Homicide in Hardcover (8 page)

“Here you go.” Ian removed the Faust from the wall safe and handed it to me. The book was still wrapped in the white cloth I’d secured it in yesterday when I left it with Derek.

“Thanks.” I gripped it close to my chest, feeling a strange urge to protect it. I had a sudden picture of Abraham clutching the book inside his jacket as he died.

A pounding wave of grief washed over me and I had to fight the urge to curl up and cry. I wondered how many other painful memories the book had been witness to. Could a book hold memory within its covers? When I peeled away its covers, would the pain seep out and hurt me? Was I going a little crazy?

Maybe it was a good thing Ian kept it in the safe.

He was watching me closely, I realized. Were all my feelings showing on my face?

“Guess I’ll be downstairs,” I said.

He smiled uncertainly. “Have a productive day, Brooklyn.”

Productive. Right. Get to work.

“Ciao,” I said, and rushed out of his office.

“First, do no harm” was not just for doctors. In book restoration, the same was true. The less manipulation and disturbance of the original work, the better. As I stared at the thick black leather cover where the spine was mildly cracked along the front seam, I determined exactly how to proceed, step by step, and made notes accordingly.

Of course, I wouldn’t take any steps until the Winslows had come and gone. I didn’t mind an audience when I worked, but I drew the line at book owners. For some reason, they rarely handled it well. It was as if they were watching me destroy their baby, pulling the little darling apart and spreading its tiny limbs and body parts out across the work space.

Plus, owners had opinions-which they were entitled to, of course, but that didn’t mean I wanted to hear them.

So while I waited, I pulled out my camera and photographed the book from every possible angle. I took shots of the interior pages and the gorgeous Armageddon painting that was just as staggering on second view as it had been yesterday. I zoomed in on the brass eagle’s claw clasps in both latched and unlatched positions and got close-up shots of each, then photographed the embedded jewels from several angles to catch their many facets.

“Why is she taking pictures of our stuff?”

I should’ve been used to people sneaking up on me by now, but no. I almost dropped my camera.

Meredith Winslow stood just inside the room, wearing a petulant frown and a perky yellow wool mini-dress. Meredith’s mother and father stood close behind her, making a perfect family portrait. American Gothic with snotty offspring.

I had an insane urge to shout, “Say cheese!” and snap their photo, but I resisted. Instead, I pasted a smile on my face and said, “Come on in. I’m just doing some preliminary work before I start the restoration.”

Meredith didn’t move but continued to glare at me with her bottom lip stuck out in a pout. She looked exactly as I’d seen her in hundreds of tabloid photos taken over the years. I wondered why she was looking at me as if I’d stolen her favorite puppy or something.

“Come on, Merry, you’re holding up the show,” Conrad Winslow said jovially as he grabbed hold of his daughter’s arm and steered her into the room. I hadn’t noticed the other night, but he spoke with a slight German accent.

“Daddy,” Meredith protested, and tugged her arm away. Her cheeks turned pink. She seemed embarrassed by her dad and obviously pissed off about being dragged in here to meet me.

“I’m Brooklyn,” I said as I casually spread the white cloth over the
Faust
. I still felt a little protective about the book.

“We’ve heard all about you, Brooklyn,” Mrs. Winslow said. Her smile was so genuine, I almost relaxed.

“I can explain some of the work I’ll be doing if you’d like.”

“We’d love it,” Mrs. Winslow said.

I pulled the book closer and took off the cloth, and they all jostled for position around me.

“It’s so fascinating,” Mrs. Winslow said.

“Whole other world,” Conrad agreed.

Ian walked in and grinned. “There you are.”

“Hi, Ian,” Meredith said, batting her eyelashes.

“Hi, Meredith.” He gave her a slight smile. “Allow me to make the official introductions.” He formally introduced us, then said, “Brooklyn is one of the finest rare book experts in the country. She’ll be completing the work on the
Faust
for the official opening next week.”

