I watched as he prowled the exterior edge of the wide room, studying the crowd, casting an occasional look at the exhibits, taking it all in. He moved like a panther stalking its prey. I tried to look away but couldn’t. I’m sorry, but he was incredibly hot and sexy. You didn’t find that at the library every day.
I watched him raise one eyebrow and bite back a smile. Intrigued, I followed the direction of his gaze across the room to the open doorway where Robin stood with one hand on her hip, checking out the crowd, looking sassy and vivacious as she finally made her splashy grand entrance.
It figured. I’d earned a foul-tempered frown from Mr. Hot ’n’ Sexy, while Robin got a raised eyebrow and a smiley face. I hated to be a whiner but sometimes life sucked a lot.
I sighed, held my glass out and Dad automatically filled it. Sometimes it really helped to have friends in high places. Like behind the bar, pouring drinks.
I left my dad charming the guests and with my wineglass full, I darted in and around the displays, enjoying the pretty music as I greeted some people I knew. It looked as though Abraham had invited every bookbinder in Northern California tonight. I couldn’t blame him. This show was a triumph, right down to the salmon- and crème-fraiche-topped blini I munched as I wandered.
A large corner of the main library room had been set aside for the Winslow exhibit, and a tasteful banner pronounced it ONE HERO’S LITERARY JOURNEY: GERMAN LITERATURE AND PHILOSOPHY FROM THE 17TH CENTURY THROUGH THE 20TH CENTURY-THE COLLECTION OF HEINRICH WINSLOW.
The displays told in letters, photos and museum placards the story of Heinrich Winslow, who had owned a large construction firm in Nazi Germany and used his powerful position to save more than seven hundred Jews from being shipped off to concentration camps. It was all eerily similar to that of Oskar Schindler’s “List.” It made me wonder how many other ordinary German citizens had dared to defy Hitler and the Nazis.
Heinrich’s life had recently been the subject of a History Channel special, and I assumed that unexpected coup would bring even more interest to the exhibit.
I strolled along the rows, checking out the other books in the Winslow collection, notably the 1812 first edition of the Grimm brothers’ fairy tales with its elegant, hand-painted illustrations, and several of Wagner’s original opera scores with his notes penciled in the margins.
There were also letters from Holocaust victims and survivors along with photographs from that time. The presentation was emotional and disturbing, yet uplifting at the same time.
Despite the subject matter, the crowd was vivacious and friendly. The music soared above the hullabaloo of conversation, and the food and alcohol flowed.
It had been more than an hour since I’d last seen Abraham, so I decided to venture downstairs to view the Faust. After stopping to refresh my wine, I slipped down a quiet hall to find the ladies’ room and freshen my lipstick.
Revived and refreshed, I passed the alcove that led to the public telephones and heard a man whisper heatedly, “That lousy son of a bitch won’t get away with this.”
“Please don’t do anything foolish,” a woman said, her voice simmering with worry.
“I never do anything foolish,” he said. “I leave that to you women.”
“Oh, Daddy,” a younger woman said, her voice high and whiny.
“Unfortunately, dear, Daddy’s right,” the older woman said. “Let’s not forget how this fiasco got started.”
“At least you admit it,” the man said bitterly. “Now I’ve got to figure out the best way to handle this asshole and the bind he’s put us in.”
“Language, dear,” the woman cautioned.
“She’s heard worse,” he argued.
“Look,” the woman said, “let’s just forget the problems with the book and try to have a nice time tonight.”
“Can I leave?” the girl asked. “This is so boring.”
“Your legacy is boring?” the man said, his voice rising. The trio marched out of the alcove, saw me and stopped dead.
I recognized them. Conrad and Sylvia Winslow and their lovely daughter, Meredith, San Francisco’s answer to Paris Hilton. They were the present owners of the Winslow collection and wealthy beyond belief, but unlike Abraham’s friends, Doris and Teddy Bondurant, the Winslows liked to flaunt their money, creating daily fodder for the local paparazzi.
