Chapter 7

“Stealing books again?”

My heart nearly jumped out of my chest. “Oh my God.”

“Call me Derek,” he said with a sardonic chuckle, amused by his little joke. He stood in the doorway, not quite inside the room, so the light didn’t reach his face. But even if he hadn’t announced himself, I would’ve recognized that lithe, muscular figure anywhere.

I had to slap my chest a few times to get my heart pumping before I could squeak intelligibly. “What are you doing here? You scared the crap out of me.”

“That’s always a nice side benefit,” Derek remarked as he strolled toward me. “I recall watching the police seal this room.”

“It was sealed? I hadn’t noticed.” I took a step back. “You followed me here.”

“Of course I did.” He splayed his hands out as though he were holding some special gift I’d always wanted. “You left the Covington in too much of a hurry to be up to any good.”

“Well, you’re late. I’m leaving now.”

“I saw you in here earlier, but your mother arrived so I decided to wait. And sure enough, you’re back, skulking around in the dark.”

“If this is about me being a murder suspect, get over it.” I rubbed my temples to stave off the headache he was giving me. “You’ve wasted time tracking me halfway across Northern California while the real killer is getting away with murder.”

“I don’t think you’re a murder suspect,” he said as he picked up a birch board and ran one hand across the smooth surface, his clever fingers stroking the wood back and forth across the grain.

Good grief.

His words slowly filtered through my clogged brain. “Wait. You don’t think I killed Abraham? Then why are you here?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I assumed you’d try something stupid. Turns out I was right.”

“You-what?”

“I said, I assumed you’d-”

“I heard you,” I snapped. “Can you get any more insulting?”

He grinned. “I can try.”

I stifled a shriek, inhaled deeply and let the air out slowly. “So you followed me because you think I’m stupid?”

“I don’t think you’re stupid but I do think you might do something stupid.” He leaned back against the worktable and crossed his ankles.

I shook my head. “Sounds like the same thing to me.”

“It’s not.”

“I appreciate that you think there’s a difference, but I don’t-”

“Are you, or are you not, trying to track down a killer by yourself?”

I licked my lips. A tell? “No.”

“I believe you are.”

I laughed but it sounded tinny. “That’s ridiculous. I came up here looking for Abraham’s journals to help with the work I’m doing on the Faust. I went to visit my parents up the street and stopped back here to get a book that belongs to me.”

I glanced around as I said it and suddenly realized something was very wrong.

Abraham’s studio was a mess. I mean, a real mess. Torn apart. Things were tossed across the countertops and on the floor. A heavy punching cradle was upended on the floor, the hard object I’d stumbled over. There were papers pulled from drawers and reams of book cloth strewn around the room. Several glass jars used to mix PVA glue were shattered on the floor.

“Look at this mess,” I said in alarm. “Somebody’s been here.”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, somebody’s been here?”

I waved my hands around frantically. “Everything’s tossed every which way.”

He looked around. “I assumed Karastovsky liked it this way.”

I stomped my foot. “No! I was just here an hour ago and it was fine. Somebody’s been here and done this. You were waiting for me. Did you see anyone?”

He scowled. “No. I followed you up the hill to your mother’s and missed catching whoever did this.”

I sagged against the counter.

“Don’t touch anything else.” He rubbed his jaw in frustration. “I’ll call the police.”

Derek didn’t have to follow me home but he did it anyway. When I detoured and pulled into the Whole Foods parking lot, he insisted on accompanying me inside, then carried my bags out to the car when I was finished.

I had a tendency to eat when I was overly nervous, and tonight’s mood qualified.

Derek had called Inspector Jaglow to tell him the news of the break-in at Abraham’s. We’d dutifully waited the hour and a half it took him to get there with one of his crime scene investigators. Jaglow had asked a few questions, then cleared us to leave the premises.

Halfway across the Golden Gate Bridge it had occurred to me that if my timing were different, I might’ve run right into Abraham’s killer.

What had the killer been searching for? Was it the missing item from the secret pocket inside the Faust? Something else? A book? Gems? If I could find Abraham’s journals, I might have a better idea what it was that was worth killing for.

“You’re an intense shopper,” Derek said.

“It calms my nerves. You didn’t have to follow me here.”

“I needed a few things as well.”

He carried six grocery bags, five of which were mine.

“I suppose you’re going back up there to look for Karastovsky’s journals,” Derek said as I punched the security button and unlocked my car.

