Homicide in Hardcover

by Kate Carlisle

  “And they bought it.” I shook my head. “He probably used his cheesy Italian accent on them.”

  Ian absentmindedly stirred his tea. “People don’t understand the book world.”

  “Conrad Winslow did admit he was pretty clueless when it came to books.”

  Ian just shook his head.

  “I thought he was nice,” I said.

  “Right.”

  I laughed. “Ian, tell all.”

  He grimaced. “He’s always bugging me about money. He wants to sell the collection and I don’t know what to tell him. Of course I know dealers, but I want to show the books here. And it’s important to keep the collection together. The show hasn’t even opened yet, but if I have to put up with his threats much longer…” He didn’t finish, just shook his head.

  “It’s not like the Winslows need the money.”

  “No, they don’t,” Ian said, staring into his teacup.

  “But he’s got a bug up his butt about making money all the time. He doesn’t get the whole nonprofit thing.”

  “Who does?”

  He chuckled. “Isn’t that the truth.”

  “Maybe you should start dealing with Sylvia,” I suggested. “She seems to be the more savvy of the two.”

  He nodded. “Not a bad idea. But he’s the one who comes around.”

  The waitress arranged our plates in front of us, checked the pot of tea, then left us. I’d ordered the curry chicken sandwich and they served it cut in four triangles around a delicate baby lettuce salad. I scooped up a triangle and devoured it.

  After a few bites, I slowed down. “So essentially, your only beef with Enrico is over the quality of his work?”

  “No.” Ian took a sip of tea before continuing. “I’ve heard from a few dealers about some deals they’ve come across recently on the Internet, for finely bound rare German books.”

  I bit into another triangle and chewed as Ian spoke.

  “One of the books is an extremely rare Rilke first edition, autographed. His Duino Elegies, I believe. The dealer paid an outrageous sum of money and when he received it, he found an ex libris with the Winslow insignia on the inside cover.”

  An ex libris is an ornate label pasted inside the front cover of a book with the owner’s name or family crest.

  “That was silly,” I said. “Why didn’t he remove the bookplate? He’s just asking to get caught.”

  “To remove it would’ve devalued the book.”

  “Maybe,” I allowed, but knew I could’ve finessed the label off without ruining the endpaper. “Maybe he just doesn’t care.”

  “He certainly doesn’t worry about getting caught. I suppose he’s got a fake company name with a P.O. box, the whole deal. So far, six rare books have been traced back to the collection.”

  I tried to do the math. “So we’re talking ten, twenty thousand dollars?”

  “Try two hundred thousand,” he said, looking at me with pity. So I didn’t excel in math. Or market economics.

  “Do the Winslows know?”

  “I had to tell them.”

  “Yikes. What did they do?”

  “Meredith wanted to take out a contract on him, but Sylvia calmed her down by suggesting the police run a sting operation. I think that’s what the authorities have in mind.”

  I took a bite of salad. “I’m sure Enrico figured nobody would miss a dozen or so books out of hundreds in the collection.”

  “I’m sure,” Ian agreed. “But the world of rare books is small. He’ll get caught eventually.”

  “Minka told me Enrico was working with a new collector now. She wouldn’t tell me the guy’s name but said he made them sign a confidentiality agreement. I wonder if-”

  “Wait. Minka’s working with Enrico?”

  “Apparently, but-”

  “That’s a pile of crap. What does he need an assistant for?”

  “I’ve never seen you so fired up,” I said. “He must’ve really burned your butt.”

  “You have no idea.” He finished off his last triangle and wiped his hands on his linen napkin.

  “But listen,” I said. “Maybe this confidentiality agreement guy is part of the government sting you’re talking about.”

  “I can only hope,” he said. “But that’s another reason why I don’t want you to have anything to do with him.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” I said. “I promise I’ll keep my distance.”

  Starting sometime after two o’clock this afternoon.

  It was one thirty by the time I took off for Enrico’s house in the exclusive neighborhood of Sea Cliff. This enclave overlooking China Beach was known primarily for its famous celebrity residents, but the area also had a view of the Golden Gate Bridge from the ocean side looking into the bay that was more breathtaking than any I’d ever seen.

  I guess I was an unabashed fan. I did love my City.

  Lunch with Ian had been enlightening, but I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something more personal in his disgust for Enrico.

  Enrico had said he had something to show me and now I wondered whether he’d show me other books he’d taken from the Winslow collection. Would he be that bold? I hoped so.

  I found his house and parked a few doors down. It was one of the smaller homes on the block but still lovely, with manicured hedges and freshly planted flowers lining the walkway. I climbed the brick steps to the front door and rang the bell. After a moment, I rang it again, then glanced around the neighborhood. It was completely deserted in the middle of the day. No gardeners, no kids, no signs of life.

  After another minute, I knocked on the door.

  “Enrico?” I called. “Are you here?”

  Maybe he was in the back. I walked around to the side of the house, but the high gate was locked and I couldn’t see whether there was a back house or studio.

  I returned to the front door and knocked again. I hated to think I’d driven out here for nothing. Without a clear thought, I tried the doorknob. It turned easily and I pushed it open a few inches.

