Homicide in Hardcover

by Kate Carlisle

  He slung his arm around my shoulder and led me down the hall, away from the curious glances of the police. “The Winslows are threatening to pull the book from the exhibit if it’s not ready by next week’s official opening. I really need to know if you can do it.”

  “Of course I can do it,” I said quickly. “That’s not the issue. There’s, you know, Abraham to consider.”

  It seemed to me, stepping in to take the place of a murdered friend carried a fairly high creep factor with it.

  “I know, babe,” he said, running both hands through his hair in frustration. “But there’s no one else I can count on.”

  “The Winslows can’t pull the book, can they?”

  “You haven’t met them, have you?” he asked warily.

  “Yes. No.” I stopped walking and looked up at him. “But the Faust is the most important book in the collection. It doesn’t matter if it’s restored or not. It’s already a work of art. Display it as is.”

  “Believe me, I’d love to, but they don’t see it that way. Mrs. Winslow said she wants it to look pretty.” He shook his head in disgust. “Civilians.”

  He had a point. On the other hand, if there weren’t “civilians” out there wanting me to make their old books look pretty, I’d be out of work.

  “You’ll be paid well,” he said.

  “You know I don’t care about that.”

  Then he quoted the salary he was willing to pay me and I knew I’d be a complete idiot not to take it. Yes, the timing was unfortunate. And yes, I was about to sacrifice my principles for money. So sue me, but the job needed to be done and I wasn’t about to let it go to somebody else.

  I smiled tightly. “Of course I’ll do it.”

  He let out a relieved breath. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you.”

  “Always.”

  He grinned and gave me a chuck on the chin. “Good stuff, you.”

  It was a classic Ian thing to do and say, and it brought home the fact that Ian wasn’t a laid-back Californian but an upper-crust, old-school Bostonian, out of his element in the land of fruits and nuts. I imagined he grew up in a stately home where his parents and siblings greeted one another with cries of “hail, fellow” and “pip-pip” and “cheerio, old bean.”

  “Do you mind if we discuss the details tomorrow?” I asked. “I’m really beat.”

  He gave in with a nod. “Sure. Why don’t you come by my office around ten tomorrow morning and we’ll talk?” Then he surprised me by pulling me close for a hug. My eyes began tearing up again, so I took a deep breath and stepped back.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.

  He slugged my arm gently. “Thanks, kiddo.”

  While Robin took a shower in my guest bathroom, I did what I always did when I was completely at my wits’ end and unsure what to do next.

  I worked.

  Robin had kindly insisted on spending the night and I was frankly grateful for the company. So now I focused my camera lens on the medical treatise I’d been working on this afternoon, trying to get a good shot of the book’s tattered foredge.

  “How can you concentrate on work?” she asked as she came into the room rubbing a towel over her wet hair. I had to marvel that even in my old chenille bathrobe, she looked like a party girl.

  And since I was closer to her than I was to my own two sisters, I didn’t mind confessing, “I’m working so I can keep from seeing him dying over and over again in my mind.”

  “Oh, honey.” She gave me a tight hug. “Keep working, then. I’ll just wander.”

  “Help yourself to wine if you want.”

  She disappeared down the hall and was back in two minutes with glasses for both of us.

  “Your place is great,” she said as she strolled through the room, moving from window to window to check the view from the sixth floor of what was formerly a corset warehouse, now converted to trendy artists’ lofts.

  “It’s great, isn’t it?” I glanced around with more than a little pride. I’d fallen in love with the place six months ago after I’d decided to concentrate on my own book restoration and conservation business. The wa-a-ay South of Market Street neighborhood was, hmm, eclectic, as my mother would say instead of admitting it was downright scary and no place for her daughter to live.

  Despite Mom’s fears, I’d taken the plunge and was now the very proud owner of one-eighth of the top floor of the six-story brick building. The open, sunny, warehouse-sized front room was perfect for my studio. It was filled with all my book presses and worktables and benches and tool racks and leather rolls and supply cabinets and bookshelves, along with an office desk and chair.

