Laughing at myself, I finished passing out glue brushes as the rest of my students arrived for class.
Since we’d missed Monday night’s class as well as half of last Thursday’s class when Layla’s body was discovered, I had to cancel the construction of this week’s miniature book and go directly to the larger journal. I did a quick recap of the basic nineteenth-century bookbinding techniques we’d covered last week. I promised my students that next week we’d move to the twenty-first century and have some fun.
“Tonight I’ll give you a quick background of eighteenth-century binding, but we won’t be doing any hands-on work in that style.”
“Why not?” Jennifer asked.
“A few reasons,” I said. “First and foremost, eighteenth-century bookbinding was all about the tools. You sort of had to wrestle a book into shape. This was the age of gilding, and the French predominated.”
I passed around some photographs showing different styles of gilding on book covers. “Some would say that if you’re studying eighteenth-century bookbinding, you’re essentially studying the work of Pierre-Paul Dubuisson, the French master bookbinder and royal gilder to Louis the Fifteenth. These are his works as compared to his students’ work. You can see who the master is.”
Without warning, Mitchell broke in with a tacky and slightly lewd Maurice Chevalier imitation. Something about an invitation to come up to his place to see his gilding.
The class burst into laughter.
“Thank you,” I said, laughing along with everyone. “Best offer I’ve had in weeks.” Sadly, that was true.
“I’ve done some academic presentations of Dubuisson’s work along with some comparative studies of his gilding designs vis-à-vis his students’. But I’ll spare you the details.”
“You don’t have to,” Alice said loyally.
“Thank you, Alice,” I said, and laughed again. “But I’ll just move on to our next book.”
Since I was leading them through the same steps we’d taken to make last week’s book, the students moved smoothly through the process with only a few reminders from me. It was just as well, because I was having a hard time staying focused. I was burning with curiosity about Naomi. Had the police arrested her last night?
The dinner break finally arrived and I dashed out to find out what had happened. I knocked on Naomi’s door and was almost surprised when she called out, “Come in.”
“You are here,” I said as I opened the door. “I was a little worried.”
“Oh, it’s you, Brooklyn,” she said with some disappointment. “What is it?”
Ooh, feel the warmth. Had she been expecting someone else to come knocking? I was amazed to see her sitting there as though nothing had happened in the last few days to change her life. But I was even more shocked to see her looking like such a fashion plate. She wore a peach jacket that suited her skin tone and fitted her small frame to perfection, giving her the look of a true professional. Her makeup was subtle and her hair curled softly around her face. The mouse had come out of her shell, to mix a metaphor.
“You look great,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said, and her expression softened a little. “What’s up?”
I stepped inside and closed the door. “This is sort of a sensitive issue, but Layla had a book with her the night she died. It was the Oliver Twist I restored for her. I’d like to buy it from you once the police return it.”
Naomi’s eyes widened-in fear? Or was that speculation? But her face calmed instantly and I was no longer sure what I’d seen. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what book you’re talking about.”
“Layla talked about it the night of the Twisted opening party, remember?”
“Sorry, can’t help you.”
My eyes narrowed. She flinched. What game was she playing? She’d had a bad week, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt and explained the book again. “Since the police took it in for evidence, you probably won’t get it back in time for the silent auction, so I’d like to buy it whenever you do get it back.”
She carefully exhaled. “Oh, yeah, I think I know the book you’re talking about.” She pushed her hair away from her face and set her jaw. “No. Sorry, it’s not for sale.”
I couldn’t tell what was going on in that brain of hers, but she was carrying the mini-Layla bit too far. My gloves were off now.
“Naomi, I did the restoration work on that book. I know it from cover to cover, and I can assure you, it’s not what you think it is.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about its market worth. It’s a truly beautiful book and worth a lot of money, but it’s not the rare first edition Layla pretended it was the other night.”
“Layla wouldn’t lie.”
