Ripped From the Pages (25 page)

Derek sensed my unease, and we left as quickly as we could, leaving Gabriel to watch
Elizabeth’s every move and keep Trudy safe. If anyone could multitask under those
circumstances, it was him.

*   *   *

A
melia’s memorial service took place the following day in the tiered theater side of
the town hall, opposite the exhibit hall.

Robson had been hoping that Trudy’s memory would return by then, but the poor woman
was still at a loss as to what had happened to her companion and friend. But since
the sheriff had released Amelia’s body and the funeral home had gone ahead and performed
the quiet burial—with just Trudy, Robson, Elizabeth, Gabriel, Derek, me, and my parents
in attendance—Robson decided not to wait any longer to hold the larger memorial service.

It wasn’t a religious ceremony but a simple and sweet memorial to a woman who was
known by very few of us but who nevertheless had left an indelible mark on Dharma.
There were several lovely short speeches, including a few words from Annie. A string
quartet played in the background.

At the last minute, we had tried to track down any possible relatives of Amelia’s.
Trudy was unaware of any and expressed the
belief that the woman was alone in the world. Amelia had been an only child, she said,
and Trudy was fairly certain that both of her parents had been as well.

“I never saw her write a letter to anyone,” Trudy had said. “She never called any
family.”

It was sad to think that the woman had no one who would care that she was alive or
dead. But that wasn’t really true. She had Trudy. And I was pretty sure that Trudy
was the reason why most of the town had gathered together to give her friend a decent
send-off.

“She died a hero, saving Trudy’s life,” Robson stated in his eulogy.

It was true. There was no better way to say it. But as I listened to his words, guilt
rained down on my soul. I had been so ambivalent toward the woman. She was finicky
and judgmental and always scowling at me, and I had no idea why. Was she jealous of
Trudy’s time or affection? Or was she just a sourpuss? I guessed it was both.

Glancing around the tiered assembly room, I spotted Trudy sitting in the first row
and found Elizabeth in the seat next to her. A quick chill tickled my spine at that
sight, but then I spied Gabriel seated directly behind the two women. He was clearly
taking very seriously his job of guarding Trudy. Mom and Dad were sitting with my
two brothers and Robin a few rows down and over from me and Derek. China and Savannah
were seated together nearby.

Seeing my brother Jackson reminded me of his odd disappearance that day at the exhibit
hall when I was about to introduce him to Elizabeth.

I leaned over and whispered to Derek, “We need to talk to Jackson.”

He nodded. “As soon as this is over.”

I smiled, glanced around, and found myself staring right at Detective Hannah Parrish
from the Sonoma County Sheriff’s
Department. Her smile was a lot less friendly than the last time I’d seen her and
I quickly looked away. Then I had to try and remember exactly when I’d seen her last.
I recalled seeing her at the press conference, but I also had a vague recollection
of seeing her at Trudy’s house the day Amelia was killed.

Was she annoyed with me? Did I say something strange while under the influence of
painkillers? I would have to make a point to talk to her after the service. I didn’t
need a local cop focusing her anger on me.

I continued to wonder why she was so annoyed. Though to be fair, I seemed to have
that effect on police officers.

*   *   *

“M
s. Wainwright.”

I turned and looked directly into the eyes of Detective Parrish. Again.

“Hello, Detective. Can I offer you some crudité? Or something a little heartier?”

We were standing in the attached dining hall where an abundance of savory food and
delectable desserts was always served after events.

“No, thanks.” She looked around. “Everything looks great.”

“We know how to throw a party, even when it’s a sad occasion.”

She seemed uncomfortable, but I didn’t know if it was the surroundings or me, specifically.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about the day you were attacked.”

“I remember seeing you there. It’s a very foggy memory, I’m afraid.”

“I can understand. I’m sorry you were hurt.”

“Mine was the least of the injuries that day.”

“Indeed. I was hoping to hear from you before now.”

“Oh. I thought you got all my information from Derek. Derek Stone.”

“I asked him to have you call me.”

“He might’ve said something, but I was probably still out of it and didn’t follow
through. I apologize.”