  My living area in back had massive skylights, lots of windows, a huge bathroom and a view of the bay so breathtaking it made the slightly seedy environs and semiweekly frantic phone calls from my mother completely worth enduring. Add a mere six-block walk to the Giants’ ballpark and that was enough to sway my father’s opinion in my favor.

  And so far, I loved all my neighbors. How often did that happen?

  I watched as Robin checked that the front door was still locked. A minute later, I could hear her fiddling around in the kitchen.

  While she was gone I had another troubling vision of Abraham dying in front of me and felt more disturbed than ever. I wondered how I was supposed to sleep, tonight or ever again.

  I tried to feel some pleasure and satisfaction that Ian had singled me out to restore the Faust. But at what cost? I hated that Abraham and I had repaired our friendship only to have him die in my arms.

  At that moment, I vowed that I wouldn’t rest easy until I’d brought his killer to justice. Even if the police never found the bastard, I swore I would track him down and make him pay.

  Robin returned with a small plate of cheese, crackers and olives.

  “Hey, thanks.”

  “I know you were dreaming of Chinese food, but this will be healthier.”

  I acknowledged the truth with a grunt and a sip of wine as she cruised back to the front window and checked the street scene below. A few seconds later, I heard her gasp.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She whipped around. “Don’t panic. But Derek Stone followed us home.”

  I almost choked on my wine. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Did I stutter? Brooklyn, the man followed us home.”

  “What-why?”

  “Because he got lost? Because he’s a jerk? Because he’s a serial killer? Never mind. Come here and see for yourself. That’s his car parked across the street.”

  I jumped off the high chair and turned the lights out, then joined her at the window. She’d pulled the curtain back so I could stare out at the well-lighted street. A couple was just leaving Pho Kim, the Vietnamese restaurant across the street. I ate there all the time. Incredible prawns and Bahn Hoi to die for, but that probably wasn’t relevant just now.

  I watched two people staring at the display in the window of the Afro-Pop Bookstore. A woman walked her dog nearby. It was a comfortable, diverse neighborhood where people walked and shopped and lived and worked and generally didn’t worry about strange men sitting alone in ridiculously expensive cars.

  “Okay, there’s definitely a black car parked there.” I didn’t know a Bentley from a baboon, so I wasn’t willing to admit more than that. “How do you know it’s him?”

  “Oh, please.” She put her fist on her hip. “A brand-new black Continental GT Bentley does not escape my notice, nor does the driver.”

  “I get that.” Robin did know her status symbols. “But how do you know that Derek Stone is driving that particular car?”

  “Just how many people do we know who drive Bentleys?”

  “None?”

  “Exactly.” She smiled. “And I happened to see him take off as we were leaving the Covington, so I know he drives that car.” She stared down at the street. “And if you wait a few seconds, you can see his profile when the headlights hit him just right.”

 
“Oh dear.” It was Derek Stone, all right. I might not know cars but I knew that rugged profile.

  “I guess he wasn’t kidding when he said he was going to watch you like a hawk,” Robin mused.

  “You talked to him?”

  “Yeah.” She sipped her wine. “When the police took you away for questioning, I was pretty much stuck with him.”

  I let the front curtain go, leaned against the bookcase and sipped my wine. “So, what else did he say about me?”

  “You’re joking, right?” There was a hint of disbelief in her voice. “Um, gee. He said he’s going to ask you to the prom. What is up with you?”

  “Nothing.” I put the wineglass down on the worktable and paced nervously. “He’s a jerk. I just meant, I hope he didn’t, you know, bug you.”

  She started to laugh. “Oh God. You like him.”

  “What? No.”

  “You do.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  She held her arms out. “Hey, why not? He’s totally hot, I’ll give him that much. Great car, too.”

  “Oh yeah, it’s all about the car. Are you insane?” I waved my arm toward the street. “He’s a-a stalker.”

  “And as stalkers go, he’s a hot one.”

