Homicide in Hardcover

Chapter 8

I supposed Meredith Winslow and I would never go shopping together, but Mr. and Mrs. Winslow were a couple of pips, as my dad would say. Nice, charming and nothing like what I’d expected, especially after overhearing that argument the other night.

As I began work on the Faust, first prying away the pastedowns from the cover boards, I recalled what I’d overheard of the Winslows’ conversation the night of the murder.

They hadn’t actually mentioned Abraham’s name, so maybe they’d been talking about someone else. But they’d definitely said something about a problem with a book. It had to be connected to their book collection and probably the exhibition.

Could they have meant Ian? I hoped not. The Covington Library had employed an entire crew to work on the Winslow collection. I could ask Ian for the names of everyone on staff, then talk to each of them. But why? Was this me, playing detective? Was this where Derek Stone would step in and call me an idiot for trying to flush out a killer?

“I’m not an idiot,” I grumbled, then realized I was gripping the knife handle so hard it was digging into my palm. I quickly relaxed my grip before I drew blood and broke one of the top ten rules of bookbinding. Don’t bleed on the books.

Maybe I could satisfy my curiosity by calling the police. Just to touch base, find out how the investigation was going. Unfortunately, I still had a few secrets of my own I wasn’t ready to give up, so how could I wangle information out of them if I wasn’t willing to spill my guts in return?

I couldn’t tell them about the Winslows’ conversation I’d overheard the night of the murder because I didn’t even know who they’d been talking about.

And there was my mother showing up at the Covington that same night and acting very strangely. I wasn’t about to mention that to the cops.

There was something missing from inside the Faust. But until I knew what it was, what could I tell the police?

There was the splotch of blood found on the cover of the book, wiped clean by none other than Derek Stone.

“A suspicious move on his part,” I added aloud, then made a note to follow up with Derek about whose blood it was.

I also hadn’t mentioned to the police that I’d found Anandalla’s cocktail napkin note in Abraham’s ransacked studio. But I didn’t know who she was or whether she had anything to do with anything. She could be Abraham’s accountant or his manicurist or someone equally innocuous.

Let’s face it, all I had were theories and maybes and possibilities. No wonder my head was spinning. I guess I wouldn’t be calling the police anytime soon.

The gilded eagle on the cover of the Faust stared up at me with its one good eye. Was it thinking I should get my butt back to work and earn my inflated salary?

“My salary is not inflated, and you’re not even a real bird,” I protested. But I picked up my brush and got back to work anyway. I worked page by page, using the stiff, dry brush to remove microscopic grains of dirt and film and making notes of any damage as I went.

The book hadn’t been stored well, but it wasn’t the worst I’d ever seen. I’d have to detach the signatures-the pages-from the spine and clean and resew them back together more securely. The front and back boards had come loose at the hinges and would need reinforcement. There was some mild insect damage on the tops of a number of pages. And I’d have to clean and reset the gems on the front cover.

I got up from my chair and tested the workroom’s double-screw book press to see if it was in workable condition. I would use it to hold the book, spine end up, to resew the signatures and do the gluing and possibly regild the spine titles and “make it look pretty,” per the clients’ orders. The screws on the press needed oiling, but otherwise, it was a decent piece of hardware. This type of press, with its two independent screws, was ideal for books that had suffered water and mildew damage because they were often bloated and uneven along the sides.

I studied the fanciful text as I worked. The book was written entirely in German, of course. I could make out a number of basic words, having spent two weeks skiing in Garmisch-Partenkirchen during college. Unfortunately, I didn’t see any references to swilling cheap German lager or extreme snowboarding, which I would’ve been able to translate impeccably. I made a note to buy a German dictionary and a paperback version of Faust and read Goethe’s version of the man who sold his soul to the devil.

The devil.

My hands froze on the page as Abraham’s last words came rushing back into my head. Remember the devil. I felt a wave of dismay that I still didn’t have a clue what they meant.

“Knock, knock.”

“Oh!” I looked up and saw Conrad Winslow standing at the door. “Mr. Winslow. You caught me off guard. Come in.”

He was alone, thank goodness. I didn’t think I could take another round of dodge-the-poison-dart vibes with darling Meredith.

“I’m sorry, my dear.” He looked a little embarrassed as he walked in.

“That’s okay, I get lost in my work sometimes.”

“You must love what you do.”

