Homicide in Hardcover (21 page)

“I guess it wouldn’t help Heinrich’s heroic reputation,” I said, “if the world knew his wife had been a cowardly anti-Semitic murdering bitch.”

“You think?” Sylvia said snidely. “Oh, I don’t blame her for what she did, but the world would consider her evil. My family’s honor and reputation would be ruined. We would be persona non grata everywhere we went. I can’t allow that.”

“No, that would be unacceptable. Much better just to kill off a few people and hide the truth.”

“Don’t patronize me,” she snapped. “The man didn’t care about his own family. He had to be the big hero, saving all those Jews.”

“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

“What if he’d been caught? He would’ve been killed on the spot or sent to a camp. Gretchen would’ve been shunned, ridiculed, and left alone to raise four children. Or who knows? Maybe they would’ve sent her to the camps with him. He left her no choice.”

“But to kill him?”

“Yes, and good for her.”

“But she was still left alone anyway,” I said.

“But this way,” Sylvia argued, “her husband died a hero and a good citizen instead of being gassed to death as an enemy of the state. Her reputation was saved.”

“And reputation is everything,” I said.

“Despite what you and my daughter think, yes, reputation is everything.”

I straightened my shoulders. There was no need to be insulting, bunching me in with Meredith. But it was disappointing to know that Meredith was actually a pillar of dignity and honor compared to her mother.

“So if you already read the letter,” I ventured, “why didn’t you destroy it?”

Her nostrils flared like an offended little bull’s. “I didn’t read the letter,” she conceded as she strolled calmly through a patch of sunlight coming through the blinds. “Karastovsky read it over the phone to my husband, then demanded money.”

“And Conrad…”

“Panicked. He told me what the letter said and I told him to calm down. I had to take care of everything.”

“A woman’s work is never done.”

“Exactly,” she said with a sneer. “I called Karastovsky back and told him I’d bring the money the night of the opening.”

“But you didn’t bring money. Just a gun.”

“Right again,” she said. “That big, stupid ox. Did he think I’d allow my family to be shunned and ridiculed because some loathsome
cobbler
thought he could manipulate us?”

“Cobbler?”

“Oh, whatever.” She waved her gun hand impatiently. “You work with leather. Your hands are dirty. You’re low-class craftspeople.”

Craftspeople
. Ouch.

Beyond the insults, none of this made sense. Abraham was wealthy. He didn’t need the money. Why would he resort to blackmail?

A thought sprouted and grew. According to Minka, Abraham and Enrico had begun a collaboration shortly before Abraham was killed. Had Abraham revealed the contents of the letter to Enrico? Had Enrico been the one to attempt blackmail, using Abraham’s name since he’d already burned his own bridges with the Winslows?

The scheme had Enrico’s name all over it.

I wondered.

“So, when you confronted Abraham with the gun the night of the opening, when you accused him of blackmail, what did he say?”

“He denied everything,” she said scornfully. “Said he’d never made the phone call, never demanded money. He whined and cried like a big baby girl. It was disgusting. I’m glad I could put him out of his misery.”

My hands bunched in fury. Abraham had talked about Enrico betraying a confidence. It had to be about Gretchen’s letter. I was virtually certain Enrico had found out about it and hatched the scheme without Abraham’s knowledge or approval. Which meant Sylvia had killed Abraham for no reason at all.

I could see the whole scenario clearly. Enrico had wanted to get even with the Winslows for cheating him out of his source of easy money. He really was a scumbag, but even he hadn’t deserved to die.

As she spoke, I continued to face her but carefully, gradually brought my arms back and leaned against the worktable. I reached farther back to feel around for a weapon. My fingers wrapped themselves around something long and thin. A bone folder.

“I assume you sent the guy with the snake tattoo after me.”

“Willie,” she said, and rolled her eyes. “He’s a little fellow who occasionally does odd jobs for me. Not all that dependable, but it was worth a shot.”

“Aren’t you afraid he’ll implicate you?”

“I give him little gifts and he’s thoroughly devoted to me,” she said. “Besides, he’s completely off his rocker. Who would believe him?”

She had a point. Then something else occurred to me. “Do you own a dark SUV?”

She gazed at her fingernails. “My housekeeper drives one but I borrow it occasionally.”

“And the rose on my pillow?”

She chuckled. “A tender gesture, wasn’t it? I overheard your gorgeous male friend telling you he’d call you ‘soon.’ ” She grinned. “Boy, if I had a nickel for every time I’d heard those words. Am I right?”