She seemed to relax a little as she reached for a carrot stick and took a bite. “No
worries. Can you tell me what happened?”

I related everything exactly as I remembered it, and exactly as I’d told Derek before.
She listened and nodded and crunched on her carrot stick.

“Mr. Stone said that you heard the floor creak?”

“That was my only warning. I thought it was Amelia, but it wasn’t.”

She nodded again. “I appreciate your help. I may call you again to ask more questions,
if you don’t mind.” She pulled a business card from her jacket pocket. “And if you
remember anything else, please feel free to call me.”

“Thank you. I will. I’m sorry again that I got my wires crossed.”

Detective Parrish smiled and walked away. I stared after her, wondering where she’d
received her training. The cops in San Francisco never would’ve been so polite or
nonjudgmental. I always felt as if I were being put through the wringer with the city
cops, and right now, I almost missed the feeling.
Almost
.

I was crossing the hall to get a glass of juice, when I caught a glimpse of Annie
bringing in another tray of desserts. I detoured over to help her.

“Hi,” she said, setting the tray down on the table and spreading the individual tart
plates across the table. “You’re looking a lot better than you did the last time I
saw you.”

“Thanks,” I said, laughing. “That was a whole two days ago.”

“Hey, you were wearing pajamas.”

“I clean up well.” I helped her move plates around so she could fit all the tarts
on the table. “These look so good.”

“I’ve had two of the apricot tarts, so I can promise they’re fabulous.”

“How have you been?” I asked.

She glanced around the crowded room, gave me a look, and whispered, “You mean, ‘How
was your date?’”

I laughed. “Well, now that you mention it, yeah. How was it?”

“You’re such a bozo,” she said, shaking her head. “I didn’t think I would like him
because of you.”

“What do you mean? I told you he was pleasant.”

“You made him sound like a snoop. Like he might go prying into my underwear drawer
or something.”

“I never meant that.”

She laughed. “I know you didn’t. And I realize he’s a reporter, but you’re right—he’s
really pleasant and very attractive and seems pretty interested in me.” She smiled
shyly. “We’re going out again tomorrow night.”

“I’m glad,” I said, and meant it. “I want you to be happy. And as I already said,
I like him. It’s just that . . .”

“I know, I know.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s a reporter.”

I grinned. “Exactly.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, picking up the empty tray. “I won’t divulge any of your deep,
dark secrets.”

I smiled indulgently. “If only I had any.”

*   *   *

L
ater that afternoon, once the memorial service and reception were over, Derek and
I tried to find Jackson, but he had disappeared again. We swung by the vineyard offices,
but he
hadn’t checked in. We even made the long drive up to his house, but he wasn’t home.

Giving up the search for now, we decided to stop by Trudy’s to visit and commiserate.
Robson had arrived a few minutes before us, and shortly after we got there, my mom
and dad walked in. Mom was carrying her briefcase, so I had a feeling we’d be witnessing
another purification ceremony at some point. I had no problem with that. It would
be fun to see her work her magic on someone besides me. And any little ritual that
would help Trudy cope with the loss of Amelia was okay with me.

I was happy to see Elizabeth doting on Trudy. I had to admit I liked the woman, although
my suspicions prohibited me from getting close to her. I seriously hoped she had nothing
to do with the attack, but we wouldn’t know for sure until Derek’s facial recognition
people were able to figure out if she was anyone other than who she claimed to be.

Derek had managed to take a good picture of her during the memorial reception earlier
and had instantly texted it to his assistant at his office in San Francisco. She would
forward it to their London office, and he was certain we would hear back from them
within a few hours.

Mom and Dad had brought some of the leftover desserts and several bottles of wine
from the reception, so we had a little commemorative party in Amelia’s honor. Mom
worked her magic, conducting a wonderfully bizarre cleansing ceremony that made Trudy
laugh and cry, declaring it the most life-altering thrill ride she’d ever experienced.

But none of it shook up Trudy’s memory, and I wondered if she would ever recall the
face of the person who’d tried to kill her. Or even if she should try. Because maybe,
just maybe, her amnesia was all that was keeping her alive.