“It’s great to meet you all,” I said, flustered by Ian’s praise as I stood to shake hands with everyone. I was at least half a foot taller than Meredith, but she still gave the impression of looking down on me. Screw it, I’d been looked down on by better bitches than this one. Besides, her handshake had all the clout of a dead trout.

Mrs. Winslow shook my hand and said, “It’s lovely to officially meet you, Brooklyn. You come so highly regarded, I know you’ll do us proud.”

I smiled. “Thanks, Mrs. Winslow. I hope you’ll be pleased.”

“Oh, honey,” she said with just a hint of a soft Southern accent as she patted the top of my hand affectionately. “I don’t have a worry in the world. And you call me Sylvia.”

I smiled for real. “Thanks, Sylvia.”

“We’re just so grateful to have you working for us, under the circumstances.”

“Yah, it’s great to meet you, young lady,” Mr. Winslow said genially, edging around his wife to grab my hand and pump it briskly. “Conrad Winslow, at your service.”

He was solidly built, about six feet tall, with reddish hair going gray at the temples. His navy suit probably cost three thousand dollars, but his white shirt was coming untucked and his tie was askew. And his eyes were slightly red. I had the fleeting thought that he’d probably had a drink with breakfast.

I was shocked to realize I liked him. I liked his wife, too. These were the people that less than a day ago I’d considered most likely to fry for killing Abraham.

Of course, my altered opinion didn’t stretch to little Meredith. She was a stone-cold ice maiden.

How had two fairly normal people spawned someone like her?

“It’s just so fascinating, what you do,” Sylvia said, moving closer to the table. “Can you explain some of your processes?”

“Sure,” I said, and turned back to the table in time to see Meredith reach for the book.

“No,” I said, moving the book away.

“What?” She looked astonished. “It’s our property.”

“I’m sorry,” I said immediately. “Of course it’s your property. I meant no insult. It just needs to be handled carefully; that’s all. I can show you.”

“Forget it.”

“Meredith, please,” Sylvia said. “I’m sure Brooklyn didn’t-”

“Fine, take her side.” She crossed her arms and slumped against the side counter. “It’s just a stupid book.”

“That’s more than enough, Meredith,” Sylvia said through clenched teeth, then turned to me. “Brooklyn is such an interesting name. Are you named for the borough? Do people call you Brook?”

“Well,” I began, “most people call me-”

“Sylvia, don’t badger the girl,” Mr. Winslow said with a hearty laugh. “Let her get back to work.”

Sylvia laughed and patted my arm. “I don’t mean to pester you.” She glanced at her daughter. “Meredith, please don’t slouch.”

“You’re not pestering me at all,” I insisted with a smile. “It’s a pleasure to talk to you.” I glanced at Ian to make sure he noticed all the happy kowtowing going on. “Please come by anytime.”

“It’s nice to see a young person with such focus.” She gave her daughter a pointed look.

Oh boy.

Meredith clenched her teeth. “We should let the working girl get back to work.”

“Good idea,” Ian said quickly.

Conrad rocked on his heels. “You do a good job and there might be a little bonus in it for you.”

I smiled at him. “That’s not necessary, Mr. Winslow. I’m just doing my job and I love my work.”

“Nothing wrong with being well paid for a job well-done, is there?” He winked. “I’ve found that money greases a lot of wheels.”

He laughed and I chuckled at his cheery candor. I didn’t mean it to be a private moment between us, but that was how he seemed to take it. And so did Meredith. Her eyes narrowed on me like a death ray. Not to be a wimp, but she seriously creeped me out.

I hadn’t noticed the other night, but up close, Meredith Winslow, despite her petite stature, had an almost predatory thing going on. Like a cat, but not a nice kitty. The tabloid press had often called her frivolous, a dumb blonde, but I had the distinct impression there was a lot more going on under those expertly highlighted tresses than most people gave her credit for.

Dumb wasn’t the word I’d use for Meredith Winslow.

Scary came a lot closer.

I supposed Meredith Winslow and I would never go shopping together, but Mr. and Mrs. Winslow were a couple of pips, as my dad would say. Nice, charming and nothing like what I’d expected, especially after overhearing that argument the other night.

