Buried in Books

by Kate Carlisle

  Frowning, Derek shook his head. “Everything about this situation smells fishy.”

  That was just what I had been thinking, too, darn it.

  * * *

  • • •

  That afternoon, I gave my bookbinding workshop. I arrived early to find the studio and was happy to see that it was perfect for my class. There were three long, wide lab tables with an ample number of stools for everyone who had signed up. I arranged supplies and equipment for each student with a cutting board, utility knife, bone folder, sewing needle, scissors, pencil, awl, a small glue brush, and a metal ruler.

  I had collected all this equipment over the years and used it whenever I had a class. Occasionally a student would show up with their own tools, but I was always willing to lend my own—as long as I was able to collect it all back when the class was finished.

  I also gave each of them three different thicknesses of linen thread for the various bindings I’d be teaching, a stack of high-quality, acid-free paper for the pages, and several pieces of heavy bookboard for the covers. The pages had already been scored for folding and the pieces of bookboard were cut to the correct size for each book.

  Once the students’ spaces were set up, I moved to the front of the room to set out my own supplies. On a side counter I placed piles of decorative papers for the endpapers and lots of interesting cloth remnants for covering the boards. I had brought a jar of polyvinyl acetate, otherwise known as PVA glue, that I had mixed at home yesterday. I planned to pour small amounts into disposable plastic cups for each student. Happily, the association had given me a stipend to cover the cost of these supplies since they couldn’t be reused.

  And then I waited.

  I had been giving this same bookbinding workshop for years at conferences and book fairs all over the world. I loved teaching this stuff. Sometimes I added more history and technique and stretched it out over an entire weekend. And once a year I offered a three-week intensive course at BABA that attracted artists and teachers from all over the Bay Area. But these short, two-hour classes were the most fun and generally attracted hobbyists as well as librarians looking forward to picking up a new technique or two.

  Even though this would be a relatively short class, my attendees would go home with four small handmade books representing four styles of bookbinding. It was fast-paced and enjoyable for anyone who loved books and crafting.

  In the back of my mind, though, was the nagging thought that one of my students might beg me to relate some grisly tales of murder. I wouldn’t do it, of course, but the fact that the subject had already come up during the bus tour concerned me. It didn’t help that my mother and Meg had fanned those flames. Still, I knew that Lucy from the registration desk, who had been so rabid about the subject, would be attending the class today, and that made my worry all the more real.

  The students trickled in, including Lucy, and finally I had my full class assembled and ready to go.

  I handed out name tags so I would be able to call on them by name. I took a few minutes to explain several different methods of bookbinding, such as Coptic, one of the oldest binding methods, similar to a chain stitch; Japanese stab binding, a good place to start since the pages are not made up of folded signatures but a stack of single sheets; and limp binding, which usually refers to a binding in which paper signatures are sewn onto cords and a soft cover is folded around the textblock.

  I dispensed some general cautionary advice along with a touch of history. And since my students were all librarians whose days were often filled with rescuing badly treated books, I also devoted a few minutes to some quick and practical tips and tricks of book repair and maintenance.

  Finally, I gave my inspirational mini-lecture on paper fibers and grain direction, followed by a dazzling speech about glue. And then we got down to making books.

  “We’re going to start with the accordion-folded book.” I held up a four-by-four-inch sample of a cute little book I had made a while back. It had a grosgrain tie that wrapped all the way around to hold the book together. I untied the ribbon and pulled the book apart and the accordion-folded pages expanded. To my surprise, the students applauded and I laughed. “I’m glad you like it, because this will be the easiest book we make today.”

  I re-tied the ribbon and handed the book to Priscilla, the student closest to me. “I’m going to pass this around. Please feel free to examine it, unwrap and wrap it up again. As you can see, the front and back boards are covered in beautiful, gold-tone fabric and the ‘endpaper’ is actually the first page of the accordion. When it’s closed, it looks like a nicely bound book.”

  “It’s like playing an accordion,” Priscilla marveled, as she pulled the covers apart and pressed them back together a few times. “Now I get it.”

  I smiled. “Keep passing that one around while we start making our own.”

  I had set aside thirty minutes to work on the accordion book project and most of the class came close to finishing. After promising to leave time at the end of the class to complete any unfinished work, I moved on to our next topic, the Coptic stitch. The best part of this bookbinding method was that it could be accomplished without using any adhesive.

  Essentially, the Coptic stitch was a series of chain-like stitches that held a set of folded signature pages together and bound them to the covered boards. Again, I passed around samples of Coptic bindings to illustrate exactly what we would be making.

  I had the librarians pick out fabric and endpapers before we started on the Coptic project since the front and back boards would need to be completed before the stitching began. I explained that this style was more complicated than it looked, but most of the students picked it up pretty quickly.

  “Have you guys done this one before?” I asked, teasing them. But they insisted they hadn’t.

  “You’re just a brilliant teacher,” one of them remarked slyly.

  “And you get an A,” I said, laughing.

  Halfway through this portion of the class, a woman named Amy raised her hand. “Has anyone else noticed that some of these tools could be really dangerous?”

  It was her tone that had my antennae perking up.

