The Lies That Bind Read online

  The Lies That Bind

  Kate Carlisle

  Book restoration expert Brooklyn Wainwright returns home to San Francisco to teach a bookbinding class. Unfortunately, the program director Layla Fontaine is a horrendous host who pitches fits and lords over her subordinates. But when Layla is found shot dead, Brooklyn is bound and determined to investigate-even as the killer tries to close the book on her for good.

  Kate Carlisle

  The Lies That Bind

  The third book in the Bibliophile Mystery series, 2010

  This book is dedicated with love, affection, and gratitude to my brother, James Carlisle Beaver. Jimmy, my favorite memories of San Francisco are the times I’ve spent there with you.

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks and acknowledgment go to book conservator Jeff Peachey for generously granting permission to use his name and his bookbinding tools in my books.

  Many thanks, as well, to the wonderful San Francisco Center for the Book, where book geeks like me are welcomed and encouraged by the generous staff and talented teachers. Any resemblance between SFCB and my own fictional BABA is entirely coincidental. I’m also indebted once again to book artist Wendy Poma for her help and inspiration.

  I am grateful to my plot group, Susan Mallery, Maureen Child, Christine Rimmer, and Teresa Southwick, for their friendship, advice, and support. Great thanks, also, to my literary agent, Christina Hogrebe of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, for her guidance and enthusiasm, and to Executive Editor Ellen Edwards, for her encouragement and consummate skill with words.

  Finally, I owe a debt of gratitude to the librarians and booksellers around the country who continue to spread the word that Brooklyn and bookbinders are hot stuff, indeed. Thanks to you all.

  Chapter 1

  Layla Fontaine, Executive Artistic Director of the Bay Area Book Arts Center, was tall, blond, and strikingly beautiful, with a hair-trigger temper and a reputation for ruthlessness. Some in the book community called her a malevolent shark. Others disagreed, insisting that calling her a shark only served to tarnish the reputation of decent sharks everywhere.

  Since I had business with the shark, I arrived at the book center early and parked my car in the adjacent lot. Grabbing the small package I’d brought, I climbed out of the car and immediately started to shiver. It was dusk and the March air in San Francisco was positively frigid. I seemed to be in the direct path of a brisk wind that whooshed straight off the bay over AT &T Park and up Potrero Hill. Huddling inside my down vest, I quickly jogged to the front entrance of the book center and climbed the stairs.

  I almost whimpered as I stepped inside the warm interior and rubbed my arms to rid myself of the chills. But looking around, I grinned with giddy excitement. It was the first night of my latest bookbinding class and I, Brooklyn Wainwright, Super Bookbinder, was like a kid on the first day of grammar school. A nerdy kid, of course-one who actually looked forward to spending the day in school. I couldn’t help myself. This place was a veritable shrine to paper and books and bookbinding arts, and I had to admit, grudgingly, that it was all due to Layla Fontaine.

  As head fund-raiser and the public face of the Bay Area Book Arts Center, or BABA, as some affectionately called it, Layla had her finger-and usually a few other body parts-on the pulse of every well-heeled person in the San Francisco Bay Area. She was willing to do, say, or promise anything to keep BABA on firm financial ground, no matter how shaky the legalities seemed. Hers was a higher calling, she claimed, right up there with Doctors Without Borders and Save the Children, and anything was fair game in the nonprofit sector. While that might’ve been true, the fact remained that Layla Fontaine was a snarky, sneaky, notoriously picky, manipulative bitch.

  But Layla had one true saving grace, and that was her pure and abiding appreciation of and devotion to books. She had an extensive collection of antiquarian treasures that she displayed regularly in BABA’s main gallery. And miracle of miracles, she’d managed to turn BABA into a profitable enterprise and a prestigious place to visit and contribute one’s time and money to.