“Of course,” I said more boldly than I felt, then opened my trunk. “I don’t want to duplicate his work and he may have some thoughts and insights I haven’t considered.” That was a lie, of course. All I wanted was the missing piece of paper, whatever it was.

“I’ll help you look for them.”

“Oh, thanks.” Sweet, but awkward. I didn’t want him in the studio while I searched for the missing item, especially since I had no clue what it was. Could this get more convoluted?

“But it won’t be necessary,” I added lightly. “I’ve got to go up for the memorial service anyway, so I’ll have the whole afternoon to find the journals.”

“You really are an appalling liar,” he said conversationally, as he loaded the shopping bags into my trunk.

“I’m not lying,” I lied. Could he see my face turning red in the dim light of the parking lot? He was right. I really was bad at lying. I needed to take lessons from Robin. If there were a baseball team for liars, she would be the cleanup hitter. And she would consider that a compliment.

“You’re lying about something,” he countered cheerfully as he shoved the last of the bags into the space. “But not to worry. I’ll be heading up for the service as well, and I will help you look.”

I bit my lip to keep from groaning. “Cool.”

He stared at the plethora of bags in my trunk. “You’re actually going to consume all this swill?”

Why did an insult uttered with a sexy British accent have less of a sting? “If you’re referring to my purchases, it’s not swill; it’s perfectly good food.”

Slamming the trunk shut, he folded his arms. “I counted six frozen pizzas, eight bags of chocolate and a gallon of ice cream.”

“Ice cream is an excellent source of calcium.”

“It’s swill.”

“Nutritious swill,” I pointed out.

“If you’re a fourteen-year-old boy.”

“You’re getting offensive again.”

“It’s a gift.” He brushed his hands together. “Get in your car. I’ll follow you home.”

I held up my hand. “That’s not necessary.”

“It is.”

“Okay, first of all, I’m not a killer, remember? So you need to stop following me. And second, seriously, you should get a hobby or something. What about sports? Is there a gym near your hotel? You could work out more often.”

He just smiled and waited. It was exasperating. And seeing as how we were standing in the middle of the parking lot of Whole Foods Market, it was also ridiculous.

I sighed. “I’m going straight home to feed my neighbors’ cats and watch some TV. As strongly as you may believe to the contrary, I assure you I’m not a foolish person.”

“Your eating habits betray you.” He gave a significant nod to the back of my car where my bags of swill were stashed.

“I happen to have a speedy metabolism.”

“That can’t last forever.”

“Oh, thanks for that.” I threw up my hands in defeat. “Fine. Follow me. Whatever.”

He shooed me toward the driver’s door. “Off you go, then.”

“You’re incredibly annoying,” I said. “But thank you for carrying my grocery bags.”

“I assure you it was pure entertainment.”

I jogged around to the driver’s side, climbed in and slammed the door shut, then started up the engine. I looked over and gave him a weak smile.

The gaze he gave me was anything but weak. I gulped, then drove away, watching in my rearview mirror as he jumped into the Bentley, started it up and followed me out of the lot.

I tossed and turned all night and woke up the next morning feeling groggy and out of sorts, with a dull headache accompanied by an impending sense of doom. I wasn’t sure whether to blame Derek Stone or the pint of Coney Island Waffle Cone Crunch I’d consumed the night before while watching Survivor: East L.A.

I was happier blaming Derek, I decided, as I stumbled to the kitchen to grab my first cup of strong coffee before heading for the shower.

I stared at the contents of my closet and remembered I’d most likely be meeting the Winslows today. I chose a semiconservative, fitted gray pin-striped suit with a short flared skirt, crisp white shirt with a stand-up collar and black heels.

Robin had insisted I buy this suit because it made me look like a defrocked postulant. I’d figured it was a compliment but later had to Google the word postulant. I’d found a Web site of a nunnery in Indiana filled with photos of happy young women bowing their heads in prayer as they answered the heavenly call to become brides of Christ.

There were no photos of the defrocked variety, but it no longer mattered. Sometimes it was better not to examine Robin’s words too closely.

After I poured my second cup of coffee, I went next door to check on the cats. Somehow I’d forgotten to feed them last night, another offense I would lay at the feet of Derek Stone. I washed their kitty bowls and gave them fresh water and some mushy food from a can mixed with kibble bits.

Pookie and Splinters were in a playful mood, so I stuck around for ten minutes to keep them company as they careened around a massive redwood log and a couple of hunks of burl, then zoomed up the tower of their deluxe carpeted cathouse and back down again.

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.