Homicide in Hardcover Read online

  After a rollicking ride through the City, Robin dropped me off out front, then drove away to find a safe parking place for her beloved Porsche Speedster. I didn’t bother to wait for her because I knew she’d take her time and make a grand entrance. I just wanted to get inside and see Abraham and the books.

  I made my way through the crowd of well-dressed, chatty people gathered in the wide, marble-floored foyer, finally breaking through to the main exhibit room, where I almost slammed right into Abraham.

  His eyes widened when he realized it was me. “Punkin Pie!” He grabbed me in a bear hug so tight I almost passed out, but at least he seemed happy to see me. “I’m so glad you made it.”

  “Me, too,” I said, gasping for air. The man was bigger than a bull and twice as genteel. Tonight he wore a subdued dark suit that couldn’t begin to tame the wild man within-or the unruly mop of hair that grew in a thick black mass of curls. My father always said Abraham’s hair should have its own zip code.

  Abraham was a force of nature, occasionally blustering, sometimes destructive, always stubborn and brilliant. He smelled of musty books and peppermint tea, and I clung to him for an extra moment just to enjoy his scent.

  I’d missed him, loved him like a favorite uncle. This was the first time I’d seen him since severing our business relationship, but he was acting as if we’d never been apart. It was a little weird, but I was happy.

  With his arm still around my shoulder, he waved madly to a woman standing a few feet away. My entire body shook as he cried out, “Doris, come meet Punkin-er, Brooklyn!”

  A petite, frail woman in a black and gold Chanel suit waved back absently before continuing her conversation with the tall, balding man next to her.

  “She can do wonders for your career, Punkin,” he whispered loudly.

  As we waited for Doris, I had a few more seconds to catch my breath, look around and try to forget that he’d used that horrid childhood nickname of mine three times now. Yes, I’d once had a little obsession with pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving. Hadn’t everyone?

  I guess I could forgive him as long as he was about to introduce me to someone who could help my business. That was enough to tell me he’d let go of his anger at my leaving him. Not that I expected him to actually discuss it. Abraham was a male from the old school-strong, silent, occasionally brooding. Except when he was ranting about something. Then he was anything but silent.

  Smiling, I gazed up at Abraham. “How have you been?”

  “Ah, life is good, Brooklyn,” he said, squeezing me again briefly. “I didn’t think it could get any better, but it can.”

  “Really?” I’d never heard my grumpy mentor sound so upbeat. “I’m thrilled for you.”

  From somewhere above us, a string quartet began to play a Haydn serenade. I gazed up at the three-story-high coffered ceiling and the delicate wrought-iron balconies of the second and third floors. The musicians were seated on the third floor, overlooking the main hall, with acres of bookshelves providing the backdrop. On both of the higher floors, tall shelves of books circumnavigated the main hall, broken up by narrow aisles of more books leading back into cozy reading rooms and study corners. There were more nooks and crannies than a hobbit hole and I could still picture myself as an eight-year-old book lover, visiting for the first time and wandering the elaborate mazes. No wonder I fell for the place.

  More guests were moving into the main hall and filling the space with lively conversation and elegant evening wear. Laughter competed with the music as tuxedoed waiters emerged with trays of champagne-filled flutes and delicate hors d’oeuvres. I rubbed Abraham’s arm affectionately. “Everything looks fabulous. It’s so exciting.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” he said. “You’re looking especially nifty tonight.”

  I sighed. Nifty? Who said that anymore? I liked it.

  His arm muscles tightened and he swore under his breath. I glanced up and saw that his face had turned ashen.

  “What is it, Abraham? What’s wrong?”

  “Baldacchio!” he whispered angrily. “I can’t believe that two-faced crook had the balls to show up here tonight.”

  “You’re kidding.” I started to turn but he grabbed me.

  “Don’t look!” he cried. “I don’t want him to see we’re wasting breath talking about him.”

  “Tell me when.”

  He gripped my arm. “Okay. Over your left shoulder. Wait. Okay, now.”

