The Book Stops Here (11 page)

Derek chimed in. “You mentioned that these things started occurring six months ago. Is there a woman you rejected or broke up with six to eight months ago?”

“Oh, there are legions.” But Randy quickly shook his head. “No, absolutely not. I flirt a lot, but everyone around here knows I’m not serious.”

“Some women are a little more desperate than others,” I said, having known a few of them. “And some can be downright delusional when it comes to men. One of them might’ve gotten the wrong idea from your casual flirting.”

“That’s disturbing,” he muttered.

“What about Angie?” I said, regretting that I had to bring up her name. I’d grown to like the feisty stage manager.

“Angie?” Randy was taken aback at first, but then started to laugh. “No way. Absolutely not. We pretend to have a contentious relationship, but it’s all in fun. She’s actually my . . . she’s a very good friend.”

I hoped he was right. Even though he’d insisted earlier that his stalker wasn’t a woman, he could be mistaken. So many stalkers I’d read about in the news were of the opposite sex.

“Wait a minute. Maybe Garth can help us,” I said brightly. “He came running through the studio, so he might’ve noticed someone sneaking away.”

“Good thought, darling,” Derek said. “I’ll talk to him.”

I had a feeling that over the next few days, Derek would be talking to every last person who worked at the studio. He wouldn’t take it lightly that I had been attacked twice in one day. I couldn’t help but love that about him.

•   •   •

“B
rooklyn?”

I turned and saw Frannie, the production assistant, standing a few feet away. “Hi, what’s up?”

“There are some people asking for you in the guests’ hall.”

Who knew I was here? I was tempted to hide. Yesterday I had been accosted in the parking lot, had been nearly squashed to death by stage flats, and had discovered that a stalker might be running loose in the studio. What new and exciting horrors would this day bring? “Do you know who they are?”

“No. Should I tell them you’re not available?”

“No, I’ll go see what they want.”

I followed her outside and across the parking lot to another studio on the lot that was being used as a holding area for all of the guests who came every day with their antiques in tow.

I walked inside and glanced around at the crowd.

“There she is! Yoo-hoo, sweetie!”

“Mom?” I laughed and rushed over to the slim blond woman in the rainbow skirt and crocheted vest and grabbed her in a hug. Then I noticed who was standing next to her.

“Robin? I can’t believe it.” I hugged my oldest and best friend tightly. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“It’s only been a month or so,” she said, laughing, “but I’ve missed you, too.”

I pulled them over to a group of empty chairs and we sat in a circle. “What are you doing here?”

“We were all so excited to see you on the news the other night,” Mom said. “And when I ran into Robin the next day, we talked about coming to visit you.”

Robin jumped in. “I had to drive into the city to take care of some business today, so we decided this would be the perfect opportunity to surprise you.”

“I’m so glad you did.” Could they hear the sheer relief in my
voice? I was so surprised and happy to see them, I’d forgotten to mask my ragged emotions. “Can you stay for a while? Please?” I glanced at the heavy shopping bag Mom was carrying. “What’s this?”

Mom leaned forward and said in hushed tones, “We figured we’d better bring something old so they’d let us in. So before we left Dharma, I ran over to Abraham’s workshop and grabbed a few old books.”

I looked inside the bag and felt my stomach drop. “Mom, that Hemingway is worth at least ten thousand dollars.”

She smiled brightly at Robin. “I guess that’s why they were so eager to let us stay.”

Robin and I exchanged amused looks. I had known her since we were both eight years old and loved her more than my own sisters. We’d met in Dharma when my parents moved there to be with their guru, Robson Benedict. Or Guru Bob, as we kids called him.

Robin and Mom could only stay for a half hour or so, but we still managed to catch up on all the latest news. Robin and my brother Austin were making noises about a possible wedding, but hadn’t set a date, much to my mother’s distress. My sister Savannah was starting to teach classes in vegetarian cooking at her popular Dharma restaurant and there was already a long waiting list to get in. My mysterious friend Gabriel was away from Dharma at the moment and the rumor mill had him on some clandestine operation in Southeast Asia. And, in more upbeat news, according to my father, the grape harvest would begin within a few weeks.