  Most important, she had brought me on staff to teach bookbinding classes here, and she’d also hired me privately to do restoration work on her own books. In exchange, I suppose I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt when it came to her questionable behavior. Yes, I could be bought. I wasn’t ashamed to admit it. After all, a girl’s got to make a living.

  I walked through the foyer, where artists’ brochures and postcards and flyers and all the local free press papers were stacked, then entered the main gallery. The room was large with a dramatically high ceiling and skylights. Two ramps led down to the lower gallery, where glass display cases showed off the best works of the visiting bookbinders and artists. In the center was an unusual mix of ancient art and new technology, including an antique printing press and a large freestanding eighteenth-century cast-iron paper cutter with a thirty-inch blade. Next to these was BABA’s latest acquisition, a computerized guillotine that could cut cleanly through six inches of compacted paper.

  The lower gallery was surrounded by the upper level, conveniently referred to as the upper gallery, which ran the perimeter of the room. Here were the main display walls and two large alcoves filled with bookshelves and comfortable seating areas.

  Strolling through the upper gallery, I spied Naomi Fontaine, Layla’s niece and BABA’s facilities coordinator. She was busy assembling a new display of children’s vintage pop-up books.

  To my left, on the main display wall, a number of darkly dramatic, steampunk-style wood-block prints were hung. On another wall, tall shelves of beautifully bound books were available to study or purchase.

  Off the main room were three long halls that angled off like spokes on a bicycle wheel. Down these halls were classrooms, offices, mudrooms, a number of individual workrooms, the printing press room, and several smaller galleries.

  “Hi, Naomi,” I called out. “Is Layla in her office?”

  She bared her teeth at me. “She’s in there and she’s in rare form today. Good luck.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” I said, wondering, not for the first time, why Naomi Fontaine stayed with BABA. She would never get the respect she deserved from her aunt Layla and would always stand in her shadow. Naomi was a true bluestocking who, in another era, might’ve been just as happy as a cloistered nun. She was pretty in an understated way, and talented enough, but she was a mouse. Shy and a bit obsequious, she lacked the dynamic personality it took to appeal to the high-society types with whom her aunt Layla hobnobbed.

  Still, it was wise to keep on Naomi’s good side. She was the person to talk to if you wanted to get anything done here. If Layla was the brains behind BABA, Naomi was its heart and soul. She had her faults, but everything ran smoothly because of her.

  I crossed the gallery and walked down the north hall toward Layla’s office. I was anxious to show her the restoration work I’d done on a rotted-out copy of a nineteenth-century illustrated edition of Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist. She’d given me the decrepit old book to restore, and if I said so myself, I’d done a fabulous job for her.

  Layla planned to use the book as the centerpiece for BABA’s two-week-long celebration of the one hundred seventy-fifth anniversary of Dickens’s publication of Oliver Twist. She was calling the festival “Twisted.” Layla was always throwing lavish parties to celebrate obscure anniversaries such as this one. Anything to drum up sponsors and visitors to BABA.

  I was grateful for the work and figured that as long as Layla was willing to provide me with books to restore, I was willing to believe she had a heart buried somewhere in that size double-D chest of hers.

  As I reached the end of the long hall leading to Layla’s office, I
could hear voices, loud ones. Her door was closed but the angry shouts penetrated through the thick wood. I was about to knock when the door flew open. I jumped back and missed being hit by an inch.

  “You’ll be sorry you crossed me, you bitch,” a furious man declared, then stormed out of Layla’s office. I stood flat against the wall as a handsome, well-dressed Asian man stomped past me, down the hall, across the gallery, and out the front door.

  I took a moment to catch my breath, then peeked around the doorway to make sure Layla was all right. She sat at her desk, casually applying red lipstick and looking as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She glanced at me over her mirror. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “That guy sounded like he wanted to wring your neck.”

  “Men.” She waved away my concern, swept her cosmetics into her top drawer, then stood and rounded her desk. She was dressed in an impossibly tight, short black skirt and a crisp white blouse unbuttoned to show off her impressive cleavage. In her five-inch black patent leather stilettos, she looked like an overeducated Pussy-cat Doll.

