The Lies That Bind Page 4

  So as far as I was concerned, Minka was not a nice person. And yes, on occasion, I’d wished her ill.

  But the “ill” I’d had in mind was something along the lines of a large potato bug crawling up her nose and laying eggs. I’d never wished for her to die or anything. Basically, I just wanted her to go away and leave me alone.

  I turned off Seventh Street onto Brannan, then waited until the oncoming traffic cleared and the security gate in front of my building garage opened. I quickly turned in and parked my car.

  I had less stuff to carry upstairs than I’d brought down with me. Naomi had given me a key to my classroom so I could leave some of my cheaper, less dangerous tools and supplies at BABA. I was determined to keep the more lethal and expensive ones in my possession at all times. Thanks to my recent misadventures in Scotland, I hesitated to leave hazardous tools in a place that might not be completely secure.

  The block-long brick building I lived in had been built as a corset factory in the twenties and retained some of the old quirks from those days. One of my closets used to be a dumbwaiter with ropes and pulleys to move supplies up and down. It was sealed off now, of course, but it still had steel walls, so I used it to store important documents and the occasional rare book.

  Most of the windows in my apartment were original as well, and reinforced with old-fashioned chicken wire. The heating ducts were exposed. Those touches, together with the interior brick walls, gave the large loft-style living space the look and feel of the old factory.

  I loved my apartment, loved the South of Market location that was a mix of converted industrial lofts like mine, small ethnic restaurants and shops, and decorators’ outlets selling tiles and used brick and wrought iron gates. You could shop and dine in upscale luxury, then turn the corner and find a blighted, burned-out factory, waiting to be bought up and converted. The recession had slowed down some of the growth in the area, but I expected it to pop back any day now.

  I stepped inside the service elevator and pushed the button for my floor. This lift was original, as well. It was wide enough to carry industrial-sized machinery, with a four-inch-thick wood plank floor and an iron gate that folded back to let passengers in and out.

  As the elevator rumbled to life, I recalled again the angry words of the Asian man who’d left Layla’s office earlier that night. Did he have anything to do with the attack on Minka? I should’ve mentioned him to the police. What if he’d come back to threaten Layla and Minka had interrupted him? I didn’t know who he was, but Layla would know. And if she were his real target, I figured she’d be more than glad to give the police his name.

  As the elevator stopped and the gate opened, I saw my neighbor Vinamra Patel peeking out her door. Everyone in the building could hear the old-fashioned industrial elevator when it was in motion, so we all kept an eye out for each other.

  “Ah, Brooklyn,” Vinnie said, waving me over. She wore overalls and high-top Converse All Stars, and her glossy dark hair was braided down her back. “I was hoping it would be you.”

  “It’s me,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “Guess who went out to dinner tonight?” she said seductively.

  “Really?” My eyes must’ve lit up because she laughed and grabbed my arm.

  “Yes. Come in. I have leftovers packed up and ready for you.”

  I followed her like a puppy. “You guys don’t have to feed me every night, you know.”

  Vinnie grinned. “But you’re always so pathetically grateful, it’s fun for us.”

  “Hey, I like to eat,” I said in my own defense.

  And my favorite neighbors knew it. Vinnie and her girlfriend, Suzie Stein, were wood sculptors. They worked at home, as I usually did, and their loft was filled with huge, oddly shaped hunks of wood and burl. Their sculpting tools of choice were chain saws, and a number of those were mounted on the walls. It was an artistic statement in itself.

  Because of the sawdust and mess they made while working, they liked to dine out most nights. And they invariably brought home leftovers for their hungry neighbor. Me.

  As I stared at their latest sculpture, a massive wooden pyramid with wings, two cats approached me, purring loudly as they rubbed up against my shins. I bent over to scratch their necks. “Hi, Pookie. Hi, Splinters.”

  “They love you so much,” Vinnie said, smiling fondly at the cats. “You take such good care of them.”

  My gaze met Pookie’s and she cocked her head as if to say, Aren’t you glad I can’t talk?

  I sent her a telepathic message. Yes, ma’am. I am.

