“Oh, Becky, that’s a lovely thing to say,” Meg said.
Mom smiled at Meg. “We Americans think everything sounds better with a British accent.”
I mentally rolled my eyes. Was that the reason why my mother had tried on the Cockney accent?
I couldn’t think about that right now, so instead I brushed the entire conversation off to concentrate on my tour duties. Coughing to clear my throat, I raised my voice to be heard over the many conversations going on throughout the bus. “As we reach the crest of the hill, you’ll want to look to your right for a breathtaking view of the San Francisco Bay. The fog is starting to roll in, but you can still see the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance.”
“Ooh, I see it!”
“It’s beautiful.”
The Golden Gate was always a crowd pleaser.
Staring at the view, I let my mind drift back a few years to the day I visited a charming little house in the Sea Cliff neighborhood, tucked away in the shadow of the Golden Gate Bridge near China Beach.
Without warning, the shocking image of a dead body flashed into my head. He was the second victim I had ever encountered. I had been looking for a book in one of the back bedrooms of the house and found a body instead. A bullet hole had been etched neatly into his forehead. I was told that he died instantly.
Someone laughed sharply and I flinched.
“Whew.” I blew out a shaky breath and wondered where in the world that memory had come from. Was it caused by seeing the bridge in the fog? No way. I saw that view all the time, especially when I was traveling up to Dharma to visit my family. No, it had to be all this talk of murder that had brought that ugly image back to the forefront of my mind.
I glanced over at Meg and Mom, who were deep in conversation together, no doubt plotting their next subversive move.
I swiveled around to face the front and saw that we had only a few more blocks before we arrived at our destination. I made an effort to concentrate on my breathing and felt my shoulders begin to relax again. Five short minutes later, Lawrence parked the bus in the Covington parking lot.
Pasting a cheery smile onto my face, I turned my chair around to face my librarians. “Remember, we’ve only got thirty minutes to see several exhibits, so please stay with the group. You can always come back for a longer visit later in the week. For now, let’s go see some amazing books.”
There were cheers from the librarians as they jumped up and filed out of the bus. I stayed in my chair, taking a minute to organize my notes while everyone else was leaving.
Once the librarians were outside, Lawrence spoke up. “You know, your mom is going to sneak into wherever it was that you found that body.”
I cringed a little. “You heard that?”
He grinned. “Well, y’all are sitting right next to me so I could hardly help it. But I’ll let you in on a little secret. I hear every conversation going on anywhere inside this bus.” He pointed to the high, curved headliner above his seat. “Sitting here, with these acoustics, I catch all the chitchat.”
I stared up at the coach’s ceiling. “Ah, the sounds are amplified by the arch. I’ll bet that comes in handy sometimes.”
“You bet it does.” He studied me for a moment. “So. You find dead bodies.”
“Not on purpose.”
“But you found one in there.” He jerked his head in the direction of the massive library.
I grimaced. “Actually, I found two bodies in there.”
“At the same time?”
“No. There was a year or two in between.”
“So it’s really true.”
“It doesn’t mean anything,” I insisted. “It’s just my weird luck.”
“That’s something bigger than luck, my dear.”
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “I’d better catch up with the group. Lord knows what trouble my mother will get into if I don’t.”
He chuckled. “She’s cool. So’s her friend.”
“That’s my future mother-in-law.”
“Looks like they might be ganging up on you.”
I laughed as I started down the steps. “Yes, and I’ll tell them you noticed.”
I caught up with everyone near the front entry of the Covington. Mom was playing shepherd, leading the way.
Once inside, their voices automatically dropped to a respectful hush, as proper librarians everywhere would understand. They practically tiptoed across the polished checkerboard marble floor of the grand foyer, stopping to gaze up at the sweeping staircases on either side of the large anteroom.
Ian came running up and gave me a big hug, then introduced himself to the group. He took over the tour guide duties, instantly charming the group with his easy warmth and his fascinating stories.
With Ian in charge, I was able to enjoy the tour as much as my charges did. I fell in love all over again with the four-foot-tall Audubon book of beautifully painted birds, the display of early Shakespeare folios, and the fascinating collection of nineteenth century poets’ works, the highlight of which, for me, was the handwritten letters of Walt Whitman.
Ian made the librarians laugh and cheer with the story of how he beat out the Metropolitan Museum in New York to obtain the illustrated fifteenth century Ellesmere manuscript of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. It involved a stolen masterpiece, a treacherous train ride into the Scottish Highlands, and a high-stakes poker game straight out of a James Bond novel.
After that, Ian led everyone down the wide hall toward the west wing. On the way, he told us how the grand Italianate mansion became a world-renowned museum and library known for its advanced techniques of book conservation, preservation, and restoration. He pointed to the antique Tiffany chandeliers that had been updated with state-of-the-art LED lighting to preserve the integrity of the books and ephemera on display. Behind the scenes, technicians studied every aspect of book conservation, including environmental controls, pest management, chemical and water damage, and the newest methods of fire- and earthquake-proofing areas where the rarest books were kept. Parts of his presentation were similar to what I had spoken of in my speech on book conservation earlier that day. It made sense, since I had done some of my most important conservation work right here at the Covington.
