As the cats chased each other and their tails, I thought about last night at Abraham’s studio. I’d barely avoided meeting a murderer. He’d been there-whoever he was-carrying on a hasty search while I’d blissfully visited with my family a few hundred yards up the hill.
Creepy.
I couldn’t put a face to whoever it was. I wondered again whether he’d been looking for the same missing item I was after. Or was it something else? Had Abraham been hiding other secrets?
And speaking of secrets, I hadn’t told Derek Stone about the cocktail napkin I’d found with the scrawled note from someone named Anandalla. I wondered guiltily whether I should’ve told him, then shook my head. There were only so many sins I could deal with at one time. I’d tell him about the note later.
It wouldn’t hurt to stop at the Buena Vista tonight, chat up the bartenders and ask whether they knew someone named Anandalla. It was a long shot. I couldn’t describe her.
Did the cocktail napkin note even matter? Was I picking at nits? Possibly. Nevertheless, I was overcome by a sudden desire for Irish coffee. I could tag Robin to come with me if she didn’t have a date. She probably had a date. Fine. I could go alone.
Maybe Derek Stone was available. He seemed to have nothing better to do than follow me around, so why not include him?
“It’s not like it’s a date or anything,” I muttered aloud. “More like an outing.”
Pookie hopped onto the couch and gave my thigh a much-needed head butt.
“Come here,” I murmured, and settled the cat in my lap, where he proceeded to lick and groom himself. Splinters paced in front of my feet and meowed loudly.
“I thought cats were supposed to be aloof,” I said, scratching Pookie’s ear. “You’re embarrassing Splinters.”
Pookie apparently got the message because he leapt off the couch to rejoin Splinters in their chasing game. I watched them for another minute, chuckling and wondering if maybe I should get myself a cat. Then I caught a whiff of something horrendous and remembered I hadn’t cleaned out their litter box.
“Oh, mercy.” I grabbed a plastic bag, covered my nose and approached the offending box.
So maybe I didn’t need a pet right now.
As I walked back to my place, I realized my headache was gone. I packed leftover Chinese food for lunch, collected the tools I would need for the day along with some leather and paper samples, then locked up and took off across town.
When I got to the Covington, I headed straight for Ian’s elegantly masculine office to sign all the necessary papers to become an official independent contractor for the Covington Library.
“You won’t be leaving early today, right?” Ian asked, as he walked to a large Renaissance painting of a nude woman lounging on a bed and holding an orange shawl that did nothing to cover her lush body. He pulled the frame away from the wall, revealing a wall safe. “I’d hate to disappoint the Winslows two days in a row.”
“I’ll be here,” I assured him, then added lightly, “I guess they’re used to everyone kowtowing to them.”
He turned. “The Winslows are our largest benefactors, so it’s in our best interests to kowtow our butts off to make them happy.”
I grimaced inwardly but said, “Kowtowing here, boss.”
He smirked. “I like the sound of that. So you’ll stick around?”
“Of course, don’t worry.” But it still annoyed the hell out of me that the Winslows got away with making everyone bend over backward to accommodate them.
I shouldn’t have been so irritated, but after overhearing that suspicious discussion the night Abraham was killed, I couldn’t help feeling that they weren’t nice people. Had one of them killed Abraham?
I had to say, it gave me a warm feeling to picture Meredith Winslow spending twenty years or so in an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, cozying up to a great big gal named Beulah.
“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.
Chapter 8
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 secure
ly. 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.
Homicide in Hardcover Page 9
