to be around if he did. His eyes . . .” I shivered. “His eyes were like pinpoints, staring right into your brain. I think he picked that shocking green color on purpose, just to freak people out.”

“Sounds creepy,” Gen said.

“It was.” I stretched my jaw and rubbed my cheeks.

“What's wrong?” Derek asked.

“My facial muscles ache, probably from trying to keep this fake smile on my face. I was tense the whole time, but trying to be cool and calm.”

“You're not the only one,” Genevieve said. “I've been uptight all morning.”

I gave her a sympathetic look, then turned to Inspector Lee. “I know I'm not a psychiatrist, but I think Micah Featherstone could be a sociopath. He's naturally charismatic and really manipulative. He had Billy wrapped around his little finger. And what really bugs me is that if I hadn't been warned about him ahead of time, I might've fallen into his trap, too.”

Lee nodded and kept writing.

“I wish I could be more specific,” I said. “If I remember anything else about the conversation that might help, I'll give you a call.”

“You seem to have remembered quite a bit,” Derek remarked.

“And don't worry about it too much,” Lee said. “We had Billy wired, so we'll be playing back the tapes later today. If I have any questions, I'll call you. You've been a big help.”

“I'm glad,” I said. “I just hope the guy following him can find out where he lives. I don't like not knowing whether he's the thief or not.”

“Or the killer,” Derek added.

“Yeah,” Lee said, frowning. “That, too.”

•   •   •

“I wouldn't have been surprised to see Featherstone try and steal the book box before our very eyes.”

Instead of driving home, Derek and I decided to take a stroll down Clement Street to enjoy the crisp, clear San Francisco weather. With all the colorful shops and restaurants lining the street, it was always a treat to window-shop. And this close to lunch, I was practically drooling over the intoxicating aromas that emanated from the plethora of Asian restaurants we passed. It made me hope I could talk Derek into stopping for a meal somewhere nearby.