I prayed I didn’t look like a deer caught in the headlights as I smiled, said a gracious “Good evening” and kept walking. When in doubt, act as if you own the damn place.
As they strutted off, I wondered who might be the “son of a bitch” Mr. Winslow had been referring to. And what was his wife talking about when she said there were “problems with the book”? If there were any problems with any books, Abraham would know. I quickly headed for the West Gallery.
I realized I’d lost track of both Robin and the frowning man. It was just as well, since the last thing I wanted to see was the two of them flirting with each other. And how silly did that make me sound? I’d never even met the man.
Temporary insanity. Too many long hours spent in the company of moldy old books. Whatever. I took another gulp of wine as I popped through the West Gallery door and headed for the basement stairs to find Abraham.
The stairwell lighting was low and the stairs were narrow and steep. My high heels didn’t help matters, so I took each step slowly, clutching the rail with one hand and my wineglass with the other as I descended.
Below me, I could hear staccato footsteps ascending quickly toward me. As I rounded the landing, a woman jerked to a stop to avoid barging into me.
I gasped in shock. She looked at me.
And screamed.
Chapter 3
“Mother?”
“Whoa!” My mom laughed nervously and the sound echoed in the stairwell. “Brooklyn! Whew, I’m glad it’s you and not your father.”
Not the greeting I’d expected. But nothing was meeting my expectations this evening.
She clung to the stair rail, catching her breath. She wasn’t exactly dressed for a high-society art opening in her pink and white jogging outfit and gym shoes. Her dark blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her skin glistened with moisture as though she’d been working out for the last hour.
“Mother, what’re you doing here?”
She glanced anxiously over her shoulder. I did, too, suddenly paranoid. Assured we were alone, she whispered, “I needed to see Abraham privately.”
“Tonight?” I frowned. “It’s kind of the opposite of private around here, Mom. What’s going on?”
She bit her lip. “Nothing.”
I almost laughed. “Nothing?”
“That’s right, nothing.” She fisted her hand on her hip, annoyed. “He stood me up.”
“What? Who stood you up? Abraham?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
“But Mom, you-”
She held up her hand to shut me up, then closed her eyes, rolled her shoulders and put her palms together, yoga-style. I recognized the move. She was finding her center, calming herself, aligning her chakras, balancing her core. She was one with the universe. Good grief.
“Earth to Mom.”
She slowly opened her eyes and bowed her head. “All is well.”
“No, Mom, all is weird. What’re you-”
“Om shanti shanti shanti,” she chanted, as she reached out and touched the center of my forehead, my third eye, the seat of higher consciousness where inner peace reigned.
“Mother.” There was a warning note to my voice.
“Brooklyn, breathe. You worry too much.” She rubbed her fingers lightly across the frown lines of my forehead, then smiled sweetly. “Peace, baby girl.”
I almost groaned. She’d passed through to another place and now wore what my siblings and I liked to call her Sunny Bunny face. When she clicked on that eerie, happy mask, all battles were over.
I shook my head in defeat. Nothing penetrated the Sunny Bunny face.
“We�
��re not finished here, mom,” I said. “I want to know what’s going on.”
“Perhaps, in time.” She glanced around again. “Do me a favor, sweetie.”
“Okay.” I said it hesitantly.
She patted my cheek. “Don’t tell your father you saw me here.”
“What?”
“Namasté, honey. Gotta go.”
Before I could stop her, she zigzagged around me and raced away, up the stairs. My yoga mom was speedy when she wanted to be.
I stared at the empty stairway for a few seconds. So, it was official: My mother had gone insane. The upside was, back at the commune, nobody would notice.
But seriously, what the heck was that all about?
I took a big sip of wine, tried to lighten up, align my own chakras, whatever, and continued downstairs.
My mother was the most open, honest person I knew. She couldn’t keep a secret to save her life, or so I’d always thought. Was something going on between her and Abraham? Clearly the answer was yes. The real question was-what was going on between her and Abraham?