  “Oh, I’m so flattered.” I grabbed my wine and took a gulp. “The man has no sense of humor and he thinks I’m a murderer.”

  “Sounds like love to me.”

  I groaned. “Shut up.” I turned the lights up and headed back to the worktable. At least my personal stalker had given me something else to think about besides Abraham’s murder.

  Robin chuckled as she backed away from the window and followed me across the room. “So, how’s the putrid pile of caca doing?”

  The smell of mold and ancient leather and old paper wafted up and I’ve got to say, I loved it.

  “It is nasty, isn’t it?” I said with a satisfied smile. “But this is my version of heaven.”

  “You can actually fix all this?”

  “Of course I can,” I said, turning the cover over. “I’m a genius, haven’t you heard? And I’ll earn every penny on this job because some of the damage is dismal. Will you look at this?” I pointed to a jagged rip on the end plate.

  She squinted. “Is that duct tape?”

  “Yes.” I shook my head in disgust. “On a John Brindley binding! Can you imagine?”

  “The horror.”

  “It gets worse.” I held out a stiff column of mottled, torn leather for her closer examination. “Rats. They nibbled straight through the-”

  She jumped back a foot. “Oh, good God. Rat cooties on top of everything else? Get that disgusting thing away from me.”

  “Wimp.”

  “Freak.” Robin laughed again and shook her head. “Come on, it’s time to sleep.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “I’m shocked. Good night.”

  “Good night.” I gave her a hug. “Thanks again for staying.”

  “I loved the old coot, too, you know. And I didn’t want to be alone, either,” she admitted, as she toddled off toward the guest bedroom. “Don’t forget to feed the cats.”

  “I’ll feed them in the morning.”

  “You already forgot, didn’t you?”

  What? Was she a mind reader? “No, I didn’t.”

  “Don’t make me have to call PETA,” Robin said with a laugh.

  Disgusted, I rummaged in the kitchen junk drawer, found a yellow stickie, wrote Feed cats and stuck it to the refrigerator door. “There, are you happy?”

  “Yeah. Now don’t forget to read the note.”

  “Go to bed.”

  “Nighty-night.”

  I stuck my wineglass in the sink, debated whether to break into the bag of leftover Chinese food, but took the high road. I poured water into the automatic coffeemaker and added three scoops of Peet’s Blend 101 for the morning, then headed off to bed.

  Eight hours later I awoke feeling strangely refreshed and amazed I’d been able to sleep even a wink. The smell of freshly brewed coffee assailed me, so I jumped out of bed and checked the guest bedroom. Robin was already up and gone, but when I got to the kitchen, I saw that she’d taken ten or twelve stickies and drawn arrows pointing to the one in the middle that said Feed cats.

  “Very funny,” I growled as I grabbed a cup of coffee. I savored it for a few minutes, then called Ian and confirmed our ten o’clock meeting at the Covington before wandering off to take a quick shower. Afterward, I blow-dryed my hair, then dressed in black jeans, black boots, and a black turtleneck sweater. I glanced in the mirror and felt depressed by all the black, so I added a cheerful green jacket for color. After a few quick swipes of mascara and some lip gloss, I microwaved a bowl of Vinnie’s Shanghai noodles and slurped them down, followed by two caramel chocolate kisses from the new bag I’d opened. Not exactly the breakfast of champions, but the noodles were incredibly delicious and helped raise my mood a few more notches.

  I was down in the garage, jogging to my car, when I remembered Pookie and Splinters.

  “Oh, crap.” I smacked the innocent car door. I really wasn’t cut out to be a caretaker of other living creatures.

  Riddled with guilt, I calculated exactly how late I could afford to be this morning. I supposed the cats could live out the day without food and water, but did I want to take that chance? What if Vinnie and Suzie came home early and found the food bowl empty and two emaciated kitties listlessly mewing for their lives? We would no longer be friends and they wouldn’t tell me where they got those Shanghai noodles. And lest I forget, those women owned chain saws.

  And worse, Robin would have a field day with the news. That convinced me to take the high road.