  “Enrico?” I called again. “Anybody home?”

  I peeked inside. I couldn’t hear a sound. I pushed the door open a foot and stepped inside. “Enrico? It’s Brooklyn. Hello.”

  Was I actually walking into his house without an invitation? But he had invited me. Maybe he’d left the door open for me. I glanced around the small, fussy foyer. An arched entry led to the living room and after closing the front door, I ventured in farther. If he came home, I’d be sitting on the couch, waiting for him.

  Yeah, that would work.

  A large desk in the corner of the room was stacked with bills and papers. I glanced through a few, wondering whether I’d see any notices of sale or e-mails about his eBay business. It wouldn’t hurt to look. Well, unless I got caught. But if I could find some evidence of his thefts, I could bring the Winslows some justice.

  I heard a noise out on the street and glanced nervously over my shoulder. I could handle Enrico coming home to find me sitting on his couch but not rifling through his private papers.

  A small vertical file held a stack of bills and checks, and I thumbed through them. They were all made out to Enrico Baldacchio, no fake name. I recognized a few of the check writers, some booksellers and an antiquities dealer.

  One name jumped out at me.

  Ian McCullough.

  I stared in horror at Ian’s check, payable to Enrico in the sum of five thousand dollars. The memo line said “Services.”

  My first thought was blackmail. Was this the real reason Ian was so angry with Enrico? But that was absurd. It was more likely that Ian had paid Enrico for something tangible, like a book.

  Perhaps a stolen book?

  And there went my mind, circling back around to blackmail.

  I slipped the check into my jacket pocket. Now what? I was trying to figure out my next move when I heard the scuff of a heel against the concrete walkway out front.

  Crap. I froze for one long second, then sca
nned the room for a place to hide. There was nothing. No closet, no room to hide behind the couch.

  So much for my plan to relax on his couch. I didn’t want to be discovered going through Enrico’s house, especially by Enrico. Not since I’d found that check from Ian.

  I raced through the alcove dining room and into the rustic gourmet kitchen. Along with a back entry, there was a laundry room and another door leading to a full pantry. In the middle of the kitchen was a butcher block island with a stainless steel pot rack hanging from the twelve-foot ceiling. What a great kitchen. Too bad I couldn’t stay.

  I dashed through the laundry room to the back door, but it wouldn’t budge. It was dead-bolted with no key, no latch. Damn Enrico for taking normal security precautions. Desperate, I slipped into the full pantry and closed the door, just as someone entered the house.

  I was shaking. I folded my arms tightly across my chest to control it. If this was Enrico coming home, I would have some explaining to do. Now would be a good time to think of a plausible reason why I was hiding in his pantry. I was being followed? I suspected foul play? I was hungry?

  Heavy footsteps traipsed back and forth between the living and dining areas. I could hear papers being shuffled, drawers being opened and slammed shut. Someone was looking for something. The same thing I was looking for? Whatever that was.

  Glass shattered in the living room area and I jolted, then tried to breathe again.

  I didn’t think Enrico would be stomping around breaking things, rifling carelessly through his own stuff. So who was out there? I hoped they would hurry. It was dark as hell in the pantry and my imagination was going crazy. I could smell peanut butter and I’d swear there were mice in here. I shivered, uneasy about sharing space with rodents.

  Footsteps moved into the kitchen and I started to panic. They were too close. I was going to be discovered. And the mice. I could hear them breathing. A scream built in my throat.

  A wisp of breath on the skin beneath my ear was my only warning before someone slapped a hand over my mouth and grabbed me from behind.

  Chapter 13

  I was trapped in the viselike grip of my assailant. He’d wrapped one strong arm around my torso to prevent me from hitting him, but if I was about to die in a pantry closet, I refused to go meekly. I didn’t dare make any noise, but I squirmed and tried to bite the palm of his hand. I only managed to gnaw some skin, which almost made me gag. I twisted to get free, but there was no room to maneuver in the confines of the pantry closet.

  “Shhhhh,” he whispered, as though he were trying to calm a colicky baby. I could smell his spicy scent and wondered how I hadn’t realized he was hiding here from the moment I stepped inside this space. It wasn’t mice I’d sensed, just one big rat.

  “Damn it, Derek,” I hissed, but with his hand clamping my mouth, it sounded like “Mrkmr, rruk.”

  “Shut up,” he whispered roughly.

  I was truly going to kill him. For now, though, I nodded slowly to let him know I was on board with the plan to keep quiet.

  He eased the pressure of his hand on my mouth but kept his other arm tight around me. As the footsteps grew closer to the pantry, I stopped breathing altogether. I was jammed up against Derek’s hard chest and stomach, not to mention his thighs. Oh my. Now that I knew it was him, part of me, okay, all of me wanted to rub up even closer and purr like a satisfied kitty cat. This probably wasn’t the best time to be thinking along those lines, especially in light of my recent decision to kill him.

  I sucked in a breath as Derek reached between me and the door to grasp the handle, seconds before the intruder tried to open the pantry door. I could feel Derek’s muscles vibrate with tension as he held the door handle so tightly, the intruder had to think it was either stuck or locked.

