The Grim Reader

by Kate Carlisle

I was disappointed that Clyde’s author visit had been cancelled tonight, mainly because I had relished the thought of dragging Derek to a séance. Derek, on the other hand, was pleased to have a quiet night to ourselves.

  Who was he kidding?

  Through no particular planning on our part, we ended up with a houseful of people that night, along with a massive amount of food. I called it our pre-festival festival. We had chicken, spicy wings, more pizza, and six different side salads. There was more wine than I could have ever thought of drinking in a lifetime, but that was normal.

  We had invited Vinnie and Suzie, who put Lily to bed in the nearest guest bedroom off the kitchen; Gabriel and Alex, who had returned for the weekend; Austin and Robin, who had concocted her own “signature cocktail” for her pregnancy, something with fancy soda water, lime juice, and a splash of bitters over ice; Presley and Annie, who was just happy she wasn’t going to have to clean up this mess; and Jackson and his new love Elizabeth, although they’d known each other for years. And her name was actually Elisheba, aka Elise. It was a long story.

  I had invited China and London, too, but my sisters were both too busy to attend, what with last-minute play rehearsals and costume changes. Our parents had been invited but they had chosen to spend the evening playing cards at my parents’ house. I knew they would probably have a better time with just the four of them. They could talk about their kids.

  My work on the book was almost finished so I put it away and joined my friends and family members. Most of these were people I didn’t get to see very often, like Elizabeth who had saved Annie’s life last year. And Robin. And Vinnie and Suzie, too, even though they lived across the hall from us in San Francisco. These days we only waved at each other when we passed in the hall on our way to the elevator. We were all so busy, so this was the perfect time to catch up on all of our lives.

  I moved from group to group, refilling wineglasses—and one soda water—and joining in on conversations. Robin had pinned down Vinnie and Suzie to pick their brains about child-proofing their home.

  “But how do you manage to keep Lily safe with all your deadly chainsaws and flying wood splinters?” Robin wondered. She was a sculptor herself, with a big studio off the kitchen where she kept a lot of potentially dangerous tools and equipment.

  “We have child-proofed the entire house,” Vinnie assured her. “And we clean up everything at the end of each day.”

  “We thought about renting a studio,” Suzie said, “but we would’ve brought Lily with us every day anyway, so what was the point?”

  “So we soundproofed the living room and continue to work there, and we’ve turned Lily’s bedroom into a little girl’s fantasy playroom.” Vinnie beamed. “She can spend hours in there and she knows that we are nearby.”

  “And that works?” Robin asked.

  “Oh yes,” Vinnie said.

  Suzie added with a grin, “And then there’s the gate we installed across her door.”

  Vinnie nodded. “The gate is most essential.”

  I laughed and moved on to another group, then noticed Alex and Elizabeth standing alone by the fireplace. I wandered over and was surprised to hear the two women quietly sharing tales of their exploits as intelligence agents in the most dangerous parts of the world.

  I stopped to listen to their fascinating stories. After a minute or so, they realized I was close by. They exchanged a look, then said in unison, “Now we’ll have to kill you.”

  I held up the bottle. “But I have wine.”

  “Then you may live,” Elizabeth said, and held out her glass.

  I rolled my eyes and filled their wineglasses. The two women were always a lot more circumspect when discussing the details of their old covert operations, so I stared from one to the other with suspicion. “What were you really talking about before I walked over here?”

  “Sorry, Brooklyn.” Alex smiled. “We saw you coming.”

  Elizabeth grinned. “Alex was sharing her latest cupcake recipes with me. Listen to these.” She pulled a piece of notepaper from her pocket. “The first is a lemon meringue cupcake with lemon curd and real meringue on top.”

  “Oh my,” I whispered reverently. “Lemon meringue pie is a favorite of mine.”

  “Mine, too,” Alex said. “So these are like eating lemon meringue pie cake.”

  “My mouth is watering.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “The other recipe is for pumpkin spice latte cupcakes.”

  I turned an accusing glare to Alex. “You’ve never made those for me.”

  She laughed. “I’m still experimenting.”

  The evening broke up shortly after that, but I was not surprised to learn that there were other cupcake fanatics in my circle of friends. As everyone was slipping into their coats and pulling on warm hats, I overheard Annie offering Alex a contract to make cupcakes every week for her kitchen store.

  That would be one way to get Alex to visit Dharma more often, I thought. And it would sure make Gabriel happy. I was too tired to join in the conversation, but I made a mental note to encourage Alex to say yes tomorrow.

  I went to bed way too late, but very happy.

  The next day, the festival participants were invited to decorate their booths. I spent a few hours hanging posters of rare books and enlarged photos of the books I’d made in the past. In one corner I hung a replica of the large kite I had created for the Covington Library Children’s Museum display. For the book festival version, I had used handmade paper that resembled tie-dyed cloth, and hung it from the steel pole that ran across the top of the booth. It made a fun statement, for sure.

  I laid two colorful tablecloths over the utility table and set up a mini-bookshelf on top with some of my reference books that I’d be using for my book appraisals and for my book and wine pairings presentation.