And did I really want to know the answer?
“Nothing’s going on,” I told myself, then repeated it a few times. Of course there was nothing going on. Mom and Dad had been sweethearts ever since they’d met at the tie-dyed T-shirt booth during a Grateful Dead weekend blowout at the Ventura Fairgrounds in 1972. We’d heard the story often enough to recite it by heart.
Mom was nineteen, Dad was twenty-two. Mom wore frayed, button-fly cutoffs with a short, tight T-shirt that read like an advertisement for a local motel. BED & BECKY, it said. And yes, Mom’s name is Becky. We all figured Dad was probably stoned, not to mention turned on, but he insisted he was enchanted by her sweet, natural spirit.
They made their early years together sound like a fairy tale. But the bottom line was, my parents were still lovey-dovey to this day. They’d stayed together through good times and bad, through six kids and major moves and family issues and commune politics. The very idea that Mom and Abraham were… no. Ugh. Not that I didn’t love Abraham but… no, forget it.
I know it sounds sappy, but deep down inside, I liked to think my parents represented the possibility of everlasting love. Meaning, maybe someday, I might experience my own version of that. It had eluded me so far, but it could happen.
I took another fortifying gulp of wine, banished all thoughts of Mom and… you know, and kept going.
When I reached the basement level, I followed the signs and arrows pointing the way to Conservation and Restoration. After several series of switchbacks and two sets of double doors, I finally ended up at one end of a long, deserted hallway. There were doors on both sides of the hall, probably twenty all together. These were the book restorers’ workrooms. Every door was closed.
“Abraham?” I called.
Nothing.
I supposed he was intent on keeping the priceless Faust under wraps and behind closed doors, so I would have to hunt him down. I finished off the glass of wine before trying the handle on the first door. It was locked. Same for the next three. The fifth door was unlocked but the room was completely empty.
The next door opened easily.
Every light was on full blast. The room was glaringly bright. Papers were scattered everywhere. Tools and brushes lay in disarray on the counters and on the floor. Cabinet drawers were pulled out and upturned. A high stool lay on the floor next to the center worktable.
What a mess. I stepped inside to look around.
That was when I saw Abraham, lying on the cold cement floor. A pool of dark liquid seeped from under him.
“Oh my God.” My glass slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor. Spots began to spin in front of my eyes. I sucked in a breath, ran over and fell on my knees by his side.
“Abraham!”
His arms were wrapped tightly around his chest. Alive? Please, God, alive.
I was screaming, couldn’t help it.
“Abraham. Wake up.” I tried to pull him into my arms, but he was so heavy I couldn’t budge him. “Oh, please don’t die.”
I grabbed his shoulders and shook him hard before I realized that was a bad idea. I leaned over and held him close to me. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you? Oh God, I’m sorry, so sorry.”
I felt him stir.
His eyelids fluttered, and I almost fainted with relief. “Oh God, you’re alive. Thank you. I’ll get help. Don’t worry.”
He gazed up at me, his eyes blurry. He coughed, then muttered something.
I leaned closer. “What?”
“De-vil,” he whispered. His arms relaxed around his chest and his jacket loosened.
“What are you saying?”
He coughed again. “Remember… the… devil.”
A thick, heavy book slipped out from inside his jacket. I quickly snatched it before it slid onto the bloody floor. Instinct, I guess, ingrained in me from childhood. Save the book. I gaped at the faded black leather binding. Once-elegant gold tooling created a pale border of fleur-de-lis around the front edges of the cover, and each flower point was studded with bloodred gems. Rubies? Ornate but rusted brass clasps in the shape of claws held the book closed.
Goethe’s Faust.
My gaze darted back to Abraham. His lips trembled as he formed a slight smile.
I shoved the book inside my suit jacket.
He nodded his head in approval. At least, I thought it was a nod. Then his eyes glazed over and flickered closed.
