The Lies That Bind (6 page)

Suzie shrugged. “Can’t blame you for that.”

I sat on the edge of the cushy chair across from Suzie. “But Layla wasn’t even in her office, and then I ended up saving Minka’s life.”

“Wow,” Suzie said. “Bad luck. For her, I mean. Because, you know, she owes you big-time now.”

“She doesn’t owe me anything.”

“Yes, Brooklyn, she now owes you her life,” Vinnie explained. “This will not make her happy.”

I made a face. “No kidding.”

“No good deed goes unpunished,” Suzie warned. “She’s about to make your life a living hell.”

Vinnie patted my shoulder in sympathy. “May the gods have mercy on your soul.”

I rubbed my forehead, where a headache was blossoming to life. “Yeah, thanks for that.”

The following night, I arrived at BABA early, determined to pin down Layla first thing. I was still worried about her and I hadn’t slept well. I wondered what she would think about my idea of buying back the
Oliver Twist
. She might laugh in my face. Maybe I would just keep my mouth shut. Layla could ruin someone’s reputation with one perfectly tweezed eyebrow raised at just the right moment.

But I knew I couldn’t keep my mouth shut about the book.

I drove around the block twice before I found a parking place three blocks away. When I walked inside BABA, I found out why the area was so congested.

It was happy hour. The central gallery was packed with people partying, laughing, and drinking. A full bar was set up along the far wall and guests were grabbing wineglasses as fast as the two bartenders could fill them.

It was the kickoff cocktail party for BABA’s Twisted festival. I’d completely forgotten. This exclusive, by-invitation-only event was being held for BABA’s major donors, the movers and shakers who contributed so heavily to Layla’s coffers all year long.

I knew this event had been on the calendar for months, but it still seemed tacky to be throwing a party the night after someone was viciously attacked. I wondered, not for the first time, if Minka was still in the hospital or if they’d sent her home already.

The noise level was set at shrill, thanks to the rock music being piped through the sound system. Was it my imagination or was every man and woman in the room wearing black? They all looked artistic and wealthy and skinny. It was odd to be the most colorful person in the room in my navy jeans, white T-shirt, and moss green jacket.

I recognized some familiar faces. These were the San Francisco elite, the same people I’d seen barely two months ago at the Covington Library’s gala opening of the Winslow Exhibit. The night my old friend Abraham Karastovsky had been murdered.

It made sense that the same people who supported the Covington would be BABA patrons and donors. They were all book lovers. I just wished I’d remembered about the party tonight. I would’ve dressed a little better.

Looking around, I wondered how many people in this room knew a woman had been assaulted down the hall just twenty-four hours ago. My guess was not many.

I had no doubt that this was another subject about which Layla would prefer I kept my big mouth shut.

“Yoo-hoo, Brooklyn,” someone cried.

I turned in time to receive a fierce hug from Doris Bondurant, an old friend of Abraham’s.

“Doris,” I said, taking in the subtle scent of her Chanel No. 5. “It’s so good to see you.”

She grabbed hold of my hand. “How are you, my dear? I haven’t seen you since Abraham’s memorial service. A very unhappy day, I must say.”

“Yes, it was,” I said. “But it was wonderful to see you there.”

“He was a good friend.” She squeezed my hand tighter, then let it go. “And since then, I must admit I’ve been so distracted, I haven’t gotten around to giving you the books I want you to restore for me.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Why don’t I call you next week and we can arrange a time to meet?”

“Good girl,” she said, patting my arm. “Now, what’s going on in your life?”

Doris was a petite, wizened but feisty eighty-year-old, with a grip stronger than a truck driver’s. She was one of the wealthiest women in the city, but down-to-earth and approachable, although I’d seen her pull the diva act when the situation warranted it. She laughed at my thirty-second recap of my excellent adventures in Scotland, then frowned as the lights dimmed behind me.

“Oh, dear, what is this now?” Doris murmured.

I turned and followed her gaze to the center of the gallery, where a pin spotlight was aimed at a podium and microphone setup.