  Either way, the guy on the other side of the door finally uttered an oath and gave up.

  As his footsteps moved away from the pantry, I let out a slow breath. The intruder crossed the kitchen and retreated down the hall, his footsteps growing fainter as he moved toward the back of the house.

  Just as I thought I might collapse in relief, a door slammed somewhere down the long hall. I tensed again as footsteps pounded down the hardwood floor of the hall and raced out the front door.

  There was nothing but silence for a moment; then a car engine started up and tires squealed as the intruder took off.

  After ten more seconds, Derek shoved the door open and we escaped the pantry.

  After first sucking in the air of freedom, I turned and smacked his arm. “What the hell were you doing in there?”

  He dusted off his jacket. “Waiting for you.”

  “Very funny. Did you follow me here? I mean, not follow me, exactly, since you were here first. But, you know, did you? Follow me?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

  I stomped my foot, then felt like an idiot. But I was irate. “How did you know I was coming here?”

  He grabbed my arm and headed for the front door. “We can talk later. Right now we’re trespassing.”

  I whipped my arm away. “I have an appointment with Enrico.”

  “Call to reschedule.” He pointed to the door. “Let’s go.”

  I skirted him and headed the opposite way, down the hall. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m looking for something. I’ll be quick.”

  “God, you’re a pain in the ass.”

  I glowered at him. “You should talk.”

  I heard him sigh as he followed me, coming up close behind me as I surveyed the first room. Twin beds, nightstand, dresser. No frills. It appeared to be a guest bedroom. There were no books, no boxes, nothing that indicated a bookselling business was being operated in there. And nothing that indicated it might be the missing “GW1941.”

  “Did you see Enrico leaving?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “He must’ve forgotten I was coming.”

  “Yet he left the door unlocked.”

  “Maybe he just ran out for a minute.”

  “Which means he’ll be home any second to find us trespassing.”

  “I was invited. What’s your excuse?”

  “I told you, I was waiting for you.”

  “I didn’t tell anyone where I was going,” I insisted.

  “You’re not exactly subtle,” he said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” The room across the hall was empty except for an ironing board and a television set. I couldn’t see Enrico standing here ironing his shirts while watching Oprah. Maybe he had a housekeeper.

  “I overheard your conversation with him at the memorial service. You said you’d meet him at two.”

  I put my hand on my hip. “You were supposed to be talking to Mary Ellen Prescott.”

  He thought for a moment. “Ah yes. Lovely woman. Completely insane.”

  I chuckled. “I was hoping she’d convert you.”

  “She worships someone’s blood. I envisioned goats on an altar.”

  I smiled. “You’re close. Chickens.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “It’s okay, nothing’s wasted. They eat the chickens after they’re sacrificed.”

  He put up his hand to stop me. “More than I wish to know about dear Mary Ellen.”

  The next door on the left was closed. I opened it and found Enrico’s library.

  There were shelves of leather-bound books from floor to ceiling on all four walls with cutouts around the two windows and the closet. Two brown leather chairs sat in the middle of the room with a mahogany table in between. More finely bound books were stacked on the table. The chairs looked lived in, comfortable and cozy. The rug beneath was an elaborate Persian style with swirls and curlicues in multiple shades of blue and black and beige.

  I focused again on that stack of books on the table.

  “Ah.” I stepped into the room and picked up the beautifully bound book lying on top. I
t was Plutarch’s Parallel Lives, bound in burgundy calfskin, heavily gilded, nearly five centuries old, in perfect condition. Nearly priceless.

  “What is he doing with this?” I turned to show it to Derek, and that was when I saw Enrico lying in the corner, curled up on that fabulous rug. A dark halo of blood puddled around his head.

  “Oh no. Oh God.” My vision wavered; then Enrico’s head telescoped out, in, then out again.

  I tried to scream but it sounded like a whimper.

  Derek grabbed me, shook me, then pulled me close. “No fainting.”

  “He’s dead,” I mumbled into Derek’s shirt.

  “Yes,” he said crisply. “Pull yourself together. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “But…” I looked at him. “We should call the police.”

  “We will.”

  How long had he been lying here, dying? The whole time I’d been poking through his desk and his papers? All that time I’d been hiding in the pantry with Derek while another intruder ransacked the house? Had Enrico still been alive when I walked through the front door? If I’d found him earlier, could I have kept him alive? Called for an ambulance? Would I feel guilty about it for the rest of my life? Right now I thought I might.

  “I should’ve-”

  “No.”

  “But I might’ve-”

  “No.” He drew me back into his arms.

  “He was here all along,” I whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “You knew.”

  “No.”

  I was relieved to hear him say it whether he was telling the truth or not. He moved his hands up and down along my spine.

  “Come on, let’s go,” he said quietly.

  “Shouldn’t we-”

  “No, we’ll call from elsewhere.”

  “We might’ve helped him.”

  “I’m certain he was already dead.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “Yes, I do.” He placed his hand on the back of my head and eased me closer to him. It shouldn’t have felt so good, but it did. I felt completely enveloped, secure. Loved. An illusion to be sure, but nice for the moment.

  Finally, I leaned back to look at him. “You honestly didn’t know he was back here?”