“No.” I grabbed his jacket. “No. Don’t you dare. Abraham. Wake up. Oh God. Don’t-”
His head slumped to the side.
“No! No, please-”
“Let him go.”
“Yikes!” I snatched my hands away. Abraham sagged to the floor. I stared at my hands. They were covered in blood. I screamed again.
“That’s enough. Stand up and move away from him.”
I whipped my head around. The frowning man from upstairs stood at the door holding a gun pointed directly at me.
And yeah, he was still frowning.
I stared, unable to move. The lights were too bright. Shards of color twirled like kaleidoscopes at the edges of my vision. Frowning Man waved the gun as if to catch my attention, but he was getting blurry.
I felt myself sway. And everything faded to black.
Calloused hands pushed my hair back from my forehead.
“Women,” a male voice muttered in scorn.
I groaned.
“Wake up, now.” The voice was clipped, British, impatient. It had to be the frowning man. Who else? From his tone I imagined he wasn’t exactly beaming at me.
He patted my cheek. “Come on, snap out of it.” He smelled like heaven. Manly and warm with a hint of green forest and a touch of leather and-
He slapped my cheek a little too vigorously. “I know you’re awake. Come on now. That’s it. Come about.”
Come about?
“I’m not a boat,” I grumbled, and shifted away from him. There were cushions beneath me. A couch. How’d I get on a couch?
“Good, you’re awake.” He gave me another smack for good measure and I managed to reach up and grab his hand.
With one eye opened, I glared at him. “Stop hitting me.”
“Ah. You’re feeling better.”
“No thanks to you.” I pushed my way up to a sitting position. “Where am I?”
“Two doors down from where I found you.” He’d found me with Abraham. The memory came rushing back. My tears welled up and spilled over.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” He reached in his breast pocket and thrust his white linen handkerchief into my hand. Then he stood and began to pace.
I was about to thank him for the handkerchief when he said, “You’d better sit all the way up or you’ll likely drown yourself.”
“Oh, be quiet.” Then I blew my nose and dabbed away the tears, determined not to cry anymore in front of this insensitive jerk. I sat straighter and folded my arms tightly around my chest-and
realized with alarm that the book I’d been hiding was gone.
I jumped off the couch. “Where’s my-”
“Looking for this?” He held up the black leather-bound Faust, clutching it with a white dust cloth.
“That’s mine,” I blurted.
“Yours?”
“What I mean is, it’s not yours.”
“It’s not?”
“It belongs to the Winslow collection. Abraham gave it to me.”
“Gave it to you?”
I clenched my fists. “Stop repeating my words.”
“Repeating?” He pursed his lips in a smirk.
I no longer cared that he was sexy and smelled good. He was too incredibly annoying.
I took a deep breath. “Abraham gave the book to me for safekeeping.”
“Of course he did.”
“You don’t need to be sarcastic,” I said, glaring at him. “He really did give it to me.”
He grunted. “Right.”
“Who the hell are you?”
He carefully placed the book down on the side counter. “We’ll get to that.”
“We’ll get to it right now or I’m leaving.” I swept my hair back from my face and said, “Why am I even talking to you? I’m out of here.”
He stepped in front of me. “You’re not going anywhere. The police arrived just moments ago and they’ll want to question you.”
“Fine. I want to talk to them, too.”
“You won’t have long to wait. They’re upstairs handling the crowd right now. They’ll be down shortly to survey the murder scene and then they’ll have a little talk with you.”
I gulped and sat back down on the couch. Why did that phrase make this horrible night feel even worse? “Murder scene?”
“Oh, that’s very well played,” he said. “Should’ve known you’d be trouble the moment I saw you.”
I scowled. “What are you talking about?”
“This innocent routine.” He strolled about the room with his hands in his pockets. “I’m certain the local police will be impressed with your little fainting act, but I saw you in that room with Karastovsky.”
Appalled, I pushed myself off the couch and cornered him. “You think I killed Abraham?”
Homicide in Hardcover Page 3