I almost laughed. “Oh, please. Layla lied plenty. And this time she lied to a room full of wealthy BABA contributors and supporters. And she did it knowingly and willfully.”
“Stop it. I don’t believe you.”
I had to think for a moment. Naomi did wield some power at BABA, but I didn’t think she was capable of sabotaging my career like her aunt was. So I decided to plunge ahead with the truth. “I’m sorry, Naomi, but Layla was not being honest about the book. And if you continue her lie and try to pass it off as a first edition, you’ll get caught. Whoever buys it will find out soon enough what the book was really worth. Do you know how fast your funding would be cut off if your corporate sponsors found out about it?”
Naomi’s face was a sickly gray. She blinked rapidly and shook her head. “I can’t… it’s not…” She mumbled something incoherent, pushed away from her desk, and ran from the room.
“Well, that went well.” I blew out a breath and wandered back to the gallery, looking for someone else to browbeat.
“Hello, darling.”
Shock and pleasure overcame me. Derek was loitering by the bookshelf in the north alcove, thumbing through one of the many other copies of Oliver Twist on exhibit.
I slipped my arms around his waist and rested my head against his rock-solid chest.
“Ah, that’s lovely.” He wrapped his arms around me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Hoping to see you, of course.”
“That’s so sweet.”
“I’m a sweet guy.”
“But isn’t Gunther giving a class tonight?”
“Is he?”
“Very funny. That’s why you’re here.”
“Yes, well, I’d still rather see you.” He seemed reluctant to let me go and I was perfectly happy to stay right where I was. After another minute or so, he said, “No matter what happens, I’m taking you out tonight.”
“Are you?”
“I am.” He leaned his head back and frowned at me. “You’re not otherwise engaged, are you?”
“Do you care?” I asked.
His mouth twisted into a sexy grin. “Of course I care.”
I patted the lapel of his bazillion-dollar Savile Row suit. “Then I’m available.”
“I’m glad.”
We continued to smile at each other and I tried to put a name to the emotion running through me. I felt… happy. No, more than happy. Blissful. Complete.
There was that sappiness again. Really, I didn’t need anyone to complete me, for God’s sake. I was complete all on my own.
And how complete could someone else make me feel when I’d never even been on a date with him? Crime scenes, yes. But unless crime scenes counted as dates, I barely knew him.
And just how happy and blissful would I be when he left? Did I really want to open myself to the pain I would suffer then? Because he would leave. His home was six thousand miles away. He’d only been to San Francisco a few times on business.
But none of that mattered to my heart right now. Or any other parts of me, either. I didn’t know what was going on between Derek and me, didn’t know where we would end up, but I was tired of fighting against the tide. I just wanted to be with him.
<
br /> I rested my head on his custom-suited shoulder.
“Don’t ever play poker,” he said, brushing back my hair to nuzzle my neck.
“Why not?”
“Your face is an open book.”
I lifted my head and studied his face for a moment, then frowned. “I can’t read one word on yours.”
“That’s because I’m a highly trained operative,” he said, bending his head to graze his lips along my jaw.
I laughed. “Oh, Commander, does that line really work?”
“I believe it’s working right now,” he murmured, and kissed my neck.
After that exhilarating dinner break, I found myself racing through the second half of the class. There was more laughter and lots of questions. I tried to slow down, tried to be attentive to everyone’s needs, but I just wanted to get out of there.
I’d already given myself the lecture about appearing too eager, but let’s face it, that ship had sailed. Apparently, my heart was on my sleeve. Go ahead and call me an idiot. It couldn’t be worse than the names I’d already called myself, including fifty-seven kinds of stupid.
Somehow I managed to get through the class. I made sure everyone had someone to accompany them to their cars. For once, Mitchell wasn’t paying attention as he strolled off with the other two librarians, deep in conversation.
I straightened the room and walked out to the gallery. Derek wasn’t in the immediate vicinity so I checked the alcoves and the hallways, then wandered into Gunther’s classroom. It was empty. I could see lights on in the office wing so I ambled down the hall, thinking Derek might’ve struck up a conversation with one of the managers.