The first thing I saw on my phone the next morning was a message from Claude from
my chat room. He included his translation of the first paragraph of Marie’s letter
and apologized for taking so long.

“If you send me the rest,” he wrote, “I can probably get it done within a day or two.
Last week you caught me in the middle of a three-day continuing education class. OMG!
Boring!”

Claude went on to explain that the language was exactly as he’d thought, mainly a
combination of schoolgirl medieval French and Chouadit, the long-extinct Jewish language
he had mentioned in our first chat room talk.

I wrote down what he’d translated. The first few sentences were the usual chitchat
and news sent to a friend concerning different family members, the weather, and her
health.

As I looked at the original letter, I was reminded that it was written by Marie, Guru
Bob’s grandmother, to Camille, who was Marie’s sister-in-law and Trudy’s mother. I
hadn’t paid much attention to the date when I first saw the letter, but now I did.
It read
4 April 1946
, and I realized its significance.

Jean Pierre Renaud’s ticket for passage on the ocean liner was dated April 12, 1946.
So this letter was written the week before.

I assumed that both women were living in Sonoma with their husbands. According to
Trudy, they and their families had all moved here from France during the war. They
probably didn’t have telephones at the time, but they couldn’t have lived far from
each other. Why didn’t Marie simply ride her bike over for a visit? Was there something
in the letter that couldn’t be said out loud?

The last sentence Claude translated was troubling: “Oh, dear
sister, I have witnessed something so terrible that I’m almost afraid to tell you
about it, but I must get it off my chest.”

I wanted to know what Marie had seen. What was so terrible that she had felt the need
for a confession of the soul?

I showed the translation to Derek and voiced my thoughts.

He sipped his coffee. “There must be something in this letter about Monsieur Renaud.”

“Shall I send Claude the rest of the letter?”

“Absolutely,” he said. My face must’ve betrayed my fears, because he put his cup down
and wrapped his arms around me. “Are you afraid your friend Claude might be Amelia’s
killer?”

Derek really did know me much too well. Yes, my brain had actually considered that
very idea before dismissing it.

“No, of course not,” I said. “And when you say it out loud, it sounds even more ridiculous.”
I pressed my cheek against his chest. “But the timing is still disconcerting.”

He leaned back and tilted my chin up to meet my gaze. “If it means anything, I am
absolutely certain that your chat room friends are not responsible for Amelia’s death.”

“I know you’re right,” I said, pouting a little. “Claude lives in Indiana and can
barely afford to take the bus, let alone fly out to California to go on a killing
spree.”

“There, you see?” He smiled, but then sobered up to add, “I hope it hasn’t escaped
your attention that if someone in the chat room did kill Amelia, you would be in even
more danger now.”

I thought about that for a few seconds. “But I’ve never seen any of them in person.”

“But they would know you,” he reasoned. “They would have to get rid of you because
of the chat room connection. You would be a threat to them.”

“I suppose that’s true.” I shook my head in defeat. “Luckily it’s too ridiculous and
convoluted to contemplate, which means you were right in the first place.”

“I never tire of hearing that.”

“Fine, I’ll say it once more. You were right. It was a ridiculous theory. But it was
a fun one.”

“Oh, fun. Absolutely.” I had a feeling he was trying not to laugh. “If you want my
opinion, I say you should go ahead and send Claude the rest of the letter and find
out its contents. If nothing else comes of it, it’ll be an interesting bit of ephemera
for Robson’s library.”

I smiled at his use of my bookbinding and conservation terms. “Good plan. I’m going
to scan the letter and send it to Claude. Then I’ll join you for breakfast.”

“My heart awaits your presence.”

“Such a funny man.”

His handsome grin was so rakish, I might’ve sighed a little as I hurried off to take
care of sending the letter to Claude.

