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  Someone was inside.

  I pushed the unlocked door open and saw Minka on tiptoe, peering into one of the cupboards above the sideboard.

  “Why am I not surprised?” I said.

  She gasped and whipped around. That was when I noticed the little pile of supplies she’d amassed on the worktable.

  “Pilfering?” I asked cheerily.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  I slipped under the crime scene tape and came inside to take a closer look at what she’d found.

  “Get out of here!” she cried.

  “I’m just looking,” I said, and picked up a polished wood box with the initials “AK” engraved on the top.

  Abraham’s personalized set of Peachey knives.

  “I have dibs on those,” she said. “Get your dirty meat hooks off them.”

  I shook my head at her. “You’re a pathetic thief.”

  “Those are mine.”

  “No, these belong to Abraham.”

  She lunged for the box and I whipped my hand away.

  “You’re such a bitch!”

  “That may be true,” I said. “But these still don’t belong to you.”

  “He can’t use them and I found them first.”

  My eyes widened. I couldn’t help it. Her lack of a moral compass never failed to shock me. “That doesn’t mean they belong to you.”

  “God, I hate you,” she said through clenched teeth. She swept the rest of her booty to her chest and stomped out. Then she turned back and glared at me. “I hope you die.”

  “Back atcha,” I yelled after her.

  I let go of the breath I’d been holding. The woman was so toxic. I had to wonder, not for the first time, how anyone in their right mind would hire her.

  “Hey, you shouldn’t be in here.” Ian stood at the door, frowning at me.

  I laughed without humor. “Where were you when I needed you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Minka was in here. I caught her pilfering Abraham’s stuff.”

  “Oh.” His frown deepened. “Well, we’ve got tools everywhere. She must’ve been looking for something.”

  “No, Ian. She was stealing Abraham’s stuff.” I dipped under the yellow tape and closed the door, then handed him the box of Peachey knives. “She was going to take this.”

  He examined it, handed it back, then shrugged. “It’s just a box of knives, Brooklyn. I’m sure it was completely innocent. You’re just a little sensitive. Come on.”

  In my moment of stunned disbelief, he was able to wrap his arm around my shoulder and lead me back to my room.

  It was déjà vu all over again. My college boyfriend had refused to believe Minka was capable of attacking me. It was why we’d eventually broken up. He’d said I was just being overly emotional because my hand was all bandaged up and hurting. It was an accident, he’d insisted, and I needed to lighten up.

  Back in my workroom, as Ian pulled the high chair out and helped me sit, I felt like Ingrid Bergman in Gaslight. And not for the first time. Here I was again, trying to prove that Minka was a pathological liar and dangerous to my health while all anyone else could see was that Minka was an innocent bystander and I was a wrathful bitch.

  At that moment I realized Minka could get away with murder.

  I tried to work for another twenty minutes, but it was useless. Between Minka throwing me off my game and the missing artifact from the Faust, I couldn’t concentrate.

  I circled the room, stared out the high windows at the blue sky and wondered what that missing artifact might be.

  “And where in the world did you hide it?” I asked out loud.

  Abraham had hounded me from the earliest age to always keep notes of my work. At every stage, it was important to photograph and map everything, not just the physical work, the paper, the boards, the binding, the threads, but also my own impressions and thoughts and problems and theories regarding the project. He likened the job to that of an archaeologist or a crime scene investigator. If Abraham had found something inside that hidden pocket, he would’ve slipped the item into a clear plastic sleeve and clipped it into a binder for protection and reference.

  “A book is a piece of living history.” I could hear him say it as clearly as though he were here in the room with me.

  “So what the hell did you do with this piece?” I wondered aloud. “And where’d you put your damn journal?”

  My eyes narrowed as I scanned the compact space again. It was identical to Abraham’s workroom two doors down. Modular shelving and cabinets in a blond wood veneer lined three walls, and the large worktable and stools filled the remaining middle space. The ceiling was high, the lighting decent. It was a clean and orderly room with everything neatly arranged.