We wound up in the West Gallery, a space almost as large as the Main Hall. There were six smaller galleries branching off from the central room, and in the past, Ian explained, these smaller spaces had featured everything from an American cookbook exhibit to a fabulous baseball card collection.
“What I want to show you is right through here,” Ian said, and walked over to the second doorway on the left. I walked in and was instantly surrounded by more Beatles memorabilia and ephemera than I had ever seen in one place. There were concert posters, album covers, clothing, and magazines. There was a left-handed bass guitar, apparently once played by Paul McCartney. There was even a Beatles candy bar wrapper behind the protective glass wall of a display case.
“Oh, Ian,” Mom whispered, pressing her fingers to her lips as she gazed at the delightful presentation.
He flashed her a broad smile, then explained to the others. “Mrs. Wainwright was generous enough to loan the Covington a number of pieces from her extensive private collection.”
I recognized Mom’s vintage fan magazines from the sixties, now individually framed and spread out across one wall of the room. And in the main glass case, holding a place of honor, was Mom’s cherished ticket to the Hollywood Bowl to see the Fab Four on their first visit to the United States in 1964.
I had been visiting Mom last year when Ian showed up to ask if she would be willing to loan her Beatlemania treasures to the Covington for this exhibit. At the time I thought she was going to faint, she was so pleased.
I stole a glance at her now and saw her eyes tearing up all over again.
Purple Sweater Woman and her friend stared with
interest at the glass display. “Cindy, look at the price on this concert ticket.”
Her friend gasped. “Oh my God, seven dollars.”
“Isn’t that amazing?” Purple said.
“The original ticket price was reasonable enough,” Mom said to the two women. “But I actually had to buy mine from a scalper.”
“Oh, dear.”
Mom nodded. “He charged me twelve dollars. My father said it was highway robbery.”
Purple laughed. “Those were the days, right?”
I wandered over to a monitor on the far wall that was showing A Hard Day’s Night. Mom and Dad had played that Beatles movie at least a hundred times while we were growing up. I still loved it.
A few minutes later I turned away from the movie to discover that the small gallery was empty. I guess I had been so wrapped up in the Beatles’ world that I had zoned out for a while. Checking my watch, I saw that it was just about time to head back to the bus. I walked into the West Gallery, but it was empty as well. I left the gallery and started toward the Main Hall. The Covington was a large space, but I couldn’t have lost everyone so completely in so short a time, could I? Where had they all disappeared to?
“Some tour guide I turned out to be,” I muttered as I hurried back to the Main Hall. I had lost my people!
I stopped abruptly as the realization hit me. I knew exactly where everyone had gone.
Heading back to the West Gallery, I stopped at the very last door and peeked inside. Mom was pointing to the slick marble floor where Meg was sprawled, trying to appear lifeless.
“Brooklyn found the body right there,” Mom intoned. “The guy was dead as a doornail.”
Oh my God.
There was no use berating her. I just walked away. The good news, I thought as I wandered back to the Main Hall, was that at least Mom hadn’t dragged them all down into the cavernous basement. That was where I had actually stumbled across my very first murder victim. He was my teacher, my mentor, my friend, and I still missed him to this day. It gave me shivers to think of him lying there, so I tried not to do it very often. I was pretty sure the Covington janitors had never been able to fully erase the bloodstains from the cement floor.
* * *
• • •
The rest of the tour went off without a hitch and I began to hope that maybe my tenure as a tour guide wasn’t quite as disastrous as I’d thought. We drove across town to Bay Area Book Arts, our final stop for the day and an absolute must-see for the serious book lover. The gallery at BABA was a wonderful treat with beautifully handmade books, cards, wrapping paper, and artwork on display as well as for sale. One of the instructors showed the librarians around the workshop rooms and quickly demonstrated the guillotine and the letterpress. I took a few minutes to check in with Naomi and Marky May, two old friends who ran the center. And if Mom and Meg slipped off to give a few librarians a private tour of the back hall where I had once found another body, I pretended not to notice.
On the ride back to the conference, the bus was quieter than before. Conversations were hushed and some people were passing around the items they had bought at BABA and the Covington. I took the quiet as a good sign that my tour group members were wiped out from having so much fun.
When Lawrence finally pulled up and stopped in front of the convention center, everyone applauded. My heart didn’t exactly soar with happiness, but I was relieved that they seemed to have had a great time. Most of the librarians were effusive with their compliments and thanks.
“Best part of the conference, hands down,” the bald-headed man said as he passed me on the way out of the mini-coach.
“I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” I said, beaming.
“Absolutely,” his buddy agreed.
I thanked them all for supporting the association and coming on the tour, then stepped down from the coach to shake hands and say good-bye to everyone. “Thank you again for entering the raffle. I hope you enjoy the rest of the conference.”
After all of the librarians had gone their separate ways, I climbed back into the bus to collect Mom and Meg, who were still talking to Lawrence.