  “Yes,” I said lightly. “As I explained at the start, the utility knife, the needle, and the scissors are very sharp, so please be careful.” I tried for a nonchalant tone, but I could already hear a low-level buzz coming from Amy’s worktable. Was it just a coincidence that she was sitting next to Lucy from the registration desk? The one who had been so excited to hear about murder?

  Prepared for the worst, I strolled over to their worktable. “How’s it going over here?”

  “Amy brings up an interesting point,” Lucy said. “Don’t you think so, Brooklyn?”

  “Actually, I’m not sure what her point is.” I smiled at Amy, who was a pretty blonde in her twenties. “Can you repeat it for me?”

  The others at the table were looking anywhere else but at Amy. But Lucy seemed happy that her friend had brought up the subject. She was sweet and a little naive while Amy had more of an edge. She seemed ready for a confrontation, but I wasn’t sure why.

  “Here’s the deal,” Amy said breezily. “Not only do you find dead bodies everywhere you go, but some might say that you bring the vibe with you.” She held up the utility knife. “I mean, look at these tools. What else can we think when you simply hand them over to us?”

  I smiled, which wasn’t easy while gritting my teeth. “You could think that I’m teaching a class in bookbinding. These are the tools that a bookbinder uses to create a book.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Well, sure. But what if someone in here is really unhinged? You hand them a knife and it sends them spiraling and they end up hurting one of us. What happens then?”

  I glanced at Lucy but she would no longer make eye contact with me. I could understand that. Lucy had wanted to talk about dead bodies and all that fun stuff, but
Amy was off on a tangent about me and my “vibe.” And I didn’t know why. I was teaching a class on bookbinding and we were making little books. Pretty innocuous stuff if you asked me. But I supposed I had to address her point.

  “It’s a scary world,” I said carefully. “I try to make my classroom a safe environment, but these days there’s always a slight possibility that something dangerous could happen. But do you really want to have a philosophical discussion about that right now? Because I’m sorry to say it, but you’re disrupting the entire class and that’s really not fair.”

  “I thought it was a perfectly straightforward question.”

  “Actually, it was confrontational and mean-spirited.” I managed to smile as I said it. “As you’ll recall, at the beginning of the class I asked everyone to be very careful with the tools because I didn’t want anyone to hurt themselves. I offered to help anyone who needed assistance.”

  “Okay, fine,” she groused. “Sorry I even said anything.”

  So now she was being a martyr. I sighed. “Amy, if you’d rather not continue with the class, I’ll be happy to refund your payment.” I glanced around. “That goes for everyone else, too.”

  She grunted in disgust. “My friend said that people keep dying around you. It’s weird, that’s all. I wanted to find out why it’s happening.”

  “And I want to continue teaching this class. And since I’m in charge, I say we continue the class.”

  “But that’s not fair,” Amy whined.

  “That’s true of so many things,” I said, trying not to go completely snarky. I took another quick look at Lucy, but she looked like she wanted to hide under the worktable. Honestly, I hoped she was embarrassed. I didn’t enjoy feeling like I was under attack, especially when I was doing something I loved to do. I shifted my gaze back to her friend Amy. “As I said before, I’ll understand if you’d like to leave. Or you can stay and we can talk after class.”

  She blinked, clearly shocked that I had made the offer. “Really? Um, okay. I’ll stay and talk to you afterwards.”

  “Fine.” I exhaled slowly. “Then let’s get back to work. Where were we?”

  Someone at another table spoke up. “You were explaining how to attach the next set of signature pages to the textblock.”

  “Right. Thank you.” I walked back to the front of the room, taking more deep breaths as I went. That brief squabble had left me a little shaky, but I still had an hour left to teach these people two more bookbinding techniques so I straightened my shoulders and shook off the mood.

  I tried to maintain a light, cheerful tone for the rest of the class, figuring that I wasn’t the only one who’d been upset by Amy’s oddly hostile questioning. At one point, Lucy raised her hand. “I don’t want to bring up a sore subject, but you did mention that bookbinders use some dangerous tools. So I’m wondering if you’ve ever injured yourself while binding a book. And what do you do if you get blood on the pages?”

  I took a breath in and out. Okay, I could handle this. I had a fleeting thought that I should’ve asked Mom and Meg to attend the class. They would’ve had some answers and kept things rollicking.

  I smiled at Lucy. “Blood is a liquid, so that makes it an enemy of paper. It’s also bright red, so it will stain the page. Therefore, my only rule when it comes to getting blood on a book is, don’t do it.”

  The entire class laughed and Lucy smiled.

  By the end of the session, I was so relieved. As I was packing up my supplies, Lucy approached. I forced a smile. “I hope you enjoyed the class.”

  “I did. But I wanted to apologize.”

  “What for?”

  She sighed. “My boss took your Book Lovers’ Tour yesterday and she warned me not to bring up the topic of the murders. So I had already decided not to say anything. But Amy insisted on bringing it up. I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop her.”

  I nodded. “I appreciate that. Thanks.” I glanced around. “Did Amy leave?”