  Abraham, however, had always been a whirlwind of creative energy, an artist who left his mark wherever he went. In other words, he was a slob. As I looked around at this assigned space, I realized the man never would’ve kept anything important here. He might’ve been forced to work in this room, but he didn’t live here, didn’t create here, didn’t leave his mark here.

  The man I knew had kept every notebook and journal he’d ever written on every project he’d ever worked. He was a pack rat. So where were all the papers and notebooks and journals the Winslow project would’ve generated?

  Had someone stolen them? Was that why he was killed?

  Taking one more glance around, I realized I wouldn’t find the answers here.

  There was only one place I could think of looking and that was at Abraham’s rambling home studio at the commune in Sonoma. I still had a key to the place.

  My stomach growled. I checked my watch and realized it was almost noon. As I tidied up, I calculated that if I could make it to my car within ten minutes, I’d have time to go to the drive-through at Speedy Grill and get a junior double cheeseburger, mega fries and an Oreo milk shake, and still make it to Sonoma by two o’clock.

  Chapter 6

  It was almost twelve thirty when I passed the busy Presidio toll plaza and drove onto the Golden Gate Bridge. I’d made decent time from the Covington, despite the noontime drive-through stop at not-so-Speedy Grill. It was worth the wait, though, because there was no better cheeseburger in the world. Theirs was made with Niman Ranch beef, slices of heirloom tomato and sweet Walla Walla onion, a fluffy homemade bun and an aioli-based secret sauce worthy of a Cordon Bleu chef. Critics insisted and I concurred, it was the best in the City.

  Sadly, I was so hungry that by the time I hit the bridge, the burger was a vague, happy memory. Luckily, I still had some fries and most of my milk shake left for the rest of the trip north.

  My hands clutched the steering wheel a little too tightly as I played back my latest run-in with Derek Stone before leaving the library. I’d tried to track down Ian, but he’d left his office and I wasn’t willing to trust the Winslow Faust to anyone else but Derek.

  But did he appreciate my concern? No. He demanded to know where the hell I was going and when I told him I needed to visit my mother, he snatched the book away and made an annoying crack about my lackadaisical working hours. My sad comeback was something along the lines of “bite me.”

  I forced him out of my head and tried to enjoy the drive. The Golden Gate Bridge and the view of the bay never failed to impress me. The sky was still a gorgeous blue, but it was colder and the crosswinds were gusty.

  Stop-and-go traffic plagued the southbound drivers, but I was able to zip along at the forty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit after carefully dodging an ancient pop-top minivan that appeared to be readying for liftoff. Two little boys in the back were sticking out their tongues and making naughty finger gestures that the harried, white-knuckled driver-their mother, I presumed-wouldn’t have approved of. But Mom seemed oblivious of the little monsters, too busy fighting to keep the car grounded against the buffeting winds.

  Two minutes later, I was off the bridge and safely back on terra firma in Marin County. I drove throu
gh the rainbow tunnel and as I whizzed past the first San Rafael turnoff, my cell phone bleated out a generic sound, meaning I had no clue who was calling. I grabbed the phone anyway and fumbled for the button. “Hello?”

  “You left without signing the papers.” It was Ian.

  Damn. The Covington employment contract.

  “Sorry, but I tried to find you,” I said. Then I went rigid. “You got the Faust, right?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  I let out a breath. “Good.”

  “But I wish you’d stuck around,” he said. “The Winslows were here. They wanted to meet you.”

  “Oh, darn.”

  “Something wrong?” he asked, unexpectedly attuned to my dripping sarcasm.

  “No, everything’s great,” I said, pumping up my enthusiasm. “I’m sorry I missed them but my mother called.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Oh yeah. But she needed me to, um, pick something up for her.”

  Not too clever as excuses went, but I wasn’t ready to tell him what I’d discovered inside the Faust-or rather, what I had not discovered-until I actually found whatever it was. And I didn’t want the Winslows to know what I was looking for. Which wouldn’t be a problem since I didn’t have a clue what I was looking for, anyway.