Layla walked up to the podium, wearing a white off-the-shoulder spandex sex-kitten top with skintight black toreador-style pants. She wore all that with four-inch-spike-heeled black ankle boots. Her blond hair was piled high atop her head, except for several strands that had escaped to twirl coquettishly around her neck.

The crowd closed in, blocking our view.

“She’s too damn old to be dressed like that,” Doris groused. “And I’m too damn short. I can’t see a thing over this crowd. What’s going on, Brooklyn?”

I bit back a smile at her grumblings. “Looks like Layla is going to speak.”

“I was afraid of that,” she said dolefully.

Two men flanked Layla, but both were in shadow. I couldn’t see their faces but she clutched their arms tightly and gazed up at each of them as though she knew them intimately. Then someone moved in front of me and I caught a glimpse of the man standing on Layla’s right side. He was tall and powerfully built, with a ruddy complexion and sandy hair. Now I had a better view of Layla, too. Lucky me. She moved close to the microphone and the crowd hushed.

“I’m
tingling
with excitement,” she said, her voice sultry as she rubbed up against the sandy-haired man. She pretended to shiver with delight, which made some of the crowd laugh and cheer.

“Oh, she’s impossible,” Doris murmured.

I wasn’t a prude, but I heartily agreed. I hated that she used sex to stir up the crowd, and I hated the crowd for sucking it up. She made everything sound so icky. These were book people. Weren’t they supposed to be smarter than the general public? I was severely disappointed in my people.

“It’s my
extreme
pleasure,” Layla continued, “to welcome to the Bay Area Book Arts Center the
incomparable
Gunther Schnaubel.”

As applause rang out, I had to admit I was excited. Gunther Schnaubel was the world-famous Austrian artist who’d been commissioned to create a series of lithographs to commemorate the
Oliver Twist
anniversary. The lithographs would be auctioned off at the big party on the last night of the two-week-long Twisted celebration. I hadn’t realized the artist himself would be on hand for the entire week. Maybe Layla had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

I didn’t want to go there. I was a Gunther fan, but if Layla kept rubbing up against him, I might change my mind.

Schnaubel acknowledged the applause with a brief smile and a wink for Layla, then waved to the audience. I couldn’t help but notice he had huge hands. It was an interesting contradiction that many male artists who did finely detailed work had such large hands. I’d once seen an exhibit of exquisite miniature portraits done in the Regency style, and when I met the artist, I stared dumbly at his large hands. A woman standing near me had winked and slyly confirmed that the man’s other parts matched in size.

In Gunther’s case, the theory appeared to be true, as well. He towered over Layla and looked to be made of solid muscle.

Meanwhile, Layla was still talking, explaining to the crowd how the silent auction would benefit the nonprofit Book Arts Center and also allow several scholarships to be given to underprivileged high school students who showed artistic promise.

She listed a few of the items that had been donated to the silent auction by both wealthy contributors and vendors who supplied paper and materials to BABA. Then she returned to the subject of Gunther Schnaubel.

“I don’t mean to
gush
, but if you could all see how beautiful Gunther’s . . . mm,
lithographs
are . . .” She cast another lascivious glance at his well-toned body. “Well, all I can say is . . . cha-ching!”

Over the roar of the delighted crowd, I could hear Doris make a
tsk
sound as she shook her head. I had to agree this was a “
tsk
-able” moment.

But Layla was on a roll. “And we’re doubly—no, triply honored that Gunther has agreed to conduct three short hands-on demonstrations of his patented lithographic technique, and attendees will walk away with your own piece of artwork. And I do mean ‘hands-on,’ ladies.”

The ladies and a few men tittered excitedly.

I checked my watch, then touched Doris’s arm. “I’d better try to get through the crowd. I have to teach a class tonight.”

“Good luck, dear,” she said, looking around at the wall of people. “This reminds me of the time we crossed the Serengeti. I believe I’d rather take my chances with the wildebeests.”

I laughed and promised to call her next week to discuss her books. As I inched my way through the crowd, Layla continued speaking, describing the highlights of the week, especially the closing night celebration. She named a celebrity chef who would prepare the menu, an award-winning winery owner who would select the wines, and the many spectacular items available to bid on at the silent auction that night.

