I’d always considered myself a good judge of human character, but obviously my judgment was flawed. I’d actually spent time with and liked the killer. I rubbed my arms against the chills that skittered across my skin. Maybe I needed my head examined. Or maybe I needed my Vata-Dosha tweaked. Maybe when this whole nasty episode was concluded, I would take my mom up on the chakra cleansing day at the Ayurveda spa. I might spring for the deluxe mani-pedi while I was at it.
I shoved the personal grooming issues out of my head. I needed to call Inspector Lee. But first, I wanted the person who’d destroyed the life of my friend and mentor to suffer, just for a little while.
I owed that much to Abraham.
I searched my bag for the right business card, then stared at the name of Abraham’s killer for several long moments. Could I do this? Could I call this person, this killer, and actually sound calm and assured as I made my accusations?
I needed a minute.
I was scared, really scared. I wasn’t sure I could do it. I looked at my worktable. Pieces of Faust were scattered about, waiting for me to put them back together. Maybe if I worked for a while, buried myself in the book, I could trick myself into casually picking up the phone and making the call.
For courage, I opened a small bag of candy corn, then blocked out everything but the Faust restoration. The individual repaired pages were dry, so I pressed the text block together and stitched the signatures back together. I applied a coat of PVA glue to consolidate the text block. While that dried, I affixed the cleaned and polished black leather cover to the new boards.
This was what I’d needed. Busywork. Doing what I did best. Here, I knew exactly what to do. No questions, no mysteries.
When the glue was not quite dry, I used a hammer to pound the sewn ends and thus create a rounded edge to the spine of the text block. I put the block back into the press and added another thin layer of glue to hold the newly rounded shape. Then I added decorative black and gold silk endbands at the head and foot of the spine.
The glue would have to dry, which meant I could take a break. I glanced at the clock, then stared at the phone. It was now or never.
I sat at my desk, clutching the business card. I composed myself, then made the call. It went to voice mail, so I left a clear message. “I have what you’re looking for and I’m willing to hand it over for the small sum of two hundred thousand dollars.”
I felt like Dr. Evil. I should’ve demanded more, but since I was bluffing anyway, did it really matter? I checked my watch.
“It’s two o’clock, Tuesday afternoon,” I continued on voice mail. “If I don’t hear from you by six o’clock tonight, I’ll call the police.”
I hung up and immediately called Inspector Lee. Yes, I’d lied to the killer about waiting until six to call the police. My bad.
Inspector Lee wasn’t in. I didn’t feel comfortable talking to Inspector Jaglow, so I asked the operator to transfer me to Lee’s voice mail. I left another detailed message, telling her what I’d found and the name of the person I was convinced had killed Abraham Karastovsky and Enrico Baldacchio.
I hung up the phone, feeling a tiny bit guilty. Maybe I shouldn’t have teased the killer with my threat of blackmail, but I’d worked my way back to full anger. That bastard had killed my friend, killed Enrico, plundered and pillaged Abraham’s studio, broken into my home and ransacked my studio, destroyed Robin’s beautiful vase and knocked me unconscious. I had the right to demand some frontier justice, such as it was.
I made two more quick phone calls and had to leave messages both times. Where was everybody today? The first call was to Derek, explaining what I’d discovered and asking him to come by whenever he could. The other call was to my dad, telling him I was absolutely certain that Mom would be released later today.
Then I folded Gretchen’s letter, wedged it back into the wildflower book, and shoved the book back into place on the shelf.
Now there was nothing to do but wait for the phone to ring. I nibbled on noodles but I wasn’t really hungry. On any other day, that would’ve been cause for alarm, but today I was hyperaware of the source of my anxiety.
So I got back to work, first testing the glue on the spine. It was dry. Time to put it all back together.
Adjusting the Armageddon painting back into its pastedown/flyleaf position, and using Mylar and waste sheets to shield the pages from any excess glue, I rolled the text block onto the glued, refurbished cover boards and sealed the book.