  The last time Suzie and Vinnie left town, they’d left me in charge of their beloved pets. One morning, I walked out without feeding them. I remembered by the time I got to the garage and raced back upstairs to set out their food and water. But there had been a moment… okay, maybe five or six seconds, during which I’d actually debated whether or not it would make any difference if I waited until that night to feed them. In the end, my guilt got the best of me and I rushed back to meet their needs.

  So yeah, I was eternally thankful that cats couldn’t talk, because these two would have spilled their guts about my lackadaisical caretaking skills. And Vinnie and Suzie, who loved their pets to distraction, would never give me another bag of leftovers again.

  I couldn’t live with that.

  “Have you seen our new neighbors?” Vinnie asked, shaking me out of my guilt trip.

  “No,” I said, straightening. “But I heard them moving in. Is it a family?”

  “No, two lovely men,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “A chef and a hairdresser. Aren’t we lucky?”

  I laughed. “The perfect neighbors.”

  “And your new class?” Vinnie said, leading me toward the wide bar that separated their massive living/work space from their kitchen. “It is pleasurable?”

  “Oh, it’s fine,” I said. “But you’ll never guess what happened tonight.”

  Suzie walked into the room just then, cracking her knuckles. “Let me guess. Somebody died.”

  I was taken aback. “Why would you say that?”

  She flopped onto the couch and stretched her arms out. Her spiky platinum hair was still wet from her shower and she wore pink flannel pajamas and Bullwinkle slippers. It was possibly the most feminine outfit I’d ever seen her wear. “Just seems whenever you show up somewhere, somebody gets their bucket kicked.”

  “Suzie, stop,” Vinnie said. “She teases you, Brooklyn.”

  “That’s okay,” I muttered. “Minka said the same thing.”

  “Minka?” Vinnie frowned. “Is she not the girl we revile?”

  “She is. But she was attacked at BABA tonight and left unconscious. Somebody must’ve hit her over the head.”

  Suzie grimaced. “Oops.”

  “Yeah,” I said, pacing now. “And the weird thing is, Minka said the same thing to me earlier this evening, that whenever I show up, somebody dies.”

  “You poor thing,” Vinnie said. “Suzie, you are not to be mean.”

  “Hey, I’m a sweetheart,” Suzie protested.

  “Yes, you are,” Vinnie whispered, “but Brooklyn is sensitive because people really do have a tendency to die when she is around.”

  “I’m standing right here,” I reminded her.

  Suzie snorted. “Yeah, Vinnie. I think she can hear you.”

  Vinnie gasped. “Now I am the rude one.”

  “No, you’re never rude,” I said.

  “As opposed to me,” Suzie said, “who’s a thoughtless pig.”

  I laughed, as she’d meant me to, but the merriment didn’t last as I explained what had happened. “I was the one who found her. I practically fell on top of her. She was still out cold when the paramedics took her to the hospital.”

  “Good heavens,” Vinnie said.

  “Freaky deaky,” Suzie said.

  “Yeah.” I nodded, then shivered. “There was blood, so somebody must’ve attacked her. I’ve been trying to figure out who might’ve
done it.”

  I told them about the irate Asian man, then mentioned how nasty Layla had been to me.

  “That woman sounds horrible,” Vinnie said as she walked into the kitchen area. “My money is on her as the culprit.”

  “Yeah, she’s pretty awful,” I said. “But she gives me work, so I can’t be too critical of her. Well, I can, but I shouldn’t. You know what I mean.”

  “Oh, yes,” Vinnie said, nodding sagely. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a shopping bag.

  “Anyway, I stumbled over Minka on my way to see Layla, to apologize for our disagreement. I don’t want her to be pissed off at me.”

  “Oh, balls,” Suzie said. “Why should you care? She’s a bitch.”

  “Language, Suzie,” Vinnie chided. “But, Brooklyn, Suzie has a point. Why must you be the one to apologize to this foul woman?”

  “I just want everyone to be happy,” I said. Then I saw Suzie’s eyes widen in horror, so I played back what I’d said. “Oh, dear God, I’m channeling my mother.”