I told them about our new kitten and about our new neighbor, Alex, and I shared a funny story about one of Derek’s recent adventures. I mentioned a few of the fabulous books I’d appraised on the show, but I didn’t say a word about the attacks on me. It didn’t matter, though, because as they stood up to leave, my mother took
my chin in her hand and gazed into my eyes. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and began to mutter,

“Goddess, lend your help again,

Protect our girl from evil’s sin,

Give her strength to walk through fire,

Help her forge through muck and mire.

Many thanks and blessed be,

As I speak, so mote it be.”

She repeated the chant three times. Then she touched the middle of my forehead. “Om shanti, shanti, shanti.”

Peace,
I thought. I could use some. And, seriously, no one but my mother would break into a sacred protection spell in the middle of a crowd of two hundred people.

Her eyes opened and she gazed darkly into mine. “Did you think I wouldn’t be able to tell that something was troubling you?”

“No,” I admitted, smiling ruefully.

She glanced at Robin, who nodded once. I had a feeling the two of them had been talking about me. Great. Was this the reason they had shown up today? Was my mom now able to read my thoughts from two counties away?

But when Mom looked back at me, her eyes were clear and she was smiling. “You’ll visit us soon.”

•   •   •

O
nce I arrived home, I jogged across the hall to Alex’s and begged for yet another rain check. I hadn’t been able to make it last night because of my swollen jaw and the trauma of the falling stage flats. Tonight, I was simply too tired from my long day at the studio to enjoy an evening of wine and cupcakes with my new neighbor. And that was just sad. Derek was shocked, too, and probably a little disappointed that I wouldn’t be bringing a cupcake home for him.

Alex was gracious and willing to postpone our get-together to the following night. I ran back to my place and fell into bed.

The next morning, after a quick phone call to my parents to invite ourselves up to Sonoma in two weeks for the annual grape harvest, Derek went off to work. As he left the apartment, he assured me that he’d meet me at the studio around noon.

I spent the next hour cleaning and organizing my workshop. I would start working on
The Secret Garden
once I had Vera’s payment, so for now I wrapped the book securely in a white cloth and placed it in my built-in safe in the hallway closet.

The small closet was steel lined so the contents were safe from the elements, and the locking mechanism was the strongest one on the market.

Long before my building was converted to loft apartments, it had been a corset factory in the early 1920s. Back then, this closet had operated like a dumbwaiter. It held movable metal shelves that ran on ropes and pulleys, transporting supplies up and down between the floors. The airtight space underneath the metal floor panel was large enough to hold my important papers and emergency cash. It was also where I hid the most precious and expensive books I was working on.

An hour later, I drove out of the parking garage underneath my building and headed for the Richmond District and Vera’s shop. I was excited about picking up her check and getting started on the book.

I was also anxious to commiserate with her about the horrible man who had attacked me and threatened her. Maybe the police had picked up the guy and he was already in jail. I hoped so.

I zigzagged over to Van Ness and took the busy thoroughfare up to Turk Street. As I drove west, I made a mental list of the people I would suggest Vera call to obtain bids for the book. Ian McCullough was number one on the list, of course, and I thought
The Secret Garden
would be an ideal addition to the new Children’s
Book Museum. I owed Ian the courtesy of first refusal because he had been responsible for getting me the appraiser job on
This Old Attic
.

As I turned left onto Turk Street, I thought of another possible buyer. Joseph Taylor’s son, Hunter, had taken over his father’s bookshop after Joe’s untimely death a few months ago. The charming old shop on Clement Street catered to a number of wealthy book lovers, so Hunter might have a client who would be interested in
The Secret Garden
.

A mile later, I crossed Arguello Boulevard where Turk became Balboa Street. This marked the beginning of the part of town known as the Avenues, so named because starting near the east end of Golden Gate Park, the streets running north and south were named numerically. Strangely enough, they began with Second Avenue. The avenues went all the way west to Forty-eighth Avenue, a block from the ocean.

