I couldn’t catch my breath. Maybe I should’ve been used to being the target of someone’s wrath by now, but I wasn’t.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “Just need a minute.”
“Wow.” He paced the sidewalk as I tried to calm my nerves. I felt completely vulnerable, standing on the sidewalk in broad daylight.
On the bright side, it was good to know my new friend Gabriel wasn’t a stalking maniac killer.
He raked his hair back from his forehead. “That scared the shit out of me.”
“You and me both,” I said.
We slowly started back up the hill and he gave me another one of his watchful stares, then said, “Plutarch.”
I flinched. Plutarch? How could he know I had the book from Enrico’s study? “I beg your pardon?”
“That’s the book I want. Plutarch’s Parallel Lives. Incunable. Ulrich Han printing. Gilt edged, illuminated. How much do you want for it?”
“Sounds expensive,” I said carefully. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Incunable referred to any book printed in the fifteenth century when movable type was first used.
He shook his finger at me. “Expensive didn’t come close to describing it, and I think you know that. It’s priceless. Magnificent. And my client is willing to pay any price for it.”
“It does sound fabulous.” I splayed my hands in front of me, all innocence. “But what would I be doing with a book like that?”
“Selling it to me,” he said, adding one of his scrumptious grins for enticement.
It almost worked. My legs nearly turned to Silly Putty, but I was able to hold my ground. “I would if I could, but I don’t have it. Sorry. But if I hear of anything, you’ll be the first one I call.”
“Oddly enough, I don’t believe you,” he said with a grin. “But don’t lose my card in case you change your mind.”
“I won’t lose it.” I patted the side pocket of my bag where I’d slipped his card. “I mean it, I’ll call you if I get a line on this Plutarch.”
His look was fierce. “Do that.”
I smiled. “And thank you again.”
“For what?”
“For pulling me back out of the street. That’s twice you’ve saved me now.”
“Great,” he said, scowling. “One more time and I win a trip to camp.”
As Gabriel and I walked through the door of the Covington, Ian was walking out.
“G’night,” he said, and rushed off toward the parking lot.
“Ian, wait,” I called out. I turned to Gabriel. “That’s my boss. I’ll just be a minute.”
Gabriel grabbed my arm before I could race off. “No, I’ll leave you now. Just wanted to make sure you got back safely.”
“But-”
“You’ll call me,” he said. “Or I’ll be in touch.”
“When?” I asked, then wanted to bite my tongue.
“Soon,” he said, and walked away.
I stared for a moment at those impossibly long legs and the black duster skimming his knees as he walked. All he was missing was a black hat and a Sergio Leone theme playing in the background.
I sighed. I still didn’t have a real clue who he was.
Taking off on a jog, I caught up with Ian as he pressed his security key to unlock his car.
“Ian, wait.”
“I don’t have time right now,” he said. I’d never seen him look so angry, but then again, maybe I didn’t know him as well as I’d thought I did.
“You’ll want to make time for this,” I said as I rummaged through my bag. I found the folded slip of paper and handed it to him.
He opened it, stared, then looked at me. “How’d you get this?”
“I found it at Enrico’s yesterday, right before you got there. That’s what you were looking for, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he protested, his tone a combination of anger and denial. “Why would you-”
“Ian, please.” I gave his arm a sympathetic squeeze. “I know you were there.”
All his bluster slipped and he sagged against the car. “How?”
I gritted my teeth and confessed, “I was hiding in the kitchen pantry while you were searching the house.”
I watched him as realization dawned. “That door was locked.”
I shook my head but said nothing. I wasn’t about to mention I’d been sharing that space with Derek.
Ian stared up at the sky. “This is all such a damn mess. Enrico was a bastard, Brooklyn. He knew I’d pay for his silence.”
“How much did you pay him?”
“Five thousand.” He rubbed his face. “A month.”
“What?”
“For the last three months.”
It was my turn to sag against the car. “You’re joking.”
He laughed without humor. “Hardly.”
“But why, Ian? What secret is worth so much you’d pay someone to be quiet about it?”
He stared at the ground for a moment, then pushed himself away from the car and paced a few steps before turning to meet my gaze. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Brooklyn. I was paying Enrico five thousand dollars a month to keep quiet. Do you really think I’m going to blurt out my big secret to you?”
“Blurt out what? That you’re gay?”
His jaw dropped and he staggered back a step. “I’m not-how can you-oh, Jesus.” He collapsed against the car.
“Ian, who cares?”
He covered his face with his hands. “Does everyone in the world know? Am I that big a moron?”
“Not everyone in the world,” I said lamely.
“Feel my confidence soar,” he said peevishly.
“You’re hardly a flaming soprano,” I said, then quickly added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
He snorted a laugh, then let out a strangled cry.
I touched his shoulder. “To answer your question, no, not everyone in the world knows. Maybe nobody knows.”
“But you knew.” His head hung down in shame and my heart broke for him.
“Give me credit for something,” I said. “You and I were engaged to be married. Don’t you think I could tell something was off? It was just, I don’t know.” I sucked in a deep breath and blurted, “It was clear to me that I wasn’t the Wainwright you wanted.”