Was this girl talk? Was she kidding?

She sighed, continued. “You came home sooner than I expected, so I was stuck in your coat closet for a while.”

I was stymied and finally blurted, “How in the world do you know how to break into houses?”

“It’s a gift,” she said with a cocky grin. “I didn’t always live on Nob Hill, you know. I grew up on the streets, learned to survive. Otherwise, I would’ve died out there.”

I clutched the bone folder more tightly.

“Hey,” she said, taking notice of my movement. “Back away from the table.”

I took a step closer to her, then threw the bone folder. It was absolutely useless as a weapon-but very effective as a diversion. Sylvia screamed and pulled the trigger at the same time. The bullet went wildly off course. We fell against each other and I pushed the gun away. She grabbed my chin and raked her nails down my neck.

“Ouch!” I knocked her back and reached for the gun. She tried to aim it toward me, but I grasped hold of her wrist and we fought for power.

“You stupid cow, let me go!” she cried as she smashed my face with her other hand.

“Damn it!” She was getting in plenty of smacks and slaps, but at least they weren’t bullets.

The door burst open and my mother dashed in carrying a huge pizza box, just as Sylvia smacked me in the ear with her fist, then grabbed for the gun.

Mom used the only weapon she had to protect her daughter. The pizza. She flung the box and struck Sylvia in the head. Sylvia squealed in fury as the gun went flying and the pizza tumbled to the floor.

Derek rushed in behind Mom, grabbed Sylvia by the back of her peach jacket and hauled her to her feet.

“Don’t step on the pizza,” Mom cried.

I looked up and grinned at Derek, delighted to see them both. He rolled his eyes and stepped a few feet away, out of pizza range, dragging Sylvia with him.

“You son of a bitch, take your hands off me!” she cried, twisting and struggling to free herself.

Mom scampered around to rescue the pizza. “It’s your favorite, sweetie. Mushrooms, onions and garlic.”

“Extra cheese?” I asked.

“You betcha.” She put the heavy box on the worktable and burst into tears. I grabbed her and we hugged tightly.

“I love you, Mom,” I whispered.

“I know, sweetie,” she said, sniffling as she stroked my hair. “I love you, too.”

Footsteps pounded outside in the hall and my studio was suddenly crowded with cops. Inspector Lee followed them in, clutching her gun with both hands. She holstered it as soon as she saw Derek gripping Sylvia’s arms behind her back.

“You got my message,” I said.

“Nope,” Lee said. “Conrad Winslow called to report his wife.”

“That bastard!” Sylvia shouted.

“Men,” I said, shaking my head.

Derek released Sylvia to one of the cops and Inspector Lee suggested we clear the area. I grabbed the pizza box and led the way back to the kitchen, where she questioned me for the next half hour.

As soon as she left, I poured three hefty glasses of wine as Derek explained that he’d heard my message, called the police and swung by headquarters to spring my mom. They’d picked up a pizza and were on their way over to surprise me.

“Why did you confess to the murder, Mom?” I asked as soon as I’d fortified myself with several stiff gulps of wine.

“Sweetie.” She glanced at Derek, then back at me and whispered, “I was trying to protect you.”

My jaw dropped a few feet. “Me? Why would you-”

She smiled self-consciously but said nothing.

“Wait,” I said. “You thought I killed Abraham? Why?”

“Because you hated him,” she explained.

“I did?”

She nodded solemnly. “You found out he and I were having an affair and you blamed him for destroying our marriage.”

I bobbled my wineglass, dumbfounded. “Y-you and-and Abraham were having an affair?”

“Oh, heavens no.” She took a dainty sip of wine.

“But…” I looked at Derek, who was biting back a smile. He seemed to be enjoying the show.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Mother, what are you talking about?”

“Your friend confided in me the day of Abraham’s memorial,” she said. “She told me everything.”

My eyes narrowed. “What friend was that?”

“The chubby one in the leopard gloves? What’s her name? Minky? Monkey?” She waved the question away. “You know the one. Anyway, she told me how worried she was about you. How she hoped the police didn’t find out how much you hated poor Abraham.”

Minka. I gnashed my teeth as I planned my revenge. I was seriously going to destroy her. I just had to figure out how.