  “Give me the book,” she demanded.

  I hesitated, feeling a bit like a mother wavering at the thought of handing a beloved child over to a stern East German nanny. Yes, the woman might make sure the child was fed, but she wouldn’t love it.

  “Brooklyn.” She snapped her fingers.

  I don’t know why I faltered. The book belonged to Layla. Aside from that, she was my employer. I exhaled heavily and carefully handed her the wrapped parcel, then had to watch as she ripped the brown paper to shreds to find the Oliver Twist.

  “Oh, it’s perfect,” she said greedily as she turned the book over and back. “You did a good job.”

  “Thank you.” Good? I did a great job. If I said so myself. She’d given it to me in tattered pieces and I’d turned it into a stunning piece of art.

  She stared at the elegant spine, studying my work; then she glanced inside and stared at the endpapers. Turning to the title page, she murmured, “No one will ever suspect this isn’t a first edition.”

  I laughed. “Unless they know books.”

  She glared at me.“Nobody knows that much about books. If I say it’s a first edition, then that’s what they’ll believe.”

  “Probably,” I conceded.

  Then she jabbed her finger at the date on the title page. I tried not to wince but I could see the dent she’d made in the thick vellum. “It says right there, printed in 1838. The year he wrote it.”

  “Right,” I said slowly. “But that doesn’t mean anything. We both know it’s not a first edition.”

  Her left eye began to twitch and she rubbed her temple as she leaned her hip against the edge of her desk. “True. But no one’s going to hear the real story, are they, Brooklyn?”

  Her tone was vaguely threatening. Was I missing something?

  “Are you saying I should lie about the book?” I asked.

  “I’m saying you should keep your mouth shut.”

  “But what’s the big deal? The festival is all about this book, and it’s got an interesting history.”

  To me, anyway. The story went that, back in 1838, Charles Dickens was doing so well with the serialization of Oliver Twist that his publisher went behind his back and published the manuscript, using Dickens’s pseudonym, “Boz.” That first edition included all of the illustrator Cruikshank’s drawings.

  Dickens was displeased because he’d intended to use his real name once the book was published. He was also unhappy with one of Cruikshank’s drawings in the book, calling it too sentimental, according to some accounts. He insisted that the publisher pull that edition and revise it to his specifications. It was done within the week.

  A true first edition of Oliver Twist, written under the pseudonym of Boz, with Cruikshank’s unauthorized drawings, was beyond rare.

  Layla’s book had Charles Dickens listed as the author on the title page, and the Cruikshank illustration was missing. So while the book was valuable, it didn’t count as an official first edition.

  “I don’t want you going around telling people about this book, do you hear me?” Layla pushed away from the desk, drew herself up to her full height, and glared down at me. She was only an inch or so taller than I, but it was a good attempt at intimidation. “For the purposes of the festival, this book is a first edition, got it? I want to rack up some high bids on this baby.”

  I looked at her sideways. “So you want me to lie.”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?”

  “It just seems like the real story would be more interesting to people.”

  “Jesus, do you ever give up?” she asked. “Nobody cares about your stupid book theories, and if you like working here, you’ll say what I tell you to say. Capice?”

  I sucked my cheeks in, something I tended to do whenever I wanted to chew somebody’s ass but needed to hold my tongue instead. After a long moment, I gritted my teeth and said, “Got it.”

  Casually slapping the exquisite nineteenth-century volume against her hand, she said, “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

  “You know what?” I turned toward the door. “I’ve got to go get my classroom set up.”

  She pointed her finger at me as though it were a gun and she’d just pulled the trigger. “Good idea.”

  I rushed out of her office and made it back to the central gallery before the urge to strangle her took over.

  Naomi caught one look at my face and snorted. “Glad I’m not the only one she’s picking on today.”