As I began work on the
Faust
, first prying away the pastedowns from the cover boards, I recalled what I’d overheard of the Winslows’ conversation the night of the murder.

They hadn’t actually mentioned Abraham’s name, so maybe they’d been talking about someone else. But they’d definitely said something about a problem with a book. It had to be connected to their book collection and probably the exhibition.

Could they have meant Ian? I hoped not. The Covington Library had employed an entire crew to work on the Winslow collection. I could ask Ian for the names of everyone on staff, then talk to each of them. But why? Was this me, playing detective? Was this where Derek Stone would step in and call me an idiot for trying to flush out a killer?

“I’m not an idiot,” I grumbled, then realized I was gripping the knife handle so hard it was digging into my palm. I quickly relaxed my grip before I drew blood and broke one of the top ten rules of bookbinding. Don’t bleed on the books.

Maybe I could satisfy my curiosity by calling the police. Just to touch base, find out how the investigation was going. Unfortunately, I still had a few secrets of my own I wasn’t ready to give up, so how could I wangle information out of them if I wasn’t willing to spill my guts in return?

I couldn’t tell them about the Winslows’ conversation I’d overheard the night of the murder because I didn’t even know who they’d been talking about.

And there was my mother showing up at the Covington that same night and acting very strangely. I wasn’t about to mention that to the cops.

There was something missing from inside the Faust. But until I knew what it was, what could I tell the police?

There was the splotch of blood found on the cover of the book, wiped clean by none other than Derek Stone.

“A suspicious move on his part,” I added aloud, then made a note to follow up with Derek about whose blood it was.

I also hadn’t mentioned to the police that I’d found Anandalla’s cocktail napkin note in Abraham’s ransacked studio. But I didn’t know who she was or whether she had anything to do with anything. She could be Abraham’s accountant or his manicurist or someone equally innocuous.

Let’s face it, all I had were theories and maybes and possibilities. No wonder my head was spinning. I guess I wouldn’t be calling the police anytime soon.

The gilded eagle on the cover of the Faust stared up at me with its one good eye. Was it thinking I should get my butt back to work and earn my inflated salary?

“My salary is not inflated, and you’re not even a real bird,” I protested. But I picked up my brush and got back to work anyway. I worked page by page, using the stiff, dry brush to remove microscopic grains of dirt and film and making notes of any damage as I went.

The book hadn’t been stored well, but it wasn’t the worst I’d ever seen. I’d have to detach the signatures-the pages-from the spine and clean and resew them back together more securely. The front and back boards had come loose at the hinges and would need reinforcement. There was some mild insect damage on the tops of a number of pages. And I’d have to clean and reset the gems on the front cover.

I got up from my chair and tested the workroom’s double-screw book press to see if it was in workable condition. I would use it to hold the book, spine end up, to resew the signatures and do the gluing and possibly regild the spine titles and “make it look pretty,” per the clients’ orders. The screws on the press needed oiling, but otherwise, it was a decent piece of hardware. This type of press, with its two independent screws, was ideal for books that had suffered water and mildew damage because they were often bloated and uneven along the sides.

I studied the fanciful text as I worked. The book was written entirely in German, of course. I could make out a number of basic words, having spent two weeks skiing in Garmisch-Partenkirchen during college. Unfortunately, I didn’t see any references to swilling cheap German lager or extreme snowboarding, which I would’ve been able to translate impeccably. I made a note to buy a German dictionary and a paperback version of
Faust
and read Goethe’s version of the man who sold his soul to the devil.

The
devil.

My hands froze on the page as Abraham’s last words came rushing back into my head.
Remember the devil
. I felt a wave of dismay that I still didn’t have a clue what they meant.

“Knock, knock.”

“Oh!” I looked up and saw Conrad Winslow standing at the door. “Mr. Winslow. You caught me off guard. Come in.”

He was alone, thank goodness. I didn’t think I could take another round of dodge-the-poison-dart vibes with darling Meredith.