When I got to Nineteenth Avenue, I started looking for a parking place and found one a full block away on the opposite side of the street.

I waited for traffic to clear before jumping out of my car and locking it. I crossed at the crosswalk and headed to Vera’s shop, wishing I had an excuse to buy flowers. It would be a waste, though, because I would be going to the studio after I met Vera and chances were good that the flowers would be wilted before I got home.

In front of Vera’s shop, a narrow patch of sidewalk was lined with planters filled with blooming flowers in every color of the rainbow. Two small café tables with wrought-iron chairs had been placed in the center of the space for customers to sit and enjoy a momentary pause in their shopping day. The setup was charming.

A tinkling bell above the door announced that I had entered the small, colorful shop.

“Vera, it’s Brooklyn,” I called as I stepped inside. I glanced
around at all the intriguing floral arrangements and goodies and added, “What a pretty shop.”

I didn’t see Vera at the front counter, where the cash register was located. Behind the counter on the left side of the room was a tall, drafting-style table set up for cutting and wrapping bouquets of flowers. Rows of different-colored ribbons were lined up on dowels for easy access, and a large box of cellophane wrap was placed opposite the ribbons. Two pairs of scissors lay on the table, both tied with thick string and secured to the table through an eye hook screwed into the corner.

On the shelf below was a bright green canvas carrying case used to store gardening tools. It was spread open for easy access and eight pockets held different types of shears, a trowel, a small shovel, and other tools Vera probably used for potting plants and cutting thick stems.

One of the pockets was empty. I took that as a sign that Vera was off working on something.

On the right wall an industrial shelving unit contained rows of pots and vases in all colors and styles. The two bottom shelves held dozens of flower-themed knickknacks, garden gnomes, and clay animals.

A family of six green pottery turtles caught my eye. They descended in size from the papa turtle down to the baby, and I knew I had to buy them for my mother. She would love them for her vegetable garden.

The back wall held more shelves on either side of the doorway that was halfway open and led into some sort of storage room. The light was on and I could see rows of plastic buckets containing long-stemmed flowers waiting for the florist to bundle them together in colorful bouquets. There were sunflowers, delphiniums, cheerful gerbera daisies, deep red roses, white roses, and blue irises, along with several buckets filled with various types of greenery.

It occurred to me that running a flower shop, surrounded by beautiful plants and flowers every day, had to be a cheerful occupation.

“Vera?” I said loudly. “Are you back there? I’ve brought your invoice.”

There was no answer and I was starting to wonder if I’d miscalculated the time. I didn’t think so. I’d probably arrived just as Vera had dashed off to use the bathroom. Was there one in the back of her shop, or had she been forced to run over to another store?

I had a few minutes to spare, so I took the time to admire the flowers. There was a glass-covered, walk-in refrigerator case against the wall nearest the front door and I stared at the already-made bouquets that were waiting to be bought or delivered.

I was impressed with Vera’s flair for flower arranging. Some of the bouquets were Zen-like in their minimalism. One had a single bird of paradise emerging from a dish of smooth pebbles. Another massive display looked as if it might be a wedding arrangement: every flower was white or off-white, and the combination of pale shades was dazzling in its simplicity. I could identify many of the blooms because my mother, who had always had a garden, had drummed the names of the flowers into our brains. At least a dozen white roses mingled with pale baby’s breath, lilies, sweet peas, narcissus, anemones, and plump white peonies. White ribbon tied in a soft bow around the large, femininely curved vase completed the bouquet.

I glanced around to see if Vera had returned, and checked my watch. I was starting to get anxious.

“Vera?” I called again. “Are you back there? I have your invoice and I’d also like to buy these turtles here.”

There was no response. I stepped outside and looked both ways down the sidewalk, thinking she might have stopped to talk to another shop owner. I didn’t see anyone so I went back into her
store to check that back room. If she wasn’t there, I would leave a note to let her know I would try again tomorrow.