*   *   *

T
alking about Monsieur Renaud reminded me that I still hadn’t dealt with the ownership
issue of
Journey to the Center of the Earth
. So after breakfast, I took a quick drive over to Robson’s home to show it to him.
Since it was his grandfather Anton who’d written the pledge on the back flyleaf, I
figured the book belonged to Guru Bob as much as to anyone. I wanted to ask him if
he would like me to rebind it or simply refurbish it and leave it as close to the
original as possible.

I had a feeling I knew what his choice would be, and I was right. He preferred to
have it spruced up, but he wanted it to remain in the same basic condition as when
his grandfather read it as a boy. I promised I would simply clean the gutters, tighten
the text block, and replace the flattened bands on the spine. The endpapers were still
beautiful, and the flyleaf with its remarkable
pledge in his grandfather’s blood would naturally stay as I’d found it.

An hour later, I was home, packing up my satchel in anticipation of spending the day
in Abraham’s workshop. I wanted to take Charlie with me, but since Derek was working
from home today, I left her to play with him and Maggie.

As I strolled down the hill to the workshop, I marveled at how quickly I had grown
to love the darling creature. And by that I meant Charlie, not Derek. Although he
was darling as well, and I loved him more than I thought possible. They were both
awesome and wonderful. My little family. And if I daydreamed about adding Maggie to
the group, it was only because she was such a sweetie pie with so much love to give.
The Quinlans were lucky to have her.

I walked into Abraham’s workshop and sniffed the familiar scents, and felt at home
once again. Now that I had Robson’s approval to work on the
Journey
, I wanted to get it done right away. I pulled it out of my satchel and, setting it
on the worktable with my tools, felt a wave of sadness because of what had happened
to those two young boys who’d signed their blood pledge all those years ago.

At the same time, I was relieved that the book hadn’t been the cause of the tragedy
that took Jean Pierre’s life. I’d worked on too many valuable, rare books for which
people had willingly lied, cheated, stolen, or killed. This wasn’t one of those.

I took a quick minute to check on my medical books. Volume one was still in the book
press where I’d left it a few days ago. Its leather cover was completely dried and
looked fantastic if I did say so myself. The spine was ready to be gilded, but I wasn’t
sure I’d have time to do it today.

Back at my worktable, I pulled out my brush to continue cleaning the pages. But first,
I grabbed my magnifying glass to
give the Jules Verne book another close-up look. Even though the book had been battered
by the boys who’d read it over and over again, Robson didn’t want a new cover. I would
eventually apply some high-quality leather rub and leave it at that. But first I would
remove the leather and replace the six raised bands on the spine that had gone flat.
Once I had the leather cover pasted back on the boards, I would gild the titles again
and fill in where the gilding on the spine and covers had faded. I could also spruce
up the tattered crown and foot of the spine where it was splitting from that front
hinge.

Beyond that, a thorough sweeping of all the pages would finish the job. Then it would
be Robson’s to do with what he wanted.

I took another look at the back flyleaf where the boys had written and dated their
pledge in blood. I felt a twinge, wondering if they had bled for each other on more
than one occasion. I was sad to think that their friendship had ended in that cave
with Jean Pierre’s death. Had Anton mourned him always? Was he the one who walled
off the cave? Would we ever find out the truth?

I hoped Claude would be able to translate Marie’s letter quickly, because the suspense
was killing me. I had a feeling it might hold some answers to my questions.

I stared one last time at the faded rust-colored ink and shivered again. “Blood,”
I muttered. “Boys are gross.”

And thinking about gross little boys reminded me that we hadn’t tracked down Jackson
yet. There was no time like the present, so I pulled out my cell phone and pushed
his number.

“Hey, sis,” Jackson said upon answering. “What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you’d be around sometime tonight. Derek and I wanted to ask you
a question or two.”

I used Derek’s name in case he was inclined to balk. It was a sisterly thing to do.

“What’s this all about?” he asked, sounding ready to balk regardless.

I could’ve lied and told him it was something to do with the vineyards, but he wouldn’t
have believed me anyway, so I told him the truth. “We’re wondering if you know anything
about Elizabeth. That woman who’s visiting Trudy?”

“Why would I know anything about her?”