“I’m sorry, my dear.” He looked a little embarrassed as he walked in.

“That’s okay, I get lost in my work sometimes.”

“You must love what you do.”

“I do,” I said. “How can I help you?” It sounded obsequious to my ears, but as Ian had pointed out earlier, Mr. Winslow was the boss and kowtowing was the word of the day.

He stared at the
Faust
for a long moment. “It’s something, isn’t it?”

I smiled. “Yes, it is.”

With a shy smile, he said, “I’ve never been much of a book reader. Sports page and financial section are more my speed. So how did I end up with all these books?” He chuckled. “That is irony.”

“It just figures, doesn’t it?” I turned a page and ran the brush along the seam. “But it’s a beautiful collection and the Faust is fantastic.”

“Yah, well.” He looked around the room, then back at the book, not meeting my gaze. Then he stepped a few inches back from the table. “You’ve heard it’s cursed.”

I scribbled a note to myself about the foxing on the next page. “Yes, of course. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

He stared hard at me. “You don’t mind working on something that might kill you?”

My smile faded. “Mr. Winslow, that’s just a legend. A book can’t-”

“No legend,” he said firmly. “The thing is cursed. My grandfather was given the book and died of poisoning a few days later. It was passed on to my great-uncle, who barely had it a week before he died, crushed under a trolley. Two cousins met a similar fate. It is no legend.”

“But that’s-”

“They found one cousin swinging from a rope. He was not suicidal.” Mr. Winslow pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and swiped his brow. “Now Karastovsky’s dead because of it. I want to pull it from the exhibition before someone else suffers.”

“But you can’t,” I insisted, closing the book and stroking the rich, jewel-encrusted leather cover. “Look at this. It’s priceless, exquisite. It’s the centerpiece of your collection for good reason. It’s an extremely important work of art, both historically and aesthetically. You can’t pull it. It would be a crime to-”

“It’s just a book,” he said sharply. His German accent grew thicker and he jabbed his finger in the air for emphasis. “Do you want to die over a stupid book?”

I edged back. “Abraham may be dead but this book didn’t kill him.”

Easy for me to say.

He stared at me, looked at the book, then up at the ceiling, frowning all the while.

“Hell, you’re right,” he finally said.

I was?

He weighed his words before speaking. “Karastovsky called me the afternoon of the opening, said he needed to meet with me that night. Had something to show me. I told him I couldn’t make it.” He shrugged. “I didn’t like him, so I put him off.”

“You didn’t like Abraham?”

“No. A personality conflict, I suppose. And I overheard a shouting match between him and McCullough that sealed my opinion.”

Abraham and Ian had argued?

“What was the argument about?” I asked.

He frowned. “You don’t want to hear about that.”

“If it has anything to do with the books, I do.”

He wiped the edge of his hairline and let out a breath. “Karastovsky had taken one of my grandfather’s Bibles and put a new binding on it, a pale pink leather, and Sylvia was thrilled with it. But McCullough went ballistic. He told Karastovsky he hadn’t hired him to-” He stopped, gave me an apologetic look. “You’ll pardon the expression, ‘fuck up’ a priceless collection by throwing designer leather on everything.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yah, he was angry.”

“But Abraham was doing the Bible for your wife, right? It wasn’t part of the exhibition.”

“It was supposed to be,” he confessed. “It belonged to my grandmother.”

“I see.”

“Yah,” he said. “So that’s why we were all very happy when Ian told us you would be taking over the work. You have ethics and respect for books.”

“Thanks.” I took the compliment with a smile, but now it was my turn to be uncomfortable. This problem came back to the basic argument between Abraham and me. He’d never worked with conservation methods, didn’t really understand them or care about them. The conservation field was relatively new and he didn’t accept it, didn’t trust it.

When I’d told Abraham I was going for an advanced degree in the same field he’d worked his whole life, he’d sneered. I didn’t need a diploma to know how to bring a book back to life. But I’d gone ahead and obtained double master’s degrees in library science and fine art with an emphasis on conservation and restoration, along with a boatload of other certifications. Abraham, on the other hand, had learned the old-fashioned way, at his father’s knee in the family bookbindery in Toronto.