I cleaned and polished the rubies until they sparkled with new life, then glued them back into place on the front cover.
It was gorgeous if I did say so myself. Next, I covered the jeweled front cover with a layer of protective foam, then wrapped the entire book in thin cloth and slid it between the plates of the book press for thirty seconds to seal the deal.
I would take pictures of the finished binding tomorrow. I hoped that someday I’d have the time to replicate the intricate design with its gilded royal crest and fleur-de-lis finishes. But in the meantime, the photos I took would be uploaded to my Web site with a detailed description of the work I’d done to complete the restoration.
The book itself gleamed in the fading light, a rare and beautiful work of art, but what it represented was tarnished and ugly. So much for its legendary curse. The curse didn’t exist-unless you considered arrogance, greed, fear and stupidity a curse.
The light in the studio had grown dim as I’d worked, so I turned on some lights. It was only four o’clock but the fog was rolling in. The phone hadn’t rung and my head was beginning to pound again.
I felt the painful lump on the back of my head, a dull reminder of the attack last night. I needed some aspirin and my stomach was growling. I’d left the bowl of noodles virtually untouched. My world was truly cracked.
Checking that the protective foam and cloth were still wrapped tightly, I secured the Faust between two pieces of smooth plywood and put a ten-pound weight on top. I would keep it wrapped and pressed overnight until the glue was completely dry and the aged black leather was securely fastened to the boards.
The restoration was complete.
I celebrated by sticking a piece of leftover pizza in the microwave, then popping two aspirins while I waited for the pizza to heat up.
Ten minutes later, the pizza was history and I was feeling more like myself, no longer suffering hunger pangs and now wondering whether it was too early for a glass of wine. Unfortunately, there was some pesky business to deal with involving a killer and the police, so sobriety was called for until further notice.
I was washing my dishes when the phone rang. I dried my hands and grabbed it on the third ring.
Conrad Winslow lost no time getting to the point of his call. “What the hell are you trying to pull?”
“Hi, Mr. Winslow.”
“You’re trying to blackmail me?”
“Abraham Karastovsky is dead and now I know why.”
“And blackmail is your way to handle it?”
“No, that was just a little joke,” I said, rubbing my head where I’d been coshed last night.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
My doorbell rang. I figured I had the killer on the phone, so I didn’t have a second thought about whipping the door open.
Sylvia Winslow stood there, looking fresh and elegant in a peach suit and matching heels.
“Hello, Sylvia,” I said. “This is a coincidence.”
“Hang up the phone,” she said, lifting her hand to reveal a small but lethal gun pointed directly at me.
“Uh, good-bye,” I said into the phone, and put it down on the desk. She followed me inside and nudged the door shut with her hip.
She glanced around. “You’ve cleaned the place up.”
“Yeah,” I said as I carefully backed away from her. “Some slob made a real mess of things.”
“You’re pretty funny for someone facing the wrong end of a gun.” She waved it for emphasis. “Give me the lett
er.”
“I don’t have it.”
“We both know you’re lying.”
“Why do you think I have it?” I backed up another step, closing in on my worktable where I knew I’d left at least one knife and several bone folders I could use as a weapon. Not that a flimsy bone folder would be much of a match against a gun. And I had no illusions that she wouldn’t use it, since she’d already killed at least two people.
“Because you left a clear message on my husband’s voice mail,” she said. “Must we play this game?”
“You screen your husband’s voice mail?”
“Yes, I do. Otherwise, nothing would be done on time or correctly.”
“Why did you kill Enrico?”
She sighed. “Why do you care? The man was a pig.”
“I’m just wondering what he did to you.”
“He stole from me.”
“You could’ve called the police.”
Her laugh was laced with contempt. “That was Conrad’s solution. Men.”
“Yeah, men are funny.”
“Brooklyn dear, just give me the letter.” She smiled tightly. “I might decide not to kill you if you cooperate.”