“Are you ready to go?” I asked, gathering up my notes and stuffing them into my briefcase.
“We’re staying on the bus, Brooklyn,” Mom said. “Lawrence has one more stop to make.”
I was grateful that he was willing to drive us to another location, but puzzled by my mother’s insistence. “That’s not necessary, Lawrence. We can walk home from here.”
Mom smiled. “But we’re not going home, sweetie. Lawrence is taking us somewhere else.”
I sat down in the passenger chair and gave Mom and Meg my best eagle-eye stare. “What’s going on with you two? You’ve been very secretive all day.”
They smiled serenely, but said nothing.
I turned and looked at Lawrence. “Do you know what they’re up to?”
“Sorry, ma’am, but I have my orders.”
“What does that even mean?” I asked. “I thought I was in charge.”
“Dream on,” Mom said.
Meg giggled, but didn’t give up any information.
“Okay, ladies,” Lawrence said, revving the engine. “Buckle up.”
He drove a few short blocks toward Union Square and stopped in front of a pretty little restaurant on a side street. “Here you go, ladies. Last stop.”
The three of us thanked Lawrence profusely, and he and I exchanged business cards. I knew a gratuity had been included in the rental, but I slipped him an extra bit of cash for putting up with all of us, and then we climbed off the bus.
“What are we doing here?” I asked, looking around as Lawrence drove away.
Mom wrapped her arm around my waist. “Oh, sweetie. We just wanted to have a cocktail and chitchat with you. Lawrence was nice enough to offer to drive us.”
I glanced at my wristwatch. “I should give Derek a call.”
“That’s not necessary,” Meg said. “He knows you’re going to be a little late.”
I sighed. They had obviously gone to some trouble to arrange this, so I wasn’t about to rain on their parade.
“Okay, then,” I said, coaxing a smile onto my face. “Let’s go have a cocktail.”
We walked inside and the maître d’ immediately led us to the back of the restaurant and into a narrow hall. I actually got a chill across my shoulders as he walked with us down that long, dark passageway. Then suddenly he turned and ushered me into a pitch-black room.
“Here we are,” he said helpfully, and walked away.
“What do you mean? Where are we?” I honestly couldn’t see a thing. “Wait. Can you at least turn on a light?”
Before I could start to get my bearings, the room burst into bright light and there was a loud shout of “Surprise!”
“Surprise? Where?” I was completely disoriented and had to wonder if I had suffered heart damage. Standing in front of me were at least thirty people. Staring at the faces, I realized I knew who these people were. But what were they doing here?
To my left was a long table covered with a white cloth. Beautifully wrapped gifts were stacked from one end to the other. Over our heads, pink and white crepe-paper ribbons were strewn every which way across the room. There were big white paper bells hanging from all the corners and gorgeous bouquets of white and pink flowers graced every other surface.
I still wasn’t certain what all these people were doing here. They were my friends and family, but I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to be here. And yet, I knew it was important that I stay. It was the most surreal feeling, almost like an out-of-body experience. I turned to Mom. “Are you sure Derek knows I’ll be late?”
“Oh, honey,” she said, laughing as she patted my cheek. “You’ve never had a surprise party, have you? No wonder you’re so spaced out.”
I swallowed. She was righ
t. I’d never experienced the terror of a surprise party. Still breathless, I pressed my hand to my chest. My heart was beating way too fast. “So this is really a surprise party?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“Of course. You’re the bride-to-be.”
“And Derek knew about it?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t he stop you?”
She laughed. “He mentioned you might not take it well, but that made it all the more fun to plan.”
I let out a breath and gazed around the festively decorated room. “Well, you did a good job.”
“I sure did. I’ll go get you a glass of champagne.”
“Yes, please.” Under my breath, I added, “Maybe you should bring the bottle.” But I pulled her back and gave her a long hug. “Thank you, Mom. It means a lot that you would go to all this trouble for me.”
“Oh, sweetie, you’re going to make me cry.”
“Then we’re even.”
She swatted my arm lightly. “I’ll get your drink, smarty pants.”
And suddenly I was enveloped in hugs from all three of my sisters; my friend Alex; my best friend, Robin; my neighbors Vinnie and Suzie; several of my bookbinder friends from BABA; and a dozen or more other friends from all over the Bay Area. Even my cop friend, Inspector Janice Lee, was there and came over to give me a hug. And . . .
“Heather?”
“It’s me.” We hugged. “You can’t believe how hard it was to keep my mouth shut about this.”
I gaped at her. “You knew all along?”
“Yup.” She kept her arm wrapped in mine. “Your mother called me last month and asked if I was coming to the conference.”
Now I was really shocked. “So you faked your reaction to me telling you I was getting married?”
“Yeah.” She grinned and squeezed my arm. “Pretty good, huh?”
“I’ll say,” I said, still blown away by my own mother’s ability to organize something this major, all for me.
She hugged me again. “I’m so happy for you, Brooklyn. I just hope we can . . .” But she had stopped talking.
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