Naomi was the only one still around. She sat at her desk, pounding on a calculator and writing numbers on a sheet of paper. A single lamp illuminated the desk surface, leaving her face in shadow.
“Hi, Naomi,” I said.
Her hand jerked and the pencil slid across the page, leaving a dark mark. “Damn it.”
“Sorry to startle you,” I said.
She exhaled and I could see a frown appear on her face. “It’s okay. I thought everyone had left. Look, about the book,” she said, erasing the pencil smudge.
“Oh, we can talk about that later,” I said, glancing down the hall. I had bigger things on my mind than the Oliver Twist. “I’m looking for Derek Stone. I was supposed to meet him after my class.”
“Really?” Her eyes gleamed with intent. “He left awhile ago.”
I frowned. Maybe she misunderstood. “Derek Stone? The British guy? He left?”
“I know who he is.” Thump-thump-thump went the eraser. “He left with the police.”
I froze, unsure if I’d heard her right. Her thumping eraser was getting on my nerves. “The police were here?”
“Yeah. Oh, you must’ve been in class.”
“Right. So he left at the same time the police did?”
She chuckled scornfully. “Not exactly.”
I had to hold myself back from strangling her as my voice rose. “Then what, exactly?”
She stared up at me and I could see how much she loathed me at that moment. I guess maybe I’d laid it on a little heavy earlier, when I accused her dearly departed aunt of lying.
“The police took him in for questioning,” she said.
In shock, I had to force the word out. “Why?”
She made an exasperated sound and waved the pencil around. “Oh, come on, Brooklyn. You know, about his thing with Layla.”
My ears were starting to buzz and I felt dizzy. “What thing with Layla?”
She pulled a face. “What rock have you been hiding under?”
“I’m not sure.” My knees were wobbling and I grabbed the doorjamb. “Spell it out for me.”
Her smile was gloating. “Derek and Layla?”
“What about them?”
“They were having an affair, Brooklyn. Layla broke up with him. He carries a gun. You do the math.”
Chapter 14
Derek? Layla? Affair?
No, it wasn’t true. I staggered out of her office, then stopped and stared at the wall, trying to focus. But I couldn’t. I felt nauseous and my throat was so dry I couldn’t swallow.
I swung around and stepped back into Naomi’s office. She looked up and I caught a glimmer of triumph in her eyes. And in that moment, I knew she was fabricating the entire story. Evidently, the bitch strain ran deep in Layla’s family. I braced myself, sucked in a few deep breaths, and struggled to gain back some of the strength that had drained away a minute ago.
“You’re lying,” I said, taking another step into her office.
Naomi’s lips curved into a smirk. “Uh-oh, looks like Brooklyn’s jealous. So you didn’t know about the two of them?”
“No,” I said, more easily now. “Because there’s no such thing as the ‘two of them.’ ”
She licked her lips, an obvious clue that she was making it up as she went along. “Yes, there is.”
“I’m not sure why you’re lying to me, Naomi. Maybe because I threatened you earlier about the book. But right now I don’t care about that. I just want you to know that if you lied to the police about Derek, that book will be the least of your worries.”
“I’m not lying and it has nothing to do with the book.” She stood and walked around the desk, then sat on the edge. It was an imitation of her aunt, and even knowing she was lying, I wanted to smack that fake sympathetic smile off her face. “I’m sorry, hon. I guess you didn’t know. But it shouldn’t be such a big surprise. You know Layla would screw anything that moved. Of course, in Derek’s case, I couldn’t really blame her. He’s totally cute.”
“Cute,” I murmured, and wanted more than anything else to throttle her. All of a sudden, pictures flashed in my head of Layla gripping Derek’s arm that first night. Of Layla rubbing her leg up against Derek’s. Of Layla patting his backside.
And right then, I was immensely glad she was dead. I hated her. There, I’d said it. To myself, anyway.
