Derek smiled. “I love it when you start rounding up suspects.”
I sighed. “I would like to be proven wrong.”
He shrugged philosophically. “Heather had a dozen years to think about what she would do if she ever ran into Sara or her husband again. Maybe Sara’s death was years in the making.”
The thought depressed me. “The one thing I can’t believe is that Heather would knowingly agree to provide Rod with an alibi.” I took that idea and expanded it for a moment. “That would require them to have been in contact with each other before they even arrived for the conference.”
“Stranger things have happened.” Derek smirked a little. “Usually to us.”
“Good point,” I said, smiling. “You know, Inspector Lee should check their social media pages. People say all kinds of stuff out there.”
“Not a bad idea, darling.” We waited for the light to turn green at Fourth Street before crossing.
“She’s probably already doing that,” I said. “It’s amazing how people post the most revealing information, never realizing that someone out there might connect the dots.”
He shook his head. “Amazing is one word for it.”
“Yeah. Idiotic is another.”
He tucked my arm through his. “You’ll call Inspector Lee in the morning, just in case?”
“Absolutely. She loves getting advice from me.”
He was still chuckling as he keyed in the security code and we walked into our building.
“I wonder if Heather called Rod to give him a heads-up that the police are looking for him.”
“If they’re in cahoots, she probably did.”
“I just hope Inspector Lee went straight to Rod’s hotel room when she left our place.”
“That’s what I would do,” Derek said. “I wouldn’t want to give him too much time to plan his escape.”
“You’re assuming he’s guilty.”
“I’m not assuming anything. It’s equally possible that Heather killed Sara. Or that they were working together. If they have, in fact, rekindled their love affair.”
“Well, for now, they both have an alibi.”
Derek pondered that as the elevator shuddered to a halt and the door opened. “Again, it all seems a bit too tidy, doesn’t it?”
I scowled. “Yes, it does.” We stepped inside and the thing began its slow climb to the sixth floor. “But I still can’t see how Rod could’ve arranged for his wife to die at almost the exact moment he was meeting Heather for a drink.”
“We don’t know the time of death yet.”
“True. Only that it was sometime after she called me.” I thought about it. “You know, if Rod and Heather were both in the bar when Sara died, maybe someone else killed her. She and her boss had some serious animosity for each other, from what I heard.”
“The elusive Cornelia,” Derek said.
“Exactly. I hope Inspector Lee tracks her down.”
“Of course she will.”
“I’ve still got too many questions about Rod and Heather.”
“I do, too,” he said. “We don’t know what time Sara died, only that it was after she called you. We don’t know what time Rod and Heather met at the bar, nor how much time they spent together.”
“I could ask Heather, but she might get a little defensive.”
“Rightly so.”
With a sigh, I admitted, “I’m circling back around to Rod. Was he angry with Sara? Did her giving me that book seal her fate? Maybe if I’d given Rod The Three Musketeers, Sara would still be alive.”
“No. You mustn’t think that, darling.” Derek gazed at the rough-hewn walls of the freight elevator, thinking for a moment. “I don’t know the man, but from everything you’ve told me about him, it sounds as though he has a rather healthy narcissistic streak.”
I stared up at him. “You could call it that. He was always so sure of his own awesomeness. It’s entirely possible that the book had nothing to do with anything. Rod could have set this whole thing up ahead of time and then sat back like some potentate and watched it play out.”
“Perhaps.”
The heavy door stuttered open and we walked down the hall to our apartment.
“On the other hand,” Derek countered as he slipped the key into the lock, “we may be giving him too much credit.”
I laughed despite my frustration. “Probably so. Because honestly, he’s not all that awesome.”
“Good to know.”
“So until Inspector Lee actually confirms that his alibi is a sham, we’ll need to look elsewhere to find justice for Sara.”
* * *
• • •
It was Friday morning and I had no more conference obligations. However, I did plan to run over to the venue to meet Heather for coffee, and I was also anxious to track down Rod sometime today. I hadn’t seen him since he walked into my classroom a full two days ago.
Other than that, I could do anything I wanted to do. Veg out, sleep in, or read a book. It all sounded like heaven.
Unfortunately, though, I had awakened with pre-wedding jitters. I couldn’t sit still. Maybe I was conflating my wedding anxiety with worries about Sara’s murder, but I kept jumping up to check my wedding list, then staring into space, then pouring more coffee while I berated myself for having jitters in the first place.
Derek had left early for yet another office meeting. So much for taking the week off, but that was what happened when you owned the business. Today they would be discussing everyone’s assignments while he was out of the country for ten days. So I was on my own.
I ultimately decided that I would spend a little while finishing up Derek’s special gift and then devote an hour or so to my new books from Heather and Sara, examining them and making any fixes that were needed. Work always helped me focus on something other than the multitude of crazy ideas zipping through my brain.
“I’ll need more coffee for that,” I said out loud to no one in particular. And for my own peace of mind I pulled out my wedding list one more time to check that everything was handled.
To call it a checklist was a little deceptive, I thought as I lugged out the six-inch-wide binder filled with everything you could ever hope to learn about putting on a wedding. It was both daunting and miraculous at the same time.
