Homicide in Hardcover Page 8

  I stuck the cocktail napkin in my pocket and moved to the long counter against the back wall. Here, Abraham had stacked a number of newly sanded, thin birch wood panels for use as book covers, I guessed. Big chunks of bone and seashells lay in a pile next to the wood.

  Months ago, Abraham had mentioned teaching a class on Zen and the art of Japanese bookbinding. I’d thought it sounded like great fun. I sifted through the bones and shells, picking out the most solid shapes, thinking they would make beautiful closure clasps. I stuck a few in my bag, neatly lined up the shells and bones, straightened the stack of birch covers, then moved to Abraham’s bookshelf at the end of the counter. This was where he’d always kept his finished projects and samples, along with some of my earliest attempts at bookbinding. I leaned in to see the titles.

  “Hey,” I whispered, and pulled out the aged, leather-bound copy of Wild Flowers in the Wind.

  I ran my hand over the soft blue leather and simple gilding that bordered the edges of the front cover. Abraham had allowed me to use this ratty old book as my very first restoration project. I’d chosen sky blue leather because it was so pretty.

  I smiled at the memory of Abraham laughing about the book’s title since he’d claimed most of the so-called flowers in the book looked like scrawny weeds. The gilded title along the spine was slightly wobbly and I remembered I’d struggled with it so desperately. It was still one of the most difficult parts of the job for me.

  As I opened the book, my tears spotted the flyleaf.

  “Moisture destroys books.”

  “I know, I know.” I shivered. It was as if Abraham were here in the room, giving me grief. I blotted my eyes, then stuck the Weeds book back on the shelf.

  “Hey, you.”

  I jolted, then turned and saw my mother standing in the doorway.

  “Jeez, Mom, scare me half to death, why don’t you?”

  “Sorry,” Mom said with a grin. “I figured you heard me clomping across the patio.”

  I exhaled shakily. “I guess I zoned out.”

  She smiled indulgently. “You do that.”

  I bent to pick up a brush that had fallen on the floor. “What are you doing here?”

  She wandered into the room. “I saw you driving up Vivaldi, but your car never made it to the house, so I figured you stopped here.”

  I glanced around, unsure how to explain what I was doing here. There was no need to feel guilty, but this was my mother, after all. Guilt was a mandatory response.

  “Ian asked me to take over Abraham’s Covington work, so I thought I’d try to find some of his notes on the books.”

  “Wonderful.” She pulled her sweater snug around her waist and folded her arms. “Chilly in here.”

  I hadn’t noticed until now. We were both circling around the five-hundred-pound elephant in the room, but I wasn’t going to go there right now. When she was ready, she’d tell me what she was doing at the Covington the night Abraham was killed.

  “Come on, Mom, I’ll walk you back home.”

  I locked the door and left my car in Abraham’s drive and we started up the hill.

  “So, how is Ian?”

  “Fine,” I said. “I told him to come out for dinner sometime.”

  “That would be lovely,” she said. “It’s such a shame you two couldn’t make a go of it.”

  “Oh, please.” I laughed. “You know we’re both better off as friends than we ever were as lovers.”

  She smiled. “I suppose so. It’s just that Ian’s alchemy and body type matched yours so perfectly.”

  “Yeah.” I rolled my eyes. “That was the problem.”

  Mom placed her small hand against my sternum and closed her eyes. “Your fourth chakra was always so highly developed, even as a little girl. You need someone extremely sexual to stir your heart and passions into action.”

  “Oh, thanks for that.” Just the conversation I wanted to have with my mother.

  She took her hand away and opened her eyes. “Try adding more back bends to your exercise regime. It’s a powerful way to energize the Anahata within to attract the correct sexual mate.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” I said. Nice to know she assumed I had an exercise regime.

  “Good. Maybe you’ll meet someone nice while you’re at the Covington.”

  Unbidden, a picture of Derek Stone flashed through my mind and I anxiously shook the image away.

  “Doubtful, Mom, but I’ll keep you posted.”

  She patted my arm. “I’m just so proud that you’re there, and you’re able to make a life for yourself doing this work. I hope Abraham didn’t… Well, I know he was hard on you.”

  “He taught me everything I know.”

  “I know.” She wound her arm through mine. “And if I never loved Abraham for any other reason, I would have loved him for giving you that world.”

  I glanced at her. Were those tears in her eyes? She loved him? Did she mean love, as a friend? Studying Mom’s face, I found it hard to read what she was feeling, thinking. And honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I felt my stomach churn and doubted it had anything to do with the Speedy burger.

  I lasted forty-five minutes at my parents’ house. While Austin coerced me into trying short tastes of the pinot he was so psyched about along with the newest cabernet they’d just barreled, Dad filled me in on plans for Abraham’s memorial service that would be held this Saturday at the town hall.

  Mom insisted on regaling me with forty or fifty new photos of my sister London’s infant twins. I didn’t say anything to Mom, but for God’s sake, those babies were barely three months old and this made something like six thousand pictures London had sent Mom to ogle and giggle over. Could infants be blinded by overexposure? Could they develop flashbulb dependency?

  I endured the picture show grudgingly. London had always been the competitive one, always trying to one-up me with Mom. You didn’t see me foisting shots of my moldy old books onto my mother, did you? Figures London would give birth to twins. I wasn’t about to compete with that.

  I finally managed to say good-bye without succumbing to the pot roast dinner my mother tried to tempt me with. The fact that I would turn down my mom’s incredible cooking said something about my desperate need to get back to the City before it rained. I really hated driving in the rain.

  I hiked down the hill to Abraham’s where I’d left my car. On a whim, I detoured back to his studio, thinking I’d grab some more of those shells for my own use. Abraham wouldn’t miss them and I wanted to experiment with an Asian-influenced accordion-style album I was designing for a client.

  There was just enough moonlight that I didn’t turn the studio light on, just zipped inside and headed straight for the shells. I stumbled over something hard but caught myself, barely.

  “Nice going, Your Grace,” I berated myself. I moved forward slowly in the dark and found the back worktable. I fumbled around, grabbed a handful of shells and carefully placed them in the side pocket of my bag.

  As I started back toward the door, I realized that what I really wanted was my Weeds book. It would be a sweet reminder of my early years working with Abraham and I wanted it for my own studio.

  I headed for the bookshelf and my foot crunched over something. It was probably another shell. I thought I’d picked them all up off the floor, but I guess I missed one.

  I made it to the darkened bookshelf and looked closely for a moment before distinguishing the blue leather cover from the others. I pulled the book off the shelf and slipped it into my bag, just as the studio light flipped on and the world lit up.

  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.

&n
bsp; 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.