  Vinnie nodded. “Yes, but your mother is a lovely woman.”

  I shook my head and tried to get back on track. “What I meant was, I wanted to make nice with Layla so she’d be happy and continue to give me work.”

  Suzie shrugged. “Can’t blame you for that.”

  I sat on the edge of the cushy chair across from Suzie. “But Layla wasn’t even in her office, and then I ended up saving Minka’s life.”

  “Wow,” Suzie said. “Bad luck. For her, I mean. Because, you know, she owes you big-time now.”

  “She doesn’t owe me anything.”

  “Yes, Brooklyn, she now owes you her life,” Vinnie explained. “This will not make her happy.”

  I made a face. “No kidding.”

  “No good deed goes unpunished,” Suzie warned. “She’s about to make your life a living hell.”

  Vinnie patted my shoulder in sympathy. “May the gods have mercy on your soul.”

  I rubbed my forehead, where a headache was blossoming to life. “Yeah, thanks for that.”

  Chapter 4

  The following night, I arrived at BABA early, determined to pin down Layla first thing. I was still worried about her and I hadn’t slept well. I wondered what she would think about my idea of buying back the Oliver Twist. She might laugh in my face. Maybe I would just keep my mouth shut. Layla could ruin someone’s reputation with one perfectly tweezed eyebrow raised at just the right moment.

  But I knew I couldn’t keep my mouth shut about the book.

  I drove around the block twice before I found a parking place three blocks away. When I walked inside BABA, I found out why the area was so congested.

  It was happy hour. The central gallery was packed with people partying, laughing, and drinking. A full bar was set up along the far wall and guests were grabbing wineglasses as fast as the two bartenders could fill them.

  It was the kickoff cocktail party for BABA’s Twisted festival. I’d completely forgotten. This exclusive, by-invitation-only event was being held for BABA’s major donors, the movers and shakers who contributed so heavily to Layla’s coffers all year long.

  I knew this event had been on the calendar for months, but it still seemed tacky to be throwing a party the night after someone was viciously attacked. I wondered, not for the first time, if Minka was still in the hospital or if they’d sent her home already.

  The noise level was set at shrill, thanks to the rock music being piped through the sound system. Was it my imagination or was every man and woman in the room wearing black? They all looked artistic and wealthy and skinny. It was odd to be the most colorful person in the room in my navy jeans, white T-shirt, and moss green jacket.

  I recognized some familiar faces. These were the San Francisco elite, the same people I’d seen barely two months ago at the Covington Library’s gala opening of the Winslow Exhibit. The night my old friend Abraham Karastovsky had been murdered.

  It made sense that the same people who supported the Covington would be BABA patrons and donors. They were all book lovers. I just wished I’d remembered about the party tonight. I would’ve dressed a little better.

  Looking around, I wondered how many people in this room knew a woman had been assaulted down the hall just twenty-four hours ago. My guess was not many.

  I had no doubt that this was another subject about which Layla would prefer I kept my big mouth shut.

  “Yoo-hoo, Brooklyn,” someone cried.

  I turned in time to receive a fierce hug from Doris Bondurant, an old friend of Abraham’s.

  “Doris,” I said, taking in the subtle scent of her Chanel No. 5. “It’s so good to see you.”

  She grabbed hold of my hand. “How are you, my dear? I haven’t seen you since Abraham’s memorial service. A very unhappy day, I must say.”

  “Yes, it was,” I said. “But it was wonderful to see you there.”

  “He was a good friend.” She squeezed my hand tighter, then let it go. “And since then, I must admit I’ve been so distracted, I haven’t gotten around to giving you the books I want you to restore for me.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Why don’t I call you next week and we can arrange a time to meet?”

  “Good girl,” she said, patting my arm. “Now, what’s going on in your life?”

  Doris was a petite, wizened but feisty eighty-year-old, with a grip stronger than a truck driver’s. She was one of the wealthiest women in the city, but down-to-earth and approachable, although I’d seen her pull the diva act when the situation warranted it. She laughed at my thirty-second recap of my excellent adventures in Scotland, then frowned as the lights dimmed behind me.