I quickly scanned the list and got to item number eight, subsections (a) through (cc), before I cringed. “Our families. I don’t even know what they’re doing or if they’re on schedule.”
I hoped everyone was playing nicely, having fun together, frolicking in Dharma and exploring the wine country. Tomorrow they would all pile into cars and drive into the city, where they would check into their hotels in time to relax and dress for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night.
“I can’t take the pressure,” I muttered, pressing my hand over my heart. Would they make it in time? Were they all getting along? Why did I feel like there might be problems? Maybe I was connecting psychically to someone in the family because I just knew something was going wrong in Dharma. I grabbed the phone and called my mother.
“Sweetie!” she cried. “Is everything all right?”
“That’s what I was about to ask you.”
“Oh.” She sighed softly. “This is so sweet. Meg, come quickly. Brooklyn is having a bridal moment.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” I grumbled.
She laughed. “It means you’re freaking out, kiddo.”
“No I’m not.”
“Of course you’re not,” she said soothingly, although I sensed an undertone of mockery. “Take some deep breaths. I already did a cleansing ritual but I’ll do another one at the rehearsal dinner Saturday night.”
“And I’m going to assist,” Meg said chirpily.
“Hot diggity dog.” I giggled nervously. My mother had found he
r soul mate in Meg. I couldn’t be happier for them both, except for the part where they faithfully supported each other’s whack-a-doodle eccentricities. Seriously, if Derek and I ever did have kids, we had some truly interesting genes to look forward to.
“I’m really chuffed that I can help,” Meg said, then grew serious. “Now, about your jitters.”
“I don’t have any jitters,” I said. I thought about Sara’s murder and sighed. There was no way I could keep that news from my mother. And she was going to flip out when she heard it.
“Wait, what is it?” Mom said suddenly. “What’s going on? I’m getting a vibe.”
“Oh, I’m feeling it, too, Becky,” Meg whispered. “Brooklyn, something happened. Tell us, dear.”
“Actually,” I said with a sigh, “something did happen and it’s pretty bad. Sara, my old friend from college, was found dead yesterday.”
“By you,” Mom said. It wasn’t a question.
“Derek was with me.”
“Oh, that’s good,” Meg said. “I’m so sorry, Brooklyn. That must have been devastating for you.”
“It was pretty awful.”
“She was murdered,” Mom said flatly.
“How did you . . . Never mind.” I shook my head. She must’ve heard something in my voice. I would have to be more careful next time.
Next time?
I shook that thought away and took a few deep breaths to shake away this mood. “Anyway, I called because I was thinking about all of you and hoping you were enjoying yourselves.”
“Oh, we are living the good life, no question,” Meg said, picking up on my need to change the subject. “The weather is beautiful and there’s so much to see and do.”
“I’m glad.” Feeling better, I sat down on the couch to enjoy the conversation. “And how are your boys doing?”
Meg referred to her five grown sons as “the boys.” Never mind that each one was bigger and hunkier than the next, or that all of them worked in seriously scary fields like counter-espionage and foreign intelligence. To her, they would always be her “boys.”
“They’re having a whip-bang time up here,” Meg exclaimed. “My goodness, they’ve been working in the fields like seasoned farmhands and they’ve helped repair some of the barrels in the cave. And of course they’ve helped pour the wines in the tasting room.”
“Good for them,” I said.
“To be honest, Brooklyn,” Meg said, her voice lowering conspiratorially, “I believe they’ve been sipping more than simply pouring. But I’m assured that it helps with the sales.”
“We call that quality control,” I said, and Meg laughed.
“Austin and Jackson love having them around,” Mom added. “They’re already like one big happy family.”
“Your brothers have been more than welcoming, Brooklyn,” Meg said. “I’m starting to feel as though I have seven sons, not just five.”
“Good grief, bite your tongue,” Mom said, chuckling.
I laughed as I wiped away tears. “It’s so good to talk to you both. I feel so much better.”
“I’m glad, dear,” Meg said. “It helps to step outside your world to get a little perspective once in a while, doesn’t it?”
“It certainly does.” I finished my last sip of coffee. “I’ll let you go. I just wanted to check up on everyone. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”
“We’re so looking forward to it, Brooklyn.”
“Me, too.”
Mom piped up. “Me, three.”
I disconnected the call and sat back on the couch. The anxiety churning in my stomach a few minutes ago had calmed down. Still, I jumped up and ran to the kitchen island, where I scanned my list again.
Cake, check.
Photographer, check.
Flowers, check.
Dress, shoes, veil, check.
Weather. I frowned. Was it going to rain? I didn’t think so, but I turned on the Weather Channel just to make sure. The forecast for Saturday and Sunday was blue skies, low seventies, slight breeze off the ocean. In other words, a perfect San Francisco day.
The wedding ceremony was to be held in the beautiful garden of the Covington Library. I had agreed to have the wedding on a Sunday because Ian had offered to close the library for the day, just for us. There was no way I could turn down such an incredible offer. The caterers would begin setting up and decorating late Saturday and the ceremony would take place Sunday afternoon. We would have an open bar and a band for the cocktail hour and then go inside for dinner and dancing. For that we had hired the most fabulous, talented DJ I’d ever heard.