Meanwhile, Naomi sighed dreamily. “Actually, cute doesn’t really describe Derek, does it? He’s more hot and sexy than just cute. And dangerous, you know? Wouldn’t mind getting some of that myself.”
The crass words were so incongruous coming from her mousy little mouth, I just shook my head. “You know, hon, I have no idea why Layla thought so little of you, because you’re so much like her.”
She gasped and her cheeks began to blotch. Guess I had struck a nerve.
I continued. “I’m sure if we call the police right now and tell them that you made a mistake, they’ll understand.”
“It’s no mistake,” she cried, and her lower lip popped out in a pout.
“Okay, you stick with that story, but I suggest you start looking over your shoulder, because something’s going to come back and bite you on the ass.”
With that, I walked out, grabbed my coat from the gallery rail where I’d draped it earlier, and ran all the way to my car.
The drive home was touch and go, emotionally speaking. I knew Naomi was full of crap, but my mind kept drifting into possible scenarios that could very well be true.
I thought back to the first night I’d met Derek at the Covington Library, the night Abraham died. Derek had been stalking the crowded main hall, an outsider observing the goings-on of the wealthy and influential people who filled the space. More than once I’d caught him frowning at me from across the wide room. Later, in Abraham’s workroom, he’d found me covered in blood and accused me of murder. It was a strange beginning to what had become a lovely friendship-and more.
But now I recalled that Layla Fontaine had been there that night. Had she and Derek met there? Maybe they’d attended Abraham’s show as a couple.
“Oh, shut up,” I muttered. Then something else occurred to me and I pounded the steering wheel in disgust.
Layla had been in Edinburgh for the book fair. Now I recalled several nights when Derek had been unable to see me. I hadn’t given it a second thoug
ht at the time. Why would I? I thought he had obligations at Holyroodhouse Palace. Now, I couldn’t be sure. Maybe he and Layla had been frolicking all over Edinburgh while I…
Oh, God, at this rate I would be insane before I got home. So I didn’t go home. Instead, I drove through the city, to Pacific Heights. I was feeling just perverse enough that driving up and down astoundingly steep hills might actually soothe my jumbled brain. Or at least give me something else to obsess over.
When I first moved to San Francisco, I considered it my civic duty to practice my hill driving. I realized after doing it a few times that it was actually fun in a strange and crazy way, and always provided a nice distraction.
Tonight, I had a breathless moment going up a treacherous hill on Filbert Street where I stalled out and had to alternate between the emergency brake and my fancy foot-pedal work. And prayer. It wasn’t pretty, but it was exhilarating and I made it to the top of the grade.
Because of all the one-way streets, I had to circle around, taking Leavenworth to Chestnut to Larkin before I was able to drive down beautiful, touristy Lombard Street with its absurdly winding turns, vivid pink hydrangea bushes, neat green hedges, and incongruous palm trees. The night was clear, and as I took the first turn, a carpet of city lights undulated toward the shining pillar that was Coit Tower standing sentinel at the top of Telegraph Hill.
With the next turn, I could make out the ebony surface of the bay. Many miles beyond the water, the vague outline of the Berkeley hills was silhouetted against the night sky.
At this time of night, there were only a few other cars making the descent, so I eased off the brake pedal and drove briskly around the two remaining sharp, twisting curves for which the redbrick-paved street was justifiably famous.
Years ago, when my parents had first brought us kids here, we piled out of the car and clambered down the stairs that lined both sides of Lombard. I’m sure we were shouting and pushing and laughing all the way. When we got to the bottom, we crossed and climbed up the other side of the street, stopping every few steps to turn and gaze out at the incredible view of the city, with the blue waters of the bay and Alcatraz Island beyond. I remembered thinking how cool it would have been to live in one of the houses that lined the crookedest street in the world. Now, as I drove down, I thought how awful it had to be to deal with the daily onslaught of tourists and the constant line of cars, the photographers, the screaming kids.
The Lies That Bind Page 16