  I tried to be casual as I turned to stare across the crowded space. At first I barely recognized the greasy-haired, shrunken man in the corner, but then he grinned slyly and there was no doubt it was Enrico Baldacchio, Abraham’s most detested archrival in the small world that was bookbinding. Over the years, they had undermined each other’s reputations by spreading gossip and stealing lucrative commissions out from under each other.

  “I’d heard you were working together again on some project for the Book Guild,” I said. “Was that just a vicious rumor?”

  “No.” Abraham looked ready to spit nails. “The Book Guild begged me to do it and I tried, but had to cut him loose again. The man can’t be trusted. He’s a liar and a thief.”

  I snuck another peek across the room. Baldacchio was talking animatedly to Ian McCullough, the Covington ’s head curator and an old college friend of my brother Austin-and my ex-fiancé. A woman stood at Ian’s side with her arm tucked into his. When she turned her head, I gasped and looked away.

  “What is it, Punk?” Abraham asked.

  “Minka LaBoeuf.”

  I appreciated Abraham’s quick frown. “I’m surprised she’s here tonight.”

  Abraham knew Minka LaBoeuf?

  Oh yes, bookbinding was a small world. She had a lot of nerve showing up anywhere within two city blocks of me. I silently fumed. Of all the bitches in all the world…

  Years ago, Minka and I had been grad school class-mates in the art and architecture department at Harvard. I didn’t know her well, but whenever our paths crossed, I would catch a weird vibe of anger or contempt-for me. It was disconcerting but I did my best to ignore her.

  One day, after I was singled out for my superior gold-finishing work by a professor in a papermaking class, Minka walked over to my worktable to see my work, or so I thought. Instead, she’d concealed a skiving knife, a very sharp tool used for paring leather, with which she tried to spear my hand. She barely missed my radial artery as well as several vital nerves and muscles, and swore it was an accident, but I’d seen the calculation and derision in her shifty eyes.

  I found out later that she was crazy in love with my boyfriend at the time. Crazy in a bad, bad way. She’d been trying to find a way to get me out of the picture. Fortunately, soon after the knife incident, she dropped out and I went on to get my Master’s degree.

  Our paths crossed again the semester I taught a leaf attachment course at the University of Texas at Austin. She tried to audit my class and I was unnerved enough to think she still might be stalking me. Call me cuckoo, but after finding two flat tires on my car, then discovering a dead cat on my front porch, I went to the administrative offices and got her removed from the class. I seriously feared for my safety, and even imagined her trying to jam my head between the boards of a book press or something.

  Now here she was at the Covington, clinging to Ian. Did she know I’d been engaged to him a few years back? It wasn’t a secret. What game was she playing now?

  “You know her,” I said flatly.

  “Not well,” he admitted. “She’s part-time staff, so I used her for some of the Winslow restoration work. She came across as charming and efficient, but problems erupted as soon as she started. Two of my best people threatened to quit, so I took her off the project.”

  I could barely watch as she laughed and yakked like an intimate friend of both Ian’s and Baldacchio’s. On tonight of all nights, the opening of Abraham’s exhibition. I had to wonder, was she here because of me? Everyone in the business knew he’d been my teacher and mentor. Was
I completely paranoid?

  I would’ve loved to pursue the topic of Minka’s shortcomings and find out how in the world she’d finagled a job at the Covington in the first place, but Abraham’s friend Doris interrupted us just then, grabbing Abraham’s arm and giving it a vigorous shake.

  “Now, what were you yelling about, old man?” she said.

  I almost snorted.

  “Doris Bondurant,” Abraham said formally, “I’d like to introduce my former assistant and now my greatest competition, Brooklyn Wainwright. Brooklyn, this is my old friend Doris Bondurant.”

  “Watch who you’re calling old, buster,” she said, and elbowed Abraham in the stomach. She turned to me and shook my hand. “Hello, dear.”

  “It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” I said. Along with being Covington Library trustees, Doris and Theodore Bondurant were on the board of at least a half dozen charitable organizations around San Francisco, and their names were synonymous with the arts and high society. On a good day they were probably worth a few billion dollars, so Doris could afford to be feisty.