“For instance,” Layla said, “just to whet your appetites, we have a first edition, 1922 quarto of James Joyce’s
Ulysses;
some lovely, rare Hemingway ephemera contributed by our own Zachariah Mason; and of course, the jewel in the crown and the raison d’etre of our Twisted festival, an exquisitely bound,
extremely
rare, 1838 first edition of Charles Dickens’s
Oliver Twist
.”

I stopped in my tracks, wincing at her announcement. Even though I’d made her think I would play along with whatever lie she wanted to put out there, it was grating to hear her actually announce the lie to a crowd of this size. For a moment, I had the worst urge to walk right up and call her bluff. Of course, I would be kissing my job good-bye, but it was more than my job at stake. If I defied Layla, I could kiss my reputation good-bye, as well.

I hated her for that.

There was another round of applause; then Layla held up her finger and the noise died down quickly. “And I know some of you will be enchanted by a
naughty
little 1887 British photography journal that contains
scandalous
nude photographs of members of Parliament cavorting with the ladies of Queen Victoria’s court. That’s right. We’re not calling our festival Twisted for nothing, and I expect you all to be extremely
generous
with your bidding.”

The crowd’s laughs and whistles seemed to energize her and she licked her lips. More cheers and hoots rang out. Everyone seemed excited and happy.

Well, almost everyone. I happened to catch Naomi and Karalee rolling their eyes at each other in obvious distaste. I couldn’t blame them, but they probably needed a reminder to be more discreet around this crowd.

And didn’t that make me sound like Sister Mary Responsibility? Sometimes I really hated my inner disciplinarian.

Looking around for a way to move past the tight-knit group in front of me, I spotted my three librarian students near the front door. They appeared stranded and confused, until Marianne spotted me waving. She waved back and I knew they would make it through the crowd eventually.

Skirting yet another group of partygoers, I listened as Layla’s speech drew to a close. She thanked a few of the biggest benefactors, then introduced Alice Fairchild.

“Alice, are you out there?” Layla glanced out at the audience, looking for her protégée. “Alice is BABA’s newly appointed assistant director, and I’m thrilled to have her with us. Alice?”

I scanned the space but couldn’t see her. Maybe she was in the ladies’ room.

“Yes, I’m here,” Alice called finally, sounding resigned.

I craned my neck and spied her standing next to a ficus tree in the corner. I wondered if she’d thought about hiding behind it. She sounded so stressed, I had to smile in sympathy. Was there some medication she could take to calm her nerves?

“Alice is just a bit shy,” Layla said, her tone surprisingly maternal. “But I’m confident she’ll do a fantastic job.”

As the crowd applauded politely, I eased my way around the last group standing between me and the south hall. From here, I turned to watch Layla wrap up her speech. And that’s when I saw Cynthia Hardesty dragging her husband, Tom, into one of the empty classrooms. She looked angry enough to spit nails and he looked clueless as she shoved the door closed. Had she caught him drooling over Layla again?

As I watched Layla from this vantage point in the hall, I could finally see the other man standing at Layla’s left side, as he turned to survey the crowd.

I gasped.

The crowd burst into applause just then, so no one heard me wheezing as I rushed into my classroom, slammed the door, and sagged into a chair.

I couldn’t catch my breath. My ears buzzed and my stomach wrenched dangerously. I was going to be sick. I needed to move, get away, but I was frozen in place. I began to panic and had to fight not to pass out.

I knew the man standing next to Layla Fontaine. Or I thought I did. Now I wasn’t so sure. They were standing so close to each other that Layla’s hawklike talons had embedded themselves in his thousand-dollar coat sleeve. They were so close that she had slipped her leg between his. So close that, as I watched, she’d reached out and groped his excellent butt.

The man with the excellent butt was Derek Stone.

Yes,
that
Derek Stone. Was there any other?

God, he looked good. He appeared even taller than I remembered and his dark hair had grown a bit in the last four weeks. Four weeks and three days, to be exact. That’s how long it had been since I’d seen him at the Edinburgh Book Fair.