  Ten minutes later, with the cats fed and me feeling guilt free, I fired up the car. As I exited the parking garage, I glanced across the street, half expecting to see a black Bentley parked there. It was gone. Good. The man had no business following me around when there was a murderer running free in the City. Apparently, Derek Stone had come to the same conclusion at some point during the night. I hoped he suffered some mild frostbite before driving off to his cozy hotel room.

  I headed west on Brannan to Ninth Street and over to Hayes in order to skirt the Civic Center mess, then turned right on Franklin. From there it was a straight shot up to Pacific Heights and the Covington.

  I parked in the adjacent lot and followed the tree-lined walkway to the library, pulling my jacket a little tighter around me as I walked. It was a glorious February morning, the air crystal clear and brisk. From here at the top of Pacific Heights, I could see the amazing span of the Golden Gate Bridge stretching across the whitecapped bay to meet the rolling green hills of Marin County on the far side.

  Once inside, I went straight to Ian’s office, where his secretary told me he was already downstairs. I detoured through a small side gallery and down to the basement studio area. I was a little creeped out to see that despite the yellow crime scene tape still strewn across the entrance to Abraham’s workroom, the door itself was open.

  I peeked around the doorsill to find Derek Stone, kneeling on the concrete floor, studying the blood spill.

  I must’ve made a noise because he saw me and jumped up, then ducked under the yellow tape and hustled me down the hall.

  “I won’t pass out,” I insisted, almost stumbling from the bum’s rush he gave me.

  “So you were whimpering on general principle?”

  “I never whimper,” I said with a sniff.

  From two rooms down, Ian popped his head out. “You made it.” He approached and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close for a quick hug; then he walked me to the new workroom. “You’re working in here.”

  “Okay,” I said, and hated that my voice trembled. Seeing that dark red blob brought back all the horrors of the night before.

  The new room was identical to Abraham’s in every way-except for that pesky bloodstain on the concrete floor.

  I eyed Derek Stone ove
r Ian’s shoulder as he followed us into the room. He stared right back at me. Today he was dressed in a black turtleneck sweater, black tailored trousers and a dark pine green cashmere jacket. Essentially, we were dressed alike, although his outfit probably cost several thousand dollars more than mine. Show-off. Not that I cared, but I guessed security paid more than your run-of-the-mill cop salary.

  Ian turned to me. “I understand you two have already met.”

  “I’ve had the distinct pleasure,” he said, his mouth twisting in a wry grin.

  My stomach tingled and I could’ve smacked myself. Yes, okay, he was indeed gorgeous as honey-baked sin, but that didn’t mean I was the least bit interested in a man who considered me capable of killing someone in cold blood. It just wasn’t flattering, and my self-esteem was healthier than that. I hoped.

  I wasn’t surprised to find myself attracted to Derek Stone since I clearly had no clue when it came to choosing appropriate men. Recently, my own family had forbidden me to act alone when it came to dating, simply because I’d been engaged three times without closing the deal. I don’t know what the big deal was. So I picked the wrong men. Who didn’t?

  I avoided looking at him as I walked the perimeter of the room, testing the book press and opening cupboards and drawers to check out supplies. I fiddled with the light switches to find the best possible lighting.

  The two men ignored me, talking quietly as they sat in the tall, comfortable chairs that lined one side of the high worktable. I moved to the opposite side, slipped off my jacket and pulled up a backless stool. That was when I noticed the Winslow Faust lying on a white cloth in the middle of the table.

  First I pulled my camera out of my bag. Then I reached for the cloth, holding my breath as I tugged the whole thing closer to me.

  Even with its slightly faded gilding, clouded gem-stones, tarnished clasps and cracked leather binding, the Winslow Faust was exquisite. Swirls of pale gold were embossed along the outer edges of the cover. In the center of the cover was an elaborately tooled, rather bold and angry eagle holding a shield, a globe and a sword, all deeply etched in gold. But there was something else. Dripping from the eagle’s left wing was blood, so thick and crimson, it almost looked real.