  “No, she’s still packing up her bag.” Lucy lowered her voice. “After you got back on topic, she was starting to feel pretty stupid. Some of the people at our table were giving her dirty looks, and I was so annoyed with her I ignored her for the rest of the class.”

  “I hope she’ll be okay.”

  Amy approached at that moment and waved her hand blithely. “I’m fine. I’ve got a thick skin. You probably noticed.”

  I considered what to say to the two women, then forged ahead. “I would like you to understand why I don’t talk about these things. Coming across a dead body is not an uplifting moment. It’s not cool or interesting or exciting. It’s actually quite disturbing. And sad and painful, especially for the people who are going to be affected in a really horrible way for the rest of their lives. So I don’t like being thought of as someone who attracts that kind of, you know, energy, or karma, or vibe. It’s not fun for me. Do you get that?”

  “Oh. Oh yes. God.” Amy’s eyes were awash with tears. She grabbed me in a hug and whispered, “I’m so sorry. I won’t ever do anything like that again. I hope you’ll forgive me someday.”

  “There’s no need to forgive anything.” When she let me go, I gave her a smile. “Don’t worry, Amy. I know you’re a good person. I really appreciate you coming to talk to me.”

  Lucy pressed her lips together, then blurted, “I was your biggest fan before and now I’m even more impressed.”

  I laughed. “Now you’re just trying to butter me up.”

  “Absolutely,” she said, and giggled.

  “Brooklyn?”

  We all turned at the sound of a man’s voice. I suddenly lost my breath and I was pretty sure my eyes were as big as goggles. Rod Martin stood in the doorway next to an older woman who was trying to get his attention by reaching for his arm. He sloughed her off and stepped inside the classroom.

  “Guess that’s our cue to go,” Lucy said amiably, and elbowed Amy. They took off for the door just as Rod took a few more steps into the classroom.

  I was still in shock. I wasn’t even certain my voice would work, but I finally gave it a shot.

  “Rod.”

  “Yeah.” He grinned. “It’s me.”

  “Uh, wow. Long time.” I shouldn’t have been so surprised to see him. After all, I knew Sara had brought him with her to the conference. And then there was that valuable book . . .

  “Too long.” He scanned me up and down. “You look amazing.”

  “Thanks,” I said, although I didn’t take it as a compliment. Rod Martin had always been a natural-born schmoozer, lest I forgot.

  I had to admit, though, that he was even better looking than I remembered, and a little taller. His thin frame had filled out over the years and now he appeared to be happy, handsome, and prosperous. It just figured that his looks would only improve with age. Life could be so unfair.

  “How have you been?” I asked. Not that I cared. Not really. I still wasn’t ready to forgive him after he’d been the cause of so much misery between my two friends.

  “Couldn’t be better,” he said jovially, clearly confident that his good looks and charm would get him whatever he wanted. And he was probably right.

  The older woman appeared in the doorway. “Is that woman with you?”

  He glanced over his shoulder and waved her away. “She’s someone I work with. I’ll see her later.”

  I didn’t know what to say to him so I continued to pack up my supplies.

  “Hey,” he said. “I understand Sara gave you a little gift last night.”

  “She did.” I smiled brightly while my brain calculated exactly what he would say and a hundred different responses I could make. I knew instinctively that he wanted the book back, but he probably wouldn’t come right out and ask for it. No, he was too cool for that. He would try to cajole and flatter me to get it. And that wasn’t going to work.

  B
ut hadn’t I just been thinking that morning about whether I should return it or not? The rare book website I frequented had indicated that the book had been sold very recently. Had Rod sold it, thinking it was still in his possession? If so, he had to be panicking even as we spoke. I studied his jaw. Was it clenched? Was he starting to sweat around his hairline? Losing out on a seventy-four-thousand-dollar sale would cause me to sweat, just saying. But I couldn’t see any outward signs that he was freaking out. He just kept smiling.

  I made a decision in that moment, that even if he did ask for it back, I wouldn’t give it to him. Maybe I would return it to Sara, but not to Rod.

  “It was such a surprise,” I continued, practically gushing. “I absolutely love it.”

  “Yeah, it’s a beauty, all right.”

  “And the significance of the book is so touching, right? I mean, we were the Three Musketeers, remember? It just means a lot.” I actually felt myself tearing up and tried to shake off the sentimental feelings. I didn’t want him to think I was a wimp. On the other hand, maybe that could work in my favor.

  Nope, I thought. There was no way I would deliberately act weak or fragile in front of him. I gathered my stack of endpapers and slipped them into my briefcase. “Sara seemed to think you could find another copy easily. I hope that’s true.”

  “Oh yeah, no problem.” He shrugged casually. “You know how it is with books. There’s always another one coming around the bend.”

  “I do know books,” I said, smiling. “And I recognized it for the generous gift it was. Sara was so sweet to think of me.”

  His smile was pensive. “I know she was hoping to patch things up with you. I hope the book helped.”

  There was no way he meant that, was there? So what was he really doing here? Rod was charming in a slippery kind of way, so it was hard to tell.

  “The book was a lovely gesture,” I said. “And it’s been so great to catch up with Sara this week. I’m hoping we can keep in touch and remain friends after all this time.”