“Oh, right.” My heel grazed the leg of the stool. “I hand you the letter and you go your merry way. Why do I not believe you?”
“No, I don’t suppose you should.” She waved the gun in a blasé manner. “But can you blame me? I don’t like being blackmailed.”
“And I didn’t like seeing my beloved friend die in my arms.”
“Ah, your beloved friend, the blackmailer. You saw how far that got him and yet, here you are, trying the same thing.” She shook her head in disappointment. “Just give me the letter now and let’s be done with this nonsense.”
Staring at the gun, I could feel my knees shaking. I could barely swallow, my mouth was so dry. I backed up slowly. She wouldn’t kill me without getting her hands on the letter first, would she?
“Why should I give you the letter when you’re just going to kill me anyway? Besides, do you think I’d be dumb enough to keep it here in my house?”
“You’ll give it to me,” she said.
“But I don’t have it.”
“You’re lying. It’s what you all do. Lies and blackmail. Do you really think I’d allow my family to be blackmailed by the likes of you and that big ape, Abraham? How dare you try to ruin the good name of my family with your little scheme?”
“Actually, I didn’t intend to blackmail your family,” I said as I sidestepped the stool and eased my way back against the worktable. “I just wanted to make you squirm awhile until the police arrested you.”
“Do you think I’m an idiot?” she said with a hiss. Her cheeks were turning an angry shade of red. “You didn’t call the police. You’re a grasping, greedy bitch, trying to make money off the pain of others.”
“I take it Abraham tried the same thing.” I was stalling, leading her on, waiting for a miracle. To keep her talking was all I could think to do.
“He tried-and failed miserably.”
In Gretchen’s letter to her sister Sigrid, she’d bemoaned the fact that Heinrich was putting his own family in jeopardy with his grandiose schemes to save mankind. “Jews, Sigrid, can you make sense of it?” Gretchen had written. “He risks our lives to help Jews!”
Gretchen had gone to Heinrich, insisting that he stop. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be responsible for her actions. In the letter, Gretchen had suggested that the gardener’s shed held everything she’d need to complete a certain unpleasant but necessary task.
I’d Googled the details of Heinrich Winslow’s death and discovered that he’d died of arsenic poisoning. The date of his death was three days after the date of Gretchen’s letter. The poison was traced to a box of weed killer. Wikipedia claimed that Heinrich’s grieving wife and children went to live with her sister Sigrid in Denmark after his death.
Somehow, Gretchen’s letter had found its way into the secret pocket inside Faust. In my heart, I liked to think her sister Sigrid wanted the truth to be revealed someday.
“I guess it wouldn’t help Heinrich’s heroic reputation,” I said, “if the world knew his wife had been a cowardly anti-Semitic murdering bitch.”
“You think?” Sylvia said snidely. “Oh, I don’t blame her for what she did, but the world would consider her evil. My family’s honor and reputation would be ruined. We would be persona non grata everywhere we went. I can’t allow that.”
“No, that would be unacceptable. Much better just to kill off a few people and hide the truth.”
“Don’t patronize me,” she snapped. “The man didn’t care about his own family. He had to be the big hero, saving all those Jews.”
“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”
“What if he’d been caught? He would’ve been killed on the spot or sent to a camp. Gretchen would’ve been shunned, ridiculed, and left alone to raise four children. Or who knows? Maybe they would’ve sent her to the camps with him. He left her no choice.”
“But to kill him?”
“Yes, and good for her.”
“But she was still left alone anyway,” I said.
“But this way,” Sylvia argued, “her husband died a hero and a good citizen instead of being gassed to death as an enemy of the state. Her reputation was saved.”
“And reputation is everything,” I said.
“Despite what you and my daughter think, yes, reputation is everything.”
I straightened my shoulders. There was no need to be insulting, bunching me in with Meredith. But it was disappointing to know that Meredith was actually a pillar of dignity and honor compared to her mother.
“So if you already read the letter,” I ventured, “why didn’t you destroy it?”