  I frowned. Even I was confused.

  “Well, say hi to your mom for me,” Ian said.

  “Ah,” I said, remembering where I was and who I was talking to. “I will. Hey, you should come up for dinner one of these days. Austin thinks this year’s pinot is bordering on world class. He’s forcing everyone to taste it.”

  “That bastard.”

  I laughed. Since Ian had been Austin’s college buddy as well as my short-term fiancé, he was no stranger to my family and the commune.

  “I know my parents would love to see you,” I said, steering around an idiot in red spandex riding a ten-speed. On the freeway? But it was Marin, after all.

  “I’d love to see everyone,” he said, sounding wistful. “I’ll give them a call soon.”

  “Great.” I slammed on my brakes to avoid sideswiping a vintage copper Mustang whose driver thought he owned the road. Cool car. Dumb driver. “I’ll try to get back there later today,” I added, knowing it was a lie.

  “Don’t bother,” he said. “You can sign everything tomorrow. You’ll be here tomorrow, right?”

  “Of course,” I said, feeling the pressure of employment all of a sudden. This was why I owned my own business. I didn’t work well in captivity. “I’ll be there every day until the book’s done, I promise. This was just, you know, an extenuating circumstance.”

  “No problem, kiddo. I’ll call the Winslows and let them know to come by tomorrow.”

  “Dandy,” I lied. Again. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Good-o,” he said, and signed off.

  I hung up. The good news about Ian’s call was that it had helped me ignore the cheesy condo-clogged hill-sides of Sausalito and all the minimalls and car lots that lined the freeway through San Rafael.

  The bad news was that I’d have to deal with the Winslows tomorrow. I wondered again whether the conversation I’d overheard the night of Abraham’s murder had something to do with his death. I tried to recall their words.

  “Son of a bitch.” “Problem with a book.” “I took care of it.”

  It all sounded suspicious. Without thinking, I checked my rearview mirror. I had the abrupt and uncomfortable feeling that someone was following me.

  I took the turnoff to Route 37 and for the next few miles there was little but wide-open marshland that spread clear to the eastern side of the bay. I could see no sinister cars behind me. And no black Bentley, either.

  Miles later, grassy hills melded into vineyards. I finally made it through Glen Ellen, the southern boundary of the region known locally as the Valley of the Moon. Three miles beyond town, I turned onto Montana Ridge Road and headed for Dharma.

  The day we moved here so many years ago, Montana Ridge Road had been a pitted, one-lane gravel road bordered by rickety wood fences and rusted chain link. We’d driven past broken-down barns, funky farmhouses and tarnished trailers. Most front lawns featured the requisite bullet-riddled washing machine. Lots of tarnished RVs were parked on the driveways as extra housing for the in-laws.

  After spending my first seven years in the quiet elegance of the St. Francis Woods neighborhood of San Francisco, I was shell-shocked by these stark surroundings and so were my siblings. As the family car bucked and bounced and we got our first depressing view of this dismal, rural neighborhood that was to be our new home, my older brother, Austin, began to quietly hum the first four bars of “Dueling Banjos.”

  At the time, I was too young to get the reference. But my dad got it and told Austin to pipe down.

  Despite first impressions, we’d done pretty well for ourselves. For the first two years we lived up here, all eight of us were squeezed into an Airstream camper while the Fellowship members built a community and planted vineyards. Over the years, more property was acquired, more artists’ studios were constructed, a restaurant was built onto the town hall and a schoolhouse was added for the kids who seemed to multiply with every season.

  Within a few years, the commune had grown to almost nine hundred and Guru Bob incorporated. Now the little town of Dharma was a thriving community of chic shops and art galleries, restaurants, artisanal farms, an excellent winery, three stylish B and Bs and a world-class health and beauty spa. Not bad for a gaggle of Deadheads and freaks, as Dad always said.