So male, really. He didn’t answer; he just asked another question. Which told me that
my brother knew something he didn’t want to talk about.

“Well, you were acting weird last week when I was about to introduce her to you. Remember
how you disappeared? And then you canceled dinner? And now we have a situation. . . .”

“A situation?”

It was just as well that he stopped me, because I was blathering, digging myself into
a hole. “Yeah. So will you be around tonight?”

Jackson didn’t answer right away, and I thought maybe he’d hung up on me. He was an
elusive guy, so I never knew quite how to deal with him. But he was my brother and
I loved him, so I was prepared to pester the heck out of him until I got an answer.

“Hello?” I said. “Are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, although I could hear the annoyance in his tone. I didn’t
care. I’d heard that tone in his voice all my life.

“Listen,” he said finally, “how about if you guys come by the winery tonight around
eight? We’re having a barrel tasting this afternoon, and I’ll just be finishing up
then. We can have a glass of wine and talk.”

“That would be perfect.” Better than perfect, I thought, because there would be wine.
“Thanks, Jackson.”

“See you then.”

He ended the call, and I immediately telephoned Derek to let him know what we were
doing that night.

*   *   *

I
spent the rest of the afternoon sweeping the gutters of each page of the
Journey
and then bringing new life back to the raised bands on its spine. I reattached the
leather cover and rubbed it with leather cleaner until it was gleaming.

Before I was ready to quit for the day, I took a half hour to cut and pare down the
leather for the next medical text cover. I also wrapped the text block in wax paper
and then packed up my bags to go home.

When I arrived, I found Derek working in the office with Maggie asleep at his feet.

I gave Derek a smooch on the lips and asked, “Where’s Charlie?”

“She’s dozing in my lap,” he said, wrapping his arm around my waist. “Otherwise I’d
have you sitting there.”

I laughed. “I’ll have to wait my turn.”

He glanced back at his computer screen. “I’m just waiting for one more e-mail before
I quit for the day. Then we can grab a bite to eat and go meet your brother.”

We decided on Chinese food and drove a mile outside of Dharma to the best Asian fusion
restaurant in the world—or in Sonoma, at least.

At eight o’clock, Derek parked in the winery’s lot, and we walked into its cavernous
bowels, looking for Jackson. The place was empty and the lights were dimmed. It was
obvious that the barrel tasting had been over for some time.

“Hello?” I called. “Jackson?”

“I’m over here,” my brother shouted from the other side of the warehouse-sized barrel
room.

The room was kept cool, and I suppressed a shiver as we walked past a dozen massive,
stainless steel vats that held thousands
of gallons of wine. We found Jackson standing against the far wall at a wine-barrel
table surrounded by three stools.

“Hey, Derek,” he said, and the two shook hands.

I gave him a hug and took a seat at the table.

Jackson grabbed the bottle. “I’ll pour you some of the reserve Meritage we were tasting
earlier.”

“Wonderful,” Derek said, straddling the stool next to me.

As he poured, Jackson gave a short lecture on the Meritage concept. The word was applied
when at least two grape varieties were blended together, as long as none of the varieties
made up more than ninety percent of the final merging. So it was a true blend, and
it usually included cabernet sauvignon and merlot grapes.

Meritage was actually the name of an association formed by local winemakers in the
Napa Valley back in the day, after many of them voiced frustration with the U.S. labeling
requirements and decided to form their own brand. They combined the words
merit
and
heritage
to create a name for both their new alliance and their new blending style.

“There’s more to it,” Jackson said, “but that’s enough for tonight. Let’s taste it.”

I took my first sip, rolling the dark red liquid around my mouth and tongue. “It’s
yummy.”

“That’s a technical term,” Jackson explained to Derek, who chuckled.

“It’s yummy indeed,” Derek said after his first taste. “It has a nice spiciness to
it. Also a hint of blackberry and . . .” He paused. “Mocha?”

“Yes!” Jackson said. “I get that, too. That’s probably from the barrel, but it may
be left over from the fermentation process.” He pondered the question as he took another
taste and gazed at the legs streaking down the side of the glass.