  “Yeah, lucky me.” As I headed toward my classroom, I couldn’t decide what annoyed me more: the fact that Layla hadn’t given me enough props for my work, or the idea that I should lie about the whole first edition issue. The lack of props won out. I’d done a spectacular job of restoring the book but she was just too screwed up and snotty to say so, more than that pitiful “good job” comment she’d grudgingly given me. I would have to think twice if she offered me any more restoration work.

  But Layla was forgotten as a sudden bone-deep chill settled over me, as if someone had just walked on my grave. My mother used to say that, but I never knew what it meant until this moment.

  “Well, if it isn’t the black widow herself,” a woman said in a familiar high, whiny tone that was purported to cause dogs’ ears to bleed. “Wherever she goes, somebody dies.”

  Minka LaBoeuf.

  My worst nightmare. To think I’d been so happy to be here only a few minutes ago.

  I turned and glared at her. “So maybe you ought to leave, just to be on the safe side.”

  “Very funny,” she said, tossing back her overly processed, stringy black hair. “I should think they’d be afraid to let you in here with your record.”

  I ignored that comment, just as I ignored the cheap, fuzzy black angora sweater she wore that was causing tiny black hairs to stick in unattractive clumps on her face and neck. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m an instructor now,” she said, jutting her pointy chin out smugly. “I ran into Layla at the book fair in Edinburgh and she offered me the position.”

  “What?” I might’ve shrieked the word. I couldn’t help it. Minka was the world’s worst bookbinder. She destroyed books. She was like the bubonic plague to books. Why in the world would anyone hire her to teach bookbinding? “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  But she was no longer looking at me. I turned at the sound of scuffling footsteps behind me and saw Ned, the printing press guy, frowning at us. And when Ned frowned, what little forehead he had completely disappeared. He wasn’t completely unattractive, if you liked that haunted, confused look in a guy. Minka did, apparently.

  “Hi, Ned,” Minka said, her eyelashes flitting rapidly.

  “Huh,” he said as he scratched his pasty white muscle-free arm.

  Was Minka actually flirting with Ned? I’d been teaching classes here for years and I’d seen
Ned maybe four times. Each time, he’d said exactly one word to me. That word was Huh. Seriously, that was his only vocabulary.

  Ned could work magic with the ancient printing press BABA used, but that’s where his social skills ended. He was probably a sweet guy, but he worried me. Today he wore a T-shirt that read “Can’t Sleep. Clowns Will Eat Me.” That might’ve been funny, but I was pretty sure Ned believed it.

  “I like your shirt,” Minka simpered.

  “Huh,” he said, then turned and walked away, disappearing down the hall.

  “Nice talking to you, Ned,” I said, but I wasn’t sure he heard me.

  Minka’s snarl returned, signaling she was ready to go another round with me. But it was not to be.

  “Minka, darling,” Layla cried as she rushed forward and gave Minka a big hug. “I thought I heard your voice.”

  Not surprising, since yapping puppies in the next county could have heard Minka’s voice.

  “I’m so pleased you could join our faculty,” Layla gushed, winding her arm through Minka’s. Then she turned to me and her green eyes gleamed with amusement. “Don’t tell me you two know each other. Isn’t that perfect? Brooklyn, you’ll be able to show Minka around. I know you’ll make her feel comfortable and welcome here.”

  Minka smirked in victory. Over her shoulder, I saw Naomi roll her eyes. Good to know it wasn’t just me who thought that would have been a really bad idea.

  I gave Minka a look that made it clear that hell would freeze over before I would show her anything but the back door. My former good mood plummeted even further as I realized I’d have to spend the next three weeks trying to avoid both Layla’s caustic bitchiness and Minka’s toxic stupidity.

  I thought of Minka’s first words a minute ago, about people dying whenever I was in the vicinity. I hoped her words wouldn’t come back to haunt us all, but with so many volatile personalities to deal with, I had to wonder how long it would be before one of us turned up dead.