Ian had been best friends with my brother Austin. I’d always thought it was odd that he preferred to hang out as a threesome-Ian, Austin and me-rather than just the two of us.
“Oh God, Austin,” he wailed. “Does he know, too? Does your whole family know?” He slid down the car and came to rest in a stooped, almost fetal position. His shoulders shook and I realized he was crying.
“Ian!” I stooped down to wrap my arms around him. “It’s not that bad, honestly! It’ll be okay. This is San Francisco! Everyone’s gay! It’s like a requirement or something. Really, you have to sign a gay affidavit just to move into some neighborhoods. The best neighborhoods, to be honest, which doesn’t seem fair but there you are. This is a good thing, really. Please stop crying.”
He shuddered in my arms and I held him tightly for a few more moments, then scuttled out of his way when he raised his head to gasp for air.
“Oh, Brooklyn,” he cried as he wiped his eyes. “You’re priceless.”
“You’ll survive this, Ian, I swear. You need to be strong. I can help. We’ll go shopping.”
He let out another cry, grabbed his stomach and fell to his side on the blacktop.
“Ian! What’s wrong with you?” I jumped up and scrambled for my phone. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
“Stop it, you’re killing me,” he said, as he rolled on the ground, laughing.
Laughing?
I nudged his shoulder with my foot. “Ian?”
He shook his head, waved me away. “I need a minute.”
“You’ll need a doctor if I find out you’re laughing at me.”
&n
bsp; “I’m not, I swear.” He lay flat on his back with his arms spread out, inhaling and exhaling raggedly. “Got to catch my breath.” He gulped in more air, then looked up. “Why do you smell like Chinese food?”
I glared down at him, my arms folded tightly across my chest. “You are so dead.”
He tried to steady his breathing, bit his cheeks to stop from smiling, then choked out another laugh. “Sorry, I’ll stop. Any minute now.”
I sniffed. “Frankly, I’m not even sure how gay you are if you’re willing to roll around on a dirty blacktop parking lot.”
“Good point,” he said.
I tapped my foot in annoyance. “If this is such a joke, why were you paying for Enrico’s silence?”
He pouted. “You really are a killjoy.”
“I’m just asking.”
He rolled himself up to his knees, then pushed off the ground. Steadying himself against the car with one hand, he smoothed his hair back into place with the other.
“When the Covington hired me three years ago,” he began, “they thought I was engaged to be married. Mrs. Covington likes her upper management to be steady and family oriented.”
I frowned. “In twenty-first-century San Francisco, she discriminates against gay people?”
He sighed. “She’s a conservative old biddy who doesn’t approve of anything outside the norm.”
“But gay is the norm here.”
He chuckled. “You’re preaching to the choir, babe.”
“Okay, so get another job.”
“But I love the Covington,” he insisted. “I was born to run this place. And Mrs. Covington loves me. She’s promoted me every six months for the last three years.”
“Then talk to her. Maybe she’ll understand.”
“I was going to, I swear.” He paced back and forth. “But then Enrico found out somehow and threatened to tell her before I could. I was just placating him until I could find the right moment to tell her.”
“Placating to the tune of five thousand dollars a month?”
“I just needed time,” he said, and continued pacing. “I needed to get her in the right mood. Serve up some martinis, then give her the news. As soon as I told her, I was going to call the police on Enrico and get my money back.”
“I don’t suppose you killed him.”
He stopped midstep. “What? No!”
I frowned. “I didn’t think so.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“It would make this whole thing easier to figure out.”
“Can’t help you.”
I pulled my bag onto my shoulder and straightened my jacket. “I’d better get back to work.”
“All right.” He reached over, pulled something off my jacket and looked at it. A twisted, dried noodle. Then he looked at me. “You lead a strange and interesting life.”
“You have no idea.”
I took a shortcut through the camellia garden to get back to the Covington entrance. The huge camellia bushes were thick with flowers filling every branch. Their lush perfume hung on the air and gave me a break from my soy sauce stench.
I jogged silently down the mulch-covered lane, darting back and forth to dodge errant branches and overgrown bushes. The garden was world-renowned for showcasing more than a thousand different varieties of the flower, thanks to the present Mrs. Covington’s great-grandmother-in-law who started the garden in the beginning of the last century. At least, that was what the guidebooks said.
But my favorite aspect of the camellia garden was what it hid in its center, a charming Shakespearean herb garden complete with the Shakespearean references of rosemary, tansy, lavender, chamomile and others, all carved in stone.
But I couldn’t concentrate on the beauty of the garden. Instead, my mind wandered to Gabriel. He’d saved my life, so I owed him something, but I wasn’t about to give up the Plutarch simply because some unknown “client” of his wanted it. Yes, so maybe I’d come into possession of the book through illicit means-okay, I took it-but that didn’t mean I’d let it go without getting a few questions answered first. And besides, how did Enrico get his hands on it? Had he stolen it? Probably. But that didn’t make my action any less wrong.