On paper it all sounded so normal and maybe even a bit, well, ordinary. Typical. But to Derek and me it meant that we would be married in a breathtaking location with a beautiful view, surrounded by our wonderful friends and family. We would all enjoy a memorable evening filled with good food, good wine, and good music, and if that was typical, I didn’t care. I was thrilled with our plans.
I continued down my list until I got to item number twenty-seven. Gifts for the bridesmaids. I had a vague memory of seeing that item before, but I had to rub my eyes to make sure I was seeing it now. Because the fact was, I had completely spaced on buying the gifts. I had nothing!
“Oh no!” How could I have forgotten gifts for my bridesmaids? How?
“Calm down.” I tried to look on the bright side. My best friend Robin and my three sisters were my bridesmaids. We were all so close, they would probably forgive me, right?
“Are you nuts? They’ll never forgive me.” I buried my face in my hands. “You are the worst bride in the world.”
I took so many deep breaths trying to calm down that I was now in danger of hyperventilating.
“I’ve got it!” I shouted, pacing back and forth in front of the kitchen island. “Problem solved. I can give each of them one of my pretty handmade books.”
I paced back and forth, picturing the books in my mind. I still had some left over from the Book Lovers’ Tour. Everyone loved them!
Seconds later, I stopped mid-pace. “You dolt. They’ll never speak to you again if you give them those books.”
I began pacing again. “You do realize you’re talking to yourself, right?”
With a shrug, I muttered, “Yeah. So what?”
“Meow.”
I glanced down and found Charlie staring up at me and shaking her head. Or maybe that was my imagination.
“I wasn’t talking to you. I’m perfectly sane.” I picked her up and held her for a long moment. Holding Charlie was an instant calm-me-down solution, not that I needed such a thing. I wasn’t usually so panic-prone, but this week it seemed to be my semi-permanent state of being.
Calming my mind for that moment helped me realize there was only one thing to do. After my mani-pedi on Saturday, I would swing by Tiffany in Union Square and buy jewelry for everyone. Things were more special when they came in a little blue box, right?
I supposed I could’ve jumped in the car right then and rushed over to Tiffany, but this was supposed to be my day to relax. Shopping would be the complete opposite of relaxing so I decided to put it off until the next day when I would be in run-around-town mode anyway.
“Another crisis averted,” I said, exhausted by my own foolishness. “Thank you, Charlie.”
I set her down on the floor and petted her soft fur one last time. Then to divert myself, I washed out my cup and cleaned the coffee machine. Good times. When I was done, I decided I would take an hour or two and work on books as I had initially planned. Work always made me feel better.
Opening the safe, I pulled out the two books I’d received from Heather and Sara. Then fortifying myself with chocolate-covered almonds, I went into my studio. I took the book of Shakespeare’s sonnets from my desk and checked my work. The pretty little book still gleamed from some leather polish I had applied
the other day. The gilded leaves on the front cover looked beautiful. All that was left to do was to finish constructing the box.
First I cut out the pieces of burgundy linen and carefully glued them to the boards. It only took a few minutes for the glue to dry completely. Then I carefully measured, cut, and glued beautifully patterned endpapers to the interior sides of the parts of the box. Once these were dry, I glued a satin burgundy ribbon securely to one side. And finally, I glued the main pieces together to form the slip case. Using a hands-free magnifying glass, I trimmed the linen right to the edges and used a toothpick to glue the material until you couldn’t tell where the seams ended.
I took a quick minute to admire the book and the box. The burgundy shades blended perfectly and together they looked so handsome and elegant—much like Derek Stone himself. I felt a tingle in my heart at the thought of him and then chuckled at my own giddiness.
With a happy sigh, I set the box aside to dry completely.
Riffling through my paper drawer, I found a piece of black and gold handcrafted Nepalese paper and a length of gold ribbon. As soon as everything was dry, I would wrap the gift and wait for the perfect moment to give it to Derek.
With that job done, I brought Sara’s and Heather’s books over to the worktable. Pulling a pair of thin cotton gloves out of a drawer, I sat down and slipped them on. The gloves would protect the books from scratches or fingerprints as well as any oil or dirt or excess chocolate my hands might’ve picked up. Then I grabbed my most powerful magnifying glass and began to examine the books more closely.
“Talk to me,” I murmured. It wasn’t my imagination; books really did talk to me. Not the words on the paper, but the paper itself. The cracked leather, the fractured spine, the torn pages. I heard them calling my name. The severed hinge, the shredded headband, the faded gilding. They whispered, Help us, Brooklyn Wainwright, you’re our only hope.
I felt their pain. Really. I didn’t make this stuff up.
I started with The Three Musketeers, first studying the leather cover from all angles. The workmanship was exquisite, especially the beveling around the colorful painting of the book’s main characters. The gilding on the spine and both covers was still intact and I wondered if the book had been refurbished lately. It was almost too good to be true.
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