  Under the utility table I had three plastic bins that held all of my bookbinding supplies for the children’s book arts demonstration. Any child that participated would take home a really cute accordion book that they’d made themselves. It was easy to do and a good way for parents to take a break while their kids were having some paper art fun.

  Tucked inside the plastic bins were also six different bottles of wine that I would use during the Friday book and wine pairings for visitors to sample. Since I was scheduled to do one of these presentations each day, I still had twelve more bottles waiting back at the house for Saturday and Sunday.

  Besides the Dharma police officers patrolling the festival grounds, Robson had hired ten extra security guards from the Fellowship to help with crowd control during the day and to keep everything safe and secure overnight. I hadn’t left anything of real value in the booth, except the wine, of course. But I wasn’t too concerned, since a number of booths were being used by vendors from the local wineries who had boxes and wine refrigerators filled with bottles that they would be pouring from all weekend. My little stash was nothing compared to those guys.

  I went home to finish the Little Women book with time to spare. I had completed all the work on the interior of the book and only had to clean up the cover.

  If the cover had been leather, I would’ve been able to use a light leather cleaner or a leather consolidant that would improve hardness and eliminate cracks. But since this book had a cloth cover, all I could do was use a short, stiff, dry brush, working it into the joints and along the edges of the illustration to scrub away the years of dust and grime. It was surprisingly effective.

  The colorful illustration of the four sisters had been done on thick, coated vellum, and to this I applied a very thin oil that brightened it nicely. And when I placed it behind the beveled frame of the book cloth, it looked absolutely brand-new.

  Thrilled with my efforts, I brought the book and supplies back to the house and readied everything for my big festival adventure.

  With nothing else planned that night, Derek fin
ally got the quiet evening he had wanted. We had a blissfully uneventful night watching TV while we finished the leftovers from last night’s party and played with Charlie before going to bed.

  * * *

  • • •

  The night passed without a panicked phone call waking us up, thank goodness, and we woke up early to a glorious sunny day in the wine country. The air was cold and clear, but the sun was bright with the promise of a warm afternoon. Festival days were finally here!

  I awoke with a feeling akin to Christmas morning—despite the memory of two grisly murders in the last few days. I knew it was book-geeky of me, but I was really excited to get out to the festival and get that potty started.

  Derek had made coffee and warmed up some scones from his mother, so we ate lightly—if you didn’t count two scones each and all that butter and jam and the mock Devonshire cream that I whipped up. Delicious!

  Then we headed out to the festival grounds to get ready for the onslaught. They were predicting at least five thousand visitors this weekend. It helped that it was almost time for the grape harvest and the leaves on the trees were turning every wonderful, warm, rustic shade of autumn. It was a beautiful time to be in Dharma.

  Mom would be driving with Dad and Robin and Austin, so for once, Derek and I weren’t playing security guard for her. I knew she was just as relieved as we were. Still, there was a killer on the loose, so once we got to Berkeley Circle, Derek planned to keep a watchful eye on her. We had alerted Austin and Gabriel as well.

  Mom and Meg had dressed up their psychic booth with colorful posters of Tarot cards and a palm reading chart. Silk material hung from each corner to the center of the booth, giving the space a lush, romantic feeling. Happily their booth was directly across the Green from my own, so I would be able to keep an eye on them. The rest of my family planned to stop by often, too.

  I settled into my booth and laid out the supplies for the children’s accordion books. I had room at the table to teach five kids at a time, and since I had already cut and folded the paper, cardboard, and ribbon, I estimated that each group would only need about twenty minutes to make their little books.

  I was pleased to see that the Dharma Winery booth was close by, as well. I waved to Dad and Austin and promised I would stop by if I could get away. Likewise, Robin promised to take over booth duties for a half hour each day so I could check out the other vendors and maybe do some shopping. She also assured me that she would bring me sips and snacks once in a while. I had a feeling I would need the fortification.

  * * *

  • • •

  For all the preparations that Mom and her committee had gone through to make the festival a success, I couldn’t believe that we pulled it off—and still managed to have a wonderful time. Friday was a madhouse and Saturday was even busier. But I loved it. For three days we welcomed thousands of visitors who wandered the festival grounds, chatting with booksellers and authors and vendors. They bought books and goodies and paraphernalia, drank wine and nibbled on snacks, and occasionally just sat and enjoyed the wonderful weather. They partied and listened and walked and laughed and learned a few things.

  Each day I had a few dozen kids making little accordion books in my booth. They loved these cute little books that expanded like an accordion when the ribbon was untied. Adults loved them, too, and they were remarkably easy to make.

  I appraised ten to twelve books a day and many of the book owners went away happy. I had to disappoint a few, though, who thought that their beloved books might be a rare and wondrous find. Too often their treasured leather-bound book club editions were not as valuable as they’d hoped. I assured them that the book’s real worth was in its sentimental value. There were some unhappy faces, but most of my visitors took the news with good humor.

  But there was one book that caught my eye and piqued my interest. It was a pristine copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, the British version of J. K. Rowling’s first book in the series.

  “Where did you get this?” I asked the young man who had pulled it out of a small brown shopping bag.