“Oh, I assured her it wasn’t true about the affair,” Mom continued. “But I was afraid the damage had been done. When you told me the police were hauling you in, I decided to take matters into my own hands.”

“It wasn’t necessary to go to jail for me, Mom,” I said softly.

“Better me than you, sweetie.” She took a quick sip of wine, then put her glass on the counter and nonchalantly cracked her petite knuckles. “I’ve been in jail and know how to survive. You wouldn’t last a day.”

I leaned back and drained my wineglass, then reached for the bottle, determined to be good and tanked before this conversation was over.

A month later, on a warm afternoon in Dharma, Mom and Dad celebrated their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary with seven hundred of their closest family and friends.

Mom looked beautiful and rested after spending a week at the Laughing Goat sweat lodge. After detoxification, she’d shared in the sacred pipe purification ceremony, which had allowed her to channel shamanic drum meditations and astral travel to Alpha Centauri with her spirit guide, Ramlar X.

Dad beamed with love as Mom reminisced.

Guru Bob offered the use of his elegant hilltop home and terraced patio for the occasion. He made a heartfelt toast, and then I presented my parents with a nicely bound leather photo album containing pictures and keepsakes of their life together, from the Deadhead days to the present.

There were photos of all of the kids along with pictures and mementos of the various Grateful Dead concert sites or weapons facilities protest marches we’d all been named after.

For the album, I had experimented with a flamed-heat iron to brand an embossed grapevine pattern into the thick leather cover. The stock was thick, acid-free paper, deckled and interleaved with delicate sheets of rice paper. I hoped it would become a family heirloom.

Mom cried like a baby when she saw it, so I know she liked it. Dad’s eyes swam with tears and he couldn’t speak for twenty minutes. It wasn’t as grand as the first-class tickets to Paris my brothers surprised them with, but I think they loved it just as much.

A month before, the night Sylvia Winslow was taken off to jail, Mom had sat me down and begged me to put the album together. She’d confessed that Abraham had been her original choice to do the project she wanted to keep a secret from our family.

“I don’t believe it!” I’d said when she’d explained what she wanted. “That’s why you were meeting him at the Covington that night? To sift through family photos?”

“It was his idea to meet there,” Mom explained. “He’d been so busy, but he knew that once the exhibit opened, he’d finally have a free minute or two to go over my plans.”

“That’s crazy.”

She frowned. “What’s crazy is me waiting in the wrong workroom for almost an hour.”

I shivered. “That mistake probably saved your life.”

“I never even heard the gunshot,” she wailed. “I was practicing for my cosmic bilocation class.”

“I would’ve done the same thing,” I’d assured her.

Now we raised our champagne glasses and toasted another round for my parents. They kissed and the crowd applauded.

“They’re the most wonderful people in the world,” someone said next to me.

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said as I turned and did a double take. It was Annie, Abraham’s daughter. She was completely transformed. Instead of the kohl-eyed Goth look she’d sported when I met her, she wore no makeup except lip gloss. She looked like a happy teenager with her dark hair fluffed softly around her face. She wore a long, sage green cotton skirt with a matching tie-dyed tank top, and oh, dear Lord, Birkenstocks. Dharma had claimed another convert.

“Look who’s gone country,” I said.

“Thanks, I guess.” But she smiled as she said it.

“Did the move go okay?”

“Yes, thanks to your mom and dad,” she said. “I really like it here, you know?”

“I’m glad. I was sorry to hear about your mom.”

“Thanks. It wasn’t unexpected, but still.” She shook her head. Annie’s mother had died a few days after Sylvia Winslow was arrested.

After the paternity test results had come through, verifying that Annie was indeed Abraham’s daughter, I’d signed papers making Annie and me joint tenants of Abraham’s house and surrounding property. The lawyers took some of Abraham’s holdings and set up a trust that would pay Annie an allowance until she could figure out what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.

“Your mom’s been introducing me around,” Annie said. “She’s amazing.”

I glanced over at Mom, who was currently doing the funky chicken with my four-year-old nephew. “Yeah, she is.”

“I guess I owe you,” Annie said with a half smile. “But don’t expect me to kiss your ring every time I see you.”

I sipped my champagne. “Not every time.”

She grinned and walked away.

I looked around for Robin and saw her at one of the wine bars, talking to Austin. He beamed at her and she laughed. The sound was so sweet, I felt a big twinge of happiness for them.