  Montana Ridge turned into Shakespeare Lane, signaling the beginning of the quaint, two-blocks-long Dharma shopping district. I drove past the darling shops and cafés and small storefront businesses, including Warped, my sister China’s yarn and weavings shop.

  Past the wide central square and town hall, I swung onto Vivaldi Way, the narrow private road that wound up the hill overlooking Dharma. I pulled into Abraham’s circular drive and parked, then climbed out of the car and stretched my arms out to unkink my back and shoulders. The air up here was cooler and the sky was beginning to cloud up. I hoped it wouldn’t rain before I got back to the City.

  I stared at Abraham’s house, an imposing two-story Spanish colonial with a great view of the town and rolling hills beyond. Not exactly the picture that leapt to mind when you heard the word commune, but years ago, once the commune had started making money, Guru Bob had been adamant about raising the level of impressions and lifestyle.

  Abraham’s patio and pool circled the back of the house and his bookbinding studio was at the far end of the property.

  I grabbed my keys and bag and headed for the studio. A banner of yellow crime scene ribbon was strewn across the door, so the police had been here, too. Had they found anything incriminating?

  I had a moment of indecision, then resolutely pulled the tape off and opened the door. I walked inside and was assailed by the smells of rich leather, musty parchment, inks and oils and peppermint. Almost instantly, bittersweet memories flooded my consciousness.

  I could picture Abraham standing in his leather apron, his shirtsleeves shoved up his dark, muscular arms, his leather-stained hands gold-flecked as he painstakingly gilded an intricate design on the spine of a book held tightly in place by one of his antique book presses.

  I’d grown up in this room, apprenticing for the man. It hadn’t been easy. He’d enjoyed being a strict task-master and I made a lot of mistakes. But I loved the work, loved the books, loved the feeling of accomplishment that came with completing a project. I knew from the beginning I had a gift for both the art and the craft of bookbinding, even though Abraham never said so. It didn’t matter. I’d overheard him telling my parents on more than one occasion that I’d done good work and it never failed to warm my heart to hear him say so.

  As I rounded the room, I caught a whiff of sawdust mixed with sweat and glue and I almost lost it right there. He should’ve been here, working and laughing and ordering me around. I gulped
, trying to ease the lump in my throat.

  I dabbed away tears with my jacket sleeve as I ambled around the studio looking for anything that might tell me what had been hidden behind the endpapers of the Winslow Faust. A journal perhaps, or a binder, a calendar. Or maybe a sign that read “Yo, here’s what you’re looking for.”

  Abraham’s studio was arranged in typical workshop fashion with three wide counters running along the walls and a high worktable in the center. The side counters were jammed with book presses and punches and other equipment. Shelves lined the walls and held hundreds of spools of threads, tools, brushes, more paper, rolls of leather and stacks of heavy cardboard.

  “You were always such a mess.” I straightened tools as I went, clumped loose brushes together in an empty jar, neatly restacked an unruly pile of endpapers.

  I distracted myself by picking up the cordless phone from its base at the edge of the worktable. Absently, I checked the phone numbers on speed dial and recognized my own as well as my parents’. I put the phone down on the napkin it was resting on, then noticed that it was a cocktail napkin from a restaurant I recognized, the Buena Vista near Fisherman’s Wharf.

  I picked it up and saw a note scrawled on the back.

  You missed our appt. Are you bullshitting me? You’ve got one more chance. Meet me at the BV this Friday night or all bets are off.

  It was signed Anandalla.

  Anandalla? What kind of a name was Anandalla? More important, who was she? A date? A client? The note sounded ominous. Was it written by Abraham’s killer?

  I was familiar with the Buena Vista, a venerable bar and restaurant near Fisherman’s Wharf, down the street from Ghirardelli Square. I hadn’t been there in months but it might be worth a visit this Friday night. Not that I had a clue who this Anandalla might be, but maybe she knew something about Abraham that would help me put the pieces of the puzzle together.