  Her hand was gnarled and covered in age spots, but her handshake was strong enough to make me cry uncle.

  “I’ve heard a potful of good things about you from this guy, missy,” she said, pointing her thumb at Abraham. “I’d like to see some of your work around here one of these days.” Her voice had the gravelly character of a lifelong smoker’s.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bondurant. That’s very kind of you.”

  She wagged a finger at me. “First of all, I’m not kind. And second, you call me Doris.”

  I smiled. “All right, Doris.”

  She winked. “That’s better. Now, look, people think I’m a mucky-muck around here, but mostly I just love books.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Glad to hear it,” she said. “Now, this big lug tells me you know your way around a bookbinding, so I’m going to send you some business.”

  I sent Abraham a grateful look and he waggled his eyebrows at me. “I’d be honored.”

  “Do you have a business card?”

  “Um, sure.” I fumbled in my bag, found my cards and handed one to her. She peered at it for a few seconds before nodding.

  “I’ll call you.” She slipped my card into her clutch purse, glanced around the room, then patted Abraham’s barrel chest. “I’m going to track down Teddy and hit the bar before it gets too crowded, but then I want that behind-the-scenes tour you promised me.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Abraham said, grinning.

  She winked at me, smacked Abraham’s arm and wiggled her fingers good-bye as she walked away.

  I turned to Abraham. “I love her.”

  “She’s a classic, all right.” He checked his watch and swore under his breath. “I’d better run. I’ve got some business to attend to.”

  “Of course. I won’t keep you.”

  “Look, why don’t you mingle for an hour or so, then come downstairs to my workshop? I’ll give you a sneak preview of the Faust.” He leaned in close and wiggled his eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you’re not dying to see it.”

  I grinned. “I’d love to see it.”

  “It’s spectacular, trust me.”

  “I do, Abraham.”

  He gave me another quick squeeze. “You’re my good girl.”

  Tears stung my eyes. The first time he’d ever said that to me, I was eight years old and miserable. My stupid brothers had used my favorite book, The Secret Garden, as a football and I’d found it lying in the dirt, its front cover hanging by threads and half the pages ripped or shredded. My mother suggested I go see the commune’s bookbinder to get it fixed.

  Abraham took one look and ordered my brothers into the studio, where he promised them any number of chilling reprisals if they ever damaged another book again. After scaring the bejeezus out of them, he sat them down and gave them a quick lesson in book arts and history-the kid-friendly version-followed by an explanation of what family meant and why they should cherish and honor their sister by respecting what was precious to her.

  I fell in love with Abraham that day.

  Now I sniffed back tears and said, “Abraham, I just wish we-”

  “Not another word.” He gripped my shoulders. “I admit I’ve been a stubborn old fool, but I’ve recently learned a valuable lesson.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes,” he said with a firm nod. “Life’s too damn short to spend time regretting or wishing for what might’ve been. From now on, I plan to live in the present and enjoy every minute.”

  My throat was tight but I managed to whisper, “I’ve missed you, Abraham.”

  He pulled me in for one last hug. “Ah, Punkin, that’s music to these old ears.” He let me go, but added, “We won’t be strangers anymore, agreed?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good. I’ll see you downstairs in a while.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He walked away and would’ve vanished in the crowd, but his mop of hair was like a beacon. I watched him until he slipped through the doorway leading to the small West Gallery and disappeared.

  I knew the West Gallery led to a series of smaller display rooms that finally ended at the stairway that led to the basement where his temporary studio was located. One of the perks of working on a Covington exhibit was the free use of their state-of-the-art on-site workshops-if you could find your way through the jumbled warren of galleries and halls and stairways. Of course, if you were going to get lost, this was a great place to do it.

  My heart felt as though a weight had been lifted. Abraham and I could go forward as friends and colleagues instead of the distant rivals I was afraid we’d become.