  He grinned. “My father was on a business trip to England and heard about this book, so he bought it for me. He always used to bring me a little gift when he was on one of his business trips.” He chuckled. “He traveled a lot, so I figure he was feeling the guilt.”

  “That’s a nice dad you have.”

  “He’s pretty cool,” he admitted. “He’s retired now and he lives with me so I get to see him all the time.” He glanced across the Green. “He’s checking out the kitchenware booth. He likes to cook.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “Yeah. Especially since I can’t cook to save my life.”

  Welcome to my world, I thought. I opened the book to the title page and verified that this was a first edition copy. I checked the strength of the inside hinges and carefully glanced at a few pages to see how well the paper had aged.

  “You must’ve been pretty young when he brought this home,” I said. “How did it stay in such good shape?” Children were notoriously hazardous to the health of books.

  “Dad used to read a few pages to me each night, then he’d put it away on a shelf. He’s a real booklover, so he wouldn’t let me get my hands on it.”

  Smart dad, I thought. “Have you had this book appraised before?”

  “No. I would never sell it, but I heard that you’d be doing these book appraisals so I thought I’d check it out.”

  I knew the book was valuable but I wasn’t sure how much it might be worth so I took a quick look online. A minute later I glanced up at him. “Are you ready?”

  “Yeah.” He grinned. “Should I sit down?”

  “Maybe. Because it’s in such good condition, it could be worth at least fifty thousand dollars and maybe even as much as a hundred thousand.”

  “Whoa.” He blinked, muttered his thanks, and stumbled away to find his dad.

  Another satisfied customer, I thought with a smile.

  A lot of the people who stopped by my booth were quick to comment on Vinnie and Suzie’s giant book sculpture. I was so happy that Mom had commissioned them to create something so perfect for our first annual festival and I knew she would make sure it was stored properly so that we could use it every year.

  From my booth, I could hear the childish laughter and applause for the acts performing on the children’s stage in the middle of the Green. Robin finally came by to relieve me for a few minutes and I was able to stroll around and enjoy the energy of the crowd. I checked out Annie’s kitchenware booth and bought a book called Cooking for Dummies. Perfect for my level of expertise.

  When I returned to my booth, Robin jumped up. “I’m going to run over to Becky and Meg’s booth to get my palm read.”

  “Okay, but no running. Not in your condition.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” With a smile, she saluted and took off.

  I watched her cross the Green and that was when I noticed the line of people streaming out from Mom and Meg’s psychic booth. There had to be at least thirty people waiting to get their fortunes told!

  Our moms’ booth was ridiculously popular. Mom deserved all the success she could get after what she’d been through lately. And I gave myself a little pat on the back because I had predicted that the psychic booth would be a real crowd pleaser. It helped that my mother and Meg were such delightful psychics in their flowing robes and with such positive energy. I would have to ask for a private palm reading next week.

  Meanwhile, back at my booth, I jumped right into my book and wine pairings. It was fun to see the reactions of the people who listened as I read a paragraph from a selected book and then tasted the wine I’d paired it with. Most were simply astonished at how well the wine went with the literary passage. I had to laugh because my choices were completely subjective and whimsical—for instance, I paired a chilled Viognie
r, with its soft start and sweet-citrusy notes, with Jane Austen’s Emma. Why not? It had to be the power of suggestion that made my choices seem fitting and reasonable. Or maybe I was really onto something. Um, no. It was just fun.

  I’d had postcards made up that listed the books and wines I’d paired together, and I handed them out to anyone who wanted them. Not so coincidentally, all of the wines I’d chosen were from Dharma Winery. I mentioned this to my father who thought that was a brilliant ploy, but when I told him I expected a kickback, he laughed himself silly.

  * * *

  • • •

  Saturday night in the town hall gallery room, we held the official festival cocktail party and silent auction. I walked from item to item, checking out the lists of names of all the people anxious to bid on the items.

  Many of the items were book related, of course. There were a number of baskets of books by the same authors and a few baskets that included things like a pretty bookmark and tea and cookies and warm socks or a snugly blanket for cozying up with a good book. Some baskets combined wine and books, which appealed to me, naturally. I added my name to a few of those lists.

  There were several copies of Little Women being auctioned off. I looked at the numerous names on the bidding sheets and figured a lot of people wanted a nice copy of the official festival book to take home. One of the copies was nicely bound in leather with lots of gilding on the spine. It looked expensive, but it actually wasn’t. This was another one of those book club editions I’d had to deal with in a few of my appraisals earlier that day. They were pretty and nicely bound, though not particularly rare or aged. I hoped the new book owners would be happy when they learned that they’d won.

  Clyde’s copy of Little Women was placed on a sturdy wooden bookstand with a sign that said “please do not touch.” I smiled, knowing that plenty of people would try to touch it anyway. There were only a few names on the bidding list and the bids they’d offered were very low. Without thinking too much, I added my name to the list with a bid of forty dollars. I knew it was worth a lot more, so I promised myself I would make out a check to the literacy organization later. But I didn’t want to write down too much money on the bidding list in case someone was looking for Lawson’s copy.