Did the Plutarch have anything to do with Enrico’s death? Impossible. The book had been sitting in plain sight on the table. If that was what the killer was after, he would’ve taken it right then.
As I passed the ornate brass sundial in the center of the well-tilled herb garden, I heard a leaf snap somewhere behind me.
I wasn’t alone.
My heart pounding, I whipped around, ready to face anything. Oh, who was I kidding? I was scared to death and my throat was threatening to close up on me. There was no one in sight, but that didn’t mean anything. Someone was watching me. I ran faster than I’d ever run, all the way to the front door of the library.
I decided I’d work at home the next day. I knew I could finish the book faster if I had fewer interruptions, such as people attempting to kill me everywhere I went.
I found Ian’s secretary, Marissa, in his office, organizing files. She called Ian’s cell to get approval. Since the Faust was currently in a hundred different pieces, and fully insured, Ian gave his okay.
I spent another hour in the workroom, packing up the wood press that still held the Faust text block in its grip, boxing up all the pieces and all the tools I’d need tomorrow. I borrowed a small hand dolly from Marissa and lugged everything out to my car. By the time I got home, my body was down for the count. But when I opened the door and saw my studio still in shambles, I couldn’t stand it.
I locked the door and parked the dolly next to my desk. As I removed my jacket, I caught a disturbing whiff of soy sauce.
“First things first,” I said. Checking again that my front door locks were set, I headed for the bathroom where I peeled off my broth-soaked clothing and took a long shower. I dressed in sweats and a T-shirt, satisfied that I no longer reeked of Chinese noodle bowl.
Back in the studio, I noticed the red light flashing on the phone and played back the messages. Doris Bondurant had called to offer me a job rebinding a vintage Alice in Wonderland she’d found recently. I understood it would be a test to see whether I passed muster with her. I felt a pang of sadness, knowing Abraham had been responsible for my connecting with her.
There was also a message from Robin, who called to let me know she’d bought me some cute pajamas so I would no longer embarrass her on our sleepovers. The third message was from Carl, Abraham’s lawyer, who wanted to meet and hash out my new financial condition. I made a face. I’d honestly forgotten I had a new financial condition. Not that I wasn’t grateful, you understand. I could always use more money. But it still felt odd to be the lone recipient of Abraham’s entire fortune.
I left Carl a message, putting him off for a week or two. I could only concentrate on one or two major upheavals at a time.
Grabbing a trash can and a broom, I began the cleanup. I threw away the stacks of torn and crushed endpapers, gathered my scattered tools and organized them precisely as they’d been before, picked up every spool of thread and put them back in color order in the narrow shelves I’d had built for that purpose. I rolled up the leather skins and stacks of cloth that weren’t damaged and put them back in their rightful places.
An hour later, I looked around, pleased that things were almost back to normal. I would need to order more marbled paper and a new set of glue brushes, plus two of my bone folders were missing, but that was the only real damage I found.
Except for Robin’s vase, which had been crushed to smithereens.
Despite that minimal damage, I could tell that whoever was behind all this destruction had been in an absolute rage, and that was the most frightening part of this ordeal. I just couldn’t picture anyone I knew being capable of such behavior.
I thought of Abraham’s studio up in Sonoma. Someone had gone through there in a similar fashion. But who? And what had they been looking for?
So whoever it was, they didn’t know me. As strange as it sounded, that was a comforting thought.
I was exhausted and nearly half-asleep when I checked the locks again, then shuffled off to my bedroom. As I reached to pull back the bedspread, something on the pillow caught my eye and I jumped back.
On my pillow was a long-stemmed red rose. It looked fresh, with dew still clinging to its outer petals. An elegant note card was placed next to the rose. Without thinking, I picked up the card and read the one-word sentiment.
“Soon.”
Chapter 17
I cried out in shock, threw the rose down and ran from the room. Shaking like crazy, I ran from room to room, checking the locks on every window and the front door. I ran up the narrow stairs that led to the rooftop garden to make sure that door was secure.
It wasn’t. The door had been jimmied open.
I started to panic. Was the killer still inside my loft? Was he hiding up on the roof? I wasn’t about to walk out there.
Summoning every ounce of courage I had, I ran down the stairs, found my cell phone and called the police.
The dispatcher said it would be about a half hour since the intruder wasn’t on-site. How the hell did she know?
And just because I’d checked the entire apartment and knew in my gut there was no one here but me, it didn’t mean I felt safe.
Soon.
What the hell did that mean? I thought of Gabriel and the last word he’d said to me earlier that day. No, I refused to believe he’d had anything to do with this. I’d known him for only an hour, but I knew in my heart he wasn’t warped enough to break into my place just to leave a rose on my pillow. Maybe to steal the Plutarch, but never-
“Oh, hell, the Plutarch!”
I grabbed my keys and ran to unlock the hall closet. In the old corset factory, this closet had housed a rope-and-pulley shelving system that moved supplies up and down between the floors. Like a dumbwaiter, I guess. Now the dumbwaiter function was disconnected and nobody would ever know about it unless they studied the building blueprints. But the metal floor panel still slid back to reveal a shallow space where I hid important papers and extra money.
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