“Thank you for trusting me with your book,” I said. “But honestly, in spite of what you heard during that argument, Abraham was a consummate professional.”

“I still like you better,” he said, and winked at me. I knew he wasn’t really flirting, but it was a borderline “ew” moment, seeing as how he was Meredith’s father.

“Thanks,” I said weakly.

“Well now, I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he said genially.

“Not at all.”

He pulled out a business card. “I want you to call me if you have any problems.”

“Thanks. I will.”

He nodded. “I think you’ve got the right attitude about this whole ‘curse’ business, so I’ll get out of your way and let you get back to work.”

“I enjoyed talking to you,” I said, surprised to realize I meant it.

“Then you’ll do me another favor?”

I paused, wondering what bomb he might drop this time, but then nodded. “Of course.”

“Don’t put a pink cover on the damn thing,” he said with a wink. “It might make the ladies happy, but the book lovers will swallow their dentures.”

I laughed with relief. “No pink covers, I promise.”

“And one more thing.”

“Sure.”

“Be careful, my dear.”

The next time I looked up, it was five o’clock. I’d worked for four hours straight. I dropped the dry brush on the table and rolled and stretched my fingers to ease the cramping, then raised my arms up and rolled my shoulders to work out the tightness. It was already dark outside and I knew I was probably one of the last ones left in the building. I packed up my tools and found a security guard who took the
Faust
for safekeeping.

I stepped outside and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. I glanced around warily, then pulled my jacket tight and ran to my car.

Rather than sit in traffic, I had the taxi driver drop me off at Larkin and Beach and I walked a block over to the Buena Vista. Cabbing it to Fisherman’s Wharf on a Friday night solved two problems for me. I wouldn’t have to fight for a parking place and I’d avoid the idiocy of drinking and driving.

But speaking of idiocy, I wondered if I was nuts for hoping to find the unknown Anandalla, based on a flimsy cocktail napkin note.

“Flimsy maybe, but intriguing nonetheless,” I maintained as I maneuvered my way along the crowded sidewalk, then had to cover my ears as a cable car rumbled down Hyde. It gained speed and clanged its bell loud enough to wake the dead and to alert the large crowd milling at the cable car turnaround a half block away.

Reaching the door of the Buena Vista, I stared in dismay at the standing-room-only crowd inside. Robin was going to kill me for bringing her into this madness. If I ever made it to the bar, I’d make sure to have a drink waiting for her when she showed up.

I forced my way inside and nudged people out of the way until I hit the bar. As the scents of chili and fried fish hit me, old memories poured in.

I was ten years old the first time I came here. My parents had brought our whole brood along to meet some Deadhead friends for breakfast. It was the Friday morning after Thanksgiving and we had so much fun, we insisted on making it a yearly tradition. Mom and Dad would perch at the bar, drinking Irish coffee and enjoying the fantastic view, while we six kids would pick a likely table and hover anxiously until the seated customers paid their tabs and left.

After a huge breakfast, we would pile into cars and drive out to the polo fields at Golden Gate Park where Dad and his friends and all the kids would play football for a few hours. After a few years of that, Mom and her girlfriends and my sisters and I got smart enough to pass on the football insanity and head instead to Union Square and the shopping insanity.

Within five minutes, I lucked out and grabbed a barstool. Two bartenders worked at each end of the long bar. They’d each lined up twenty Irish coffee glasses in the well of the bar. The show was about to begin.

I watched the tall, lanky bartender at my end grab a pot of hot water and move down the line, spilling hot water into each glass to warm them up. Then he quickly tossed the water out of one glass and dropped a sugar cube inside before passing to the next glass. His hands worked so fast, I could barely follow the action. After filling each glass with fresh coffee, he whisked a spoon into each one to dissolve the sugar, then added a healthy shot of Irish whiskey, followed by a large dollop of freshly whipped cream.

Classic.