  Feeling lighter, I moved toward the exhibit of Walt Whitman letters and photographs. The main hall was now filled to capacity with the cream of San Francisco society. Wall-to-wall old farts, as promised.

  Thinking of old farts made me think of Robin, which in turn reminded me that I didn’t have a drink in my hand.

  As I scanned the room in search of the bar, my attention was drawn to the far side of the hall. Near a large panel of original Audubon paintings, one man stood alone, leaning against the wall, a wary stranger in this swarm of friends and fellow book lovers. He sipped a drink as he observed the crowd, the exhibits, the ambiance, yet he seemed to hold himself apart from it all.

  I’d never seen him before. I would’ve remembered. He was over six feet tall and his hair was dark and closely cropped. His leanly muscled build exuded tough-guy strength, almost as if he’d just as soon use his fists as his charm to get what he wanted. I could appreciate that. There was pure male arrogance and more than a few secrets in his dark eyes as he glanced around the room.

  When his gaze met mine, his eyes narrowed and he frowned. Directly at me. I wasn’t mistaken. What was that all about?

  His apparent disapproval was such an unexpected affront that I glowered right back at him. He didn’t look away, continued to stare, and there was no way I was going to look away first. But the room began to shrink and I had to grip the railing in front of the Walt Whitman exhibit for a second.

  I might’ve blinked. I hope not. But in that instant his frown disappeared, replaced by a look of bland disinterest as he once again surveyed the crowd.

  He didn’t look back at me. A good thing because I probably looked like a fool, heaving and panting for air.

  I really needed to get out more.

  More than a little annoyed with myself, I pushed my way through the crowd and by the time I made it to the bar, I was relatively sane again-until I saw who was pouring the drinks.

  “Dad?”

  “Hi, sweetie,” he said as though this were an everyday occurrence, his tending bar at a high-society opening, pouring me a glass of cabernet sauvignon without asking whether I wanted one. Weird.

  Well, of course I wanted the wine. That wasn’t the weird part.

  “Dad, what are you doing here?”

  He nudged his eyegl
asses up (they had a tendency to slide down his nose), then handed me the wine. He poured two glasses of chardonnay and passed them off to another patron before turning back to me.

  “Hey, babe, isn’t this a gas?” he said, grinning. “Abraham swung this gig. The Covington’s agreed to feature our wines at all their events from now on. Robson’s totally psyched. Can you dig it?”

  He went back to pouring and explaining the complexities of the wines to the others gathered around the bar while I took two deep swigs of excellent cabernet sauvignon. It wasn’t the best way to savor a fine wine, but who could blame me? I’d been here less than half an hour and I was already wrung out.

  Back in the seventies, my parents and Robin’s parents and a few hundred of their closest friends, fellow Deadheads and seekers of wisdom, had followed their spiritual leader, Avatar Robson Benedict-or Guru Bob, as my siblings and I called him-to Sonoma County, where they created the Fellowship for Spiritual Enlightenment and Higher Artistic Consciousness. I couldn’t say whether higher consciousness had anything to do with it, but it turned out to be a good investment. The commune lay on sixteen hundred acres of lush farmland, most of which were eventually turned into vineyards.

  Dad had been a trust-fund baby disinherited by his father, who disapproved of my dad’s free and easy lifestyle. By the time Grandfather decided to put Dad back in his will, it was too late to change his evil ways. Dad loved the low life, as he liked to call it.

  It was no surprise how well he took to the wine-making life. He was a bon vivant down to his toes.

  Nowadays, Dad ran the commune winery with my older brother, Austin, and my sister Savannah. My brother Jackson was in charge of the vineyards. I wondered whether they were here tonight as well.

  “How’s the cab, Brooks?” Dad asked.

  “Mm, perfect,” I mumbled, taking a smaller sip of wine and properly rolling it around in my mouth as I scanned the crowd, looking for Robin. That was my story, anyway, until I couldn’t take it anymore and finally took a peek back at the corner where I’d last seen the frowning man. He’d moved away from the Audubon exhibit, but I tracked him down easily enough over by the circular Shakespearean display.