Ian approached with a full bottle of Brut Rosé and topped my glass. Now that he was “out,” Ian was so much more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. I said hello to Jake, Ian’s boyfriend, whom I’d met at the official opening of the Winslow exhibition.

The opening had been a blockbuster event. News of the curse and the murders and the notorious Winslow women had hit the headlines and the crowds were intense.

I was thrilled that Ian had taken my advice and displayed the
Faust
on its own pedestal, encased in Plexiglas so that the cover, the text and the Armageddon painting could all be seen by the public.

Even Meredith Winslow, who’d attended the opening with her father as a show of public strength, agreed the
Faust
looked “okay, whatever.” And even though I’d never achieve my dream of seeing her behind bars wearing an orange jumpsuit, her words were music to my ears.

Ian and Jake moved on to talk to Austin. I sighed and took another sip of the Brut Rosé.

“Are your bags packed?”

I struggled to catch my breath, not because Derek Stone had snuck up on me but because that mellow British accent of his never failed to give me a start.

I would’ve loved to think he’d come all the way from London to Dharma because of me. But the truth was, he and Mom had forged a bond the night Mom flung her kung fu pizza box at Sylvia Winslow’s head.

Derek had surprised Mom when he showed up last night and she’d burst into tears of happiness. There was a lot of that going around lately.

“Packed and ready to go, bright and early tomorrow,” I said with a smile.

“You’re flying nonstop to Heathrow?”

“Yes, and I took your advice and sprang for first class.” And why that made me more nervous than the flight itself, I couldn’t say. Spending all that extra money on my own comfort was likely to give me hives. But hey, I needed something new to obsess over now that the murders of Abraham and Enrico had been solved.

“Why would anyone travel any other way?” he said.

Said the man who rented a Bentley wherever he went.

My suitcases were indeed packed for my trip to the Edinburgh Book Fair. I’d just received news the day before that one of my books was a finalist in the book fair competition. I was antsy to go but hated to leave.

And speaking of antsy, I’d been drinking champagne for the past two hours and needed to find a restroom. “Would you watch my glass for a minute?”

“Only for a minute,” Derek said with a grin, and took my glass.

I stepped inside Guru Bob’s house to find a restroom. As I passed the spacious living room, something caught my eye and I moved toward it.

“Oh my God.” It was a genuine Vermeer on the wall nearest the foyer. I walked across the soft pale carpet for a closer look and stared for a minute at the painting of the young woman writing at her desk. “Beautiful.”

“A superb study of light and shadow.”

I whipped around and saw Guru Bob watching me.

“I’m sorry, Robson,” I said awkwardly. “I was looking for the restroom, but I saw this and had see it up close.”

“Please do not ever apologize for enjoying beautiful things, gracious,” he said with a slight bow. “I enjoy having my home filled with friends and my art viewed by those who can appreciate it.”

“You have so many lovely pieces,” I said, glancing around the elegant room. My gaze settled on a startling Rembrandt portrait of a young boy.

“Holy cow,” I said under my breath, and approached the painting with reverence. “Unbelievable.”

“I am blessed.” He walked beside me as I looked.

“Thank you for letting me take a peek around.”

“You are always welcome, gracious.”

I passed a stately three-door glass display cabinet that had to be an original Louis the Something. It was so very French and heavily laden with gold ormolu and beautiful parquetry. Not my style, but it fit perfectly in this room that was both strongly male while being light and spacious.

I almost missed it.

Guru Bob stood nearby, his finger pressed to his lips as he watched me stop, then turn back. There in the display cabinet was the five-hundred-year-old edition of Plutarch’s
Parallel Lives
I’d taken from Enrico Baldacchio’s library. The book sat on a small easel on the center shelf. The unusual green morocco binding and distinctive gilding was unmistakable.

In utter shock, I whirled around. “How?”

His smile was sweet as he admired the book. “It is simply exquisite, is it not?”

The extraordinary book was supposed to be stashed away in my secret hiding place at the bottom of my closet. I’d discovered that the book hadn’t belonged to the Winslows, so over the past month, I’d kept it hidden while I made discreet inquiries through the Covington and several reputable booksellers to find the true owner of the Plutarch. So far, I hadn’t had any luck. Which was why the book was still in my closet. Or so I’d thought.

“Gabriel,” I whispered.

“A dear friend.”

“How in the world?” I said.

“Ah, gracious,” Guru Bob said gently as he took my arm and led me out of the room. “The gods work in mysterious ways.”