Her nostrils flared like an offended little bull’s. “I didn’t read the letter,” she conceded as she strolled calmly through a patch of sunlight coming through the blinds. “Karastovsky read it over the phone to my husband, then demanded money.”
“And Conrad…”
“Panicked. He told me what the letter said and I told him to calm down. I had to take care of everything.”
“A woman’s work is never done.”
“Exactly,” she said with a sneer. “I called Karastovsky back and told him I’d bring the money the night of the opening.”
“But you didn’t bring money. Just a gun.”
“Right again,” she said. “That big, stupid ox. Did he think I’d allow my family to be shunned and ridiculed because some loathsome cobbler thought he could manipulate us?”
“Cobbler?”
“Oh, whatever.” She waved her gun hand impatiently. “You work with leather. Your hands are dirty. You’re low-class craftspeople.”
Craftspeople. Ouch.
Beyond the insults, none of this made sense. Abraham was wealthy. He didn’t need the money. Why would he resort to blackmail?
A thought sprouted and grew. According to Minka, Abraham and Enrico had begun a collaboration shortly before Abraham was killed. Had Abraham revealed the contents of the letter to Enrico? Had Enrico been the one to attempt blackmail, using Abraham’s name since he’d already burned his own bridges with the Winslows?
The scheme had Enrico’s name all over it.
I wondered.
“So, when you confronted Abraham with the gun the night of the opening, when you accused him of blackmail, what did he say?”
“He denied everything,” she said scornfully. “Said he’d never made the phone call, never demanded money. He whined and cried like a big baby girl. It was disgusting. I’m glad I could put him out of his misery.”
My hands bunched in fury. Abraham had talked about Enrico betraying a confidence. It had to be about Gretchen’s letter. I was virtually certain Enrico had found out about it and hatched the scheme without Abraham’s knowledge or approval. Which meant Sylvia had killed Abraham for no reason at all.
I could see the whole scenar
io clearly. Enrico had wanted to get even with the Winslows for cheating him out of his source of easy money. He really was a scumbag, but even he hadn’t deserved to die.
As she spoke, I continued to face her but carefully, gradually brought my arms back and leaned against the worktable. I reached farther back to feel around for a weapon. My fingers wrapped themselves around something long and thin. A bone folder.
“I assume you sent the guy with the snake tattoo after me.”
“Willie,” she said, and rolled her eyes. “He’s a little fellow who occasionally does odd jobs for me. Not all that dependable, but it was worth a shot.”
“Aren’t you afraid he’ll implicate you?”
“I give him little gifts and he’s thoroughly devoted to me,” she said. “Besides, he’s completely off his rocker. Who would believe him?”
She had a point. Then something else occurred to me. “Do you own a dark SUV?”
She gazed at her fingernails. “My housekeeper drives one but I borrow it occasionally.”
“And the rose on my pillow?”
She chuckled. “A tender gesture, wasn’t it? I overheard your gorgeous male friend telling you he’d call you ‘soon.’ ” She grinned. “Boy, if I had a nickel for every time I’d heard those words. Am I right?”
Was this girl talk? Was she kidding?
She sighed, continued. “You came home sooner than I expected, so I was stuck in your coat closet for a while.”
I was stymied and finally blurted, “How in the world do you know how to break into houses?”
“It’s a gift,” she said with a cocky grin. “I didn’t always live on Nob Hill, you know. I grew up on the streets, learned to survive. Otherwise, I would’ve died out there.”
I clutched the bone folder more tightly.
“Hey,” she said, taking notice of my movement. “Back away from the table.”
I took a step closer to her, then threw the bone folder. It was absolutely useless as a weapon-but very effective as a diversion. Sylvia screamed and pulled the trigger at the same time. The bullet went wildly off course. We fell against each other and I pushed the gun away. She grabbed my chin and raked her nails down my neck.
“Ouch!” I knocked her back and reached for the gun. She tried to aim it toward me, but I grasped hold of her wrist and we fought for power.
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