  “Oh, dear, what is this now?” Doris murmured.

  I turned and followed her gaze to the center of the gallery, where a pin spotlight was aimed at a podium and microphone setup.

  Layla walked up to the podium, wearing a white off-the-shoulder spandex sex-kitten top with skintight black toreador-style pants. She wore all that with four-inch-spike-heeled black ankle boots. Her blond hair was piled high atop her head, except for several strands that had escaped to twirl coquettishly around her neck.

  The crowd closed in, blocking our view.

  “She’s too damn old to be dressed like that,” Doris groused. “And I’m too damn short. I can’t see a thing over this crowd. What’s going on, Brooklyn?”

  I bit back a smile at her grumblings. “Looks like Layla is going to speak.”

  “I was afraid of that,” she said dolefully.

  Two men flanked Layla, but both were in shadow. I couldn’t see their faces but she clutched their arms tightly and gazed up at each of them as though she knew them intimately. Then someone moved in front of me and I caught a glimpse of the man standing on Layla’s right side. He was tall and powerfully built, with a ruddy complexion and sandy hair. Now I had a better view of Layla, too. Lucky me. She moved close to the microphone and the crowd hushed.

  “I’m tingling with excitement,” she said, her voice sultry as she rubbed up against the sandy-haired man. She pretended to shiver with delight, which made some of the crowd laugh and cheer.

  “Oh, she’s impossible,” Doris murmured.

  I wasn’t a prude, but I heartily agreed. I hated that she used sex to stir up the crowd, and I hated the crowd for sucking it up. She made everything sound so icky. These were book people. Weren’t they supposed to be smarter than the general public? I was severely disappointed in my people.

  “It’s my extreme pleasure,” Layla continued, “to welcome to the Bay Area Book Arts Center the incomparable Gunther Schnaubel.”

  As applause rang out, I had to admit I was excited. Gunther Schnaubel was the world-famous Austrian artist who’d been commissioned to create a series of lithographs to commemorate the Oliver Twist anniversary. The lithographs would be auctioned off at the big party on the last night of the two-week-long Twisted celebration. I hadn’t realized the artist himself would be on hand for the enti
re week. Maybe Layla had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  I didn’t want to go there. I was a Gunther fan, but if Layla kept rubbing up against him, I might change my mind.

  Schnaubel acknowledged the applause with a brief smile and a wink for Layla, then waved to the audience. I couldn’t help but notice he had huge hands. It was an interesting contradiction that many male artists who did finely detailed work had such large hands. I’d once seen an exhibit of exquisite miniature portraits done in the Regency style, and when I met the artist, I stared dumbly at his large hands. A woman standing near me had winked and slyly confirmed that the man’s other parts matched in size.

  In Gunther’s case, the theory appeared to be true, as well. He towered over Layla and looked to be made of solid muscle.

  Meanwhile, Layla was still talking, explaining to the crowd how the silent auction would benefit the nonprofit Book Arts Center and also allow several scholarships to be given to underprivileged high school students who showed artistic promise.

  She listed a few of the items that had been donated to the silent auction by both wealthy contributors and vendors who supplied paper and materials to BABA. Then she returned to the subject of Gunther Schnaubel.

  “I don’t mean to gush, but if you could all see how beautiful Gunther’s… mm, lithographs are…” She cast another lascivious glance at his well-toned body. “Well, all I can say is… cha-ching!”

  Over the roar of the delighted crowd, I could hear Doris make a tsk sound as she shook her head. I had to agree this was a “tsk-able” moment.

  But Layla was on a roll. “And we’re doubly-no, triply honored that Gunther has agreed to conduct three short hands-on demonstrations of his patented lithographic technique, and attendees will walk away with your own piece of artwork. And I do mean ‘hands-on,’ ladies.”

  The ladies and a few men tittered excitedly.

  I checked my watch, then touched Doris’s arm. “I’d better try to get through the crowd. I have to teach a class tonight.”