“I do,” I said. “How can I help you?” It sounded obsequious to my ears, but as Ian had pointed out earlier, Mr. Winslow was the boss and kowtowing was the word of the day.

He stared at the Faust for a long moment. “It’s something, isn’t it?”

I smiled. “Yes, it is.”

With a shy smile, he said, “I’ve never been much of a book reader. Sports page and financial section are more my speed. So how did I end up with all these books?” He chuckled. “That is irony.”

“It just figures, doesn’t it?” I turned a page and ran the brush along the seam. “But it’s a beautiful collection and the Faust is fantastic.”

“Yah, well.” He looked around the room, then back at the book, not meeting my gaze. Then he stepped a few inches back from the table. “You’ve heard it’s cursed.”

I scribbled a note to myself about the foxing on the next page. “Yes, of course. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

He stared hard at me. “You don’t mind working on something that might kill you?”

My smile faded. “Mr. Winslow, that’s just a legend. A book can’t-”

“No legend,” he said firmly. “The thing is cursed. My grandfather was given the book and died of poisoning a few days later. It was passed on to my great-uncle, who barely had it a week before he died, crushed under a trolley. Two cousins met a similar fate. It is no legend.”

“But that’s-”

“They found one cousin swinging from a rope. He was not suicidal.” Mr. Winslow pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and swiped his brow. “Now Karastovsky’s dead because of it. I want to pull it from the exhibition before someone else suffers.”

“But you can’t,” I insisted, closing the book and stroking the rich, jewel-encrusted leather cover. “Look at this. It’s priceless, exquisite. It’s the centerpiece of your collection for good reason. It’s an extremely important work of art, both historically and aesthetically. You can’t pull it. It would be a crime to-”

“It’s just a book,” he said sharply. His German accent grew thicker and he jabbed his finger in the air for emphasis. “Do you want to die over a stupid book?”

I edged back. “Abraham may be dead but this book didn’t kill him.”

Easy for me to say.

He stared at me, looked at the book, then up at the ceiling, frowning all the while.

“Hell, you’re right,” he finally said.

I was?

He weighed his words before speaking. “Karastovsky called me the afternoon of the opening, said he needed to meet with me that night. Had something to show me. I told him I couldn’t make it.” He shrugged. “I didn’t like him, so I put him off.”

“You didn’t like Abraham?”

“No. A personality conflict, I suppose. And I overheard a shouting match between him and McCullough that sealed my opinion.”

Abraham and Ian had argued?

“What was the argument about?” I asked.

He frowned. “You don’t want to hear about that.”

“If it has anything to do with the books, I do.”

He wiped the edge of his hairline and let out a breath. “Karastovsky had taken one of my grandfather’s Bibles and put a new binding on it, a pale pink leather, and Sylvia was thrilled with it. But McCullough went ballistic. He told Karastovsky he hadn’t hired him to-” He stopped, gave me an apologetic look. “You’ll pardon the expression, ‘fuck up’ a priceless collection by throwing designer leather on everything.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yah, he was angry.”

“But Abraham was doing the Bible for your wife, right? It wasn’t part of the exhibition.”

“It was supposed to be,” he confessed. “It belonged to my grandmother.”

“I see.”

“Yah,” he said. “So that’s why we were all very happy when Ian told us you would be taking over the work. You have ethics and respect for books.”

“Thanks.” I took the compliment with a smile, but now it was my turn to be uncomfortable. This problem came back to the basic argument between Abraham and me. He’d never worked with conservation methods, didn’t really understand them or care about them. The conservation field was relatively new and he didn’t accept it, didn’t trust it.

When I’d told Abraham I was going for an advanced degree in the same field he’d worked his whole life, he’d sneered. I didn’t need a diploma to know how to bring a book back to life. But I’d gone ahead and obtained double master’s degrees in library science and fine art with an emphasis on conservation and restoration, along with a boatload of other certifications. Abraham, on the other hand, had learned the old-fashioned way, at his father’s knee in the family bookbindery in Toronto.

“Thank you for trusting me with your book,” I said. “But honestly, in spite of what you heard during that argument, Abraham was a consummate professional.”

“I still like you better,” he said, and winked at me. I knew he wasn’t really flirting, but it was a borderline “ew” moment, seeing as how he was Meredith’s father.

“Thanks,” I said weakly.

“Well now, I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he said genially.

“Not at all.”

He pulled out a business card. “I want you to call me if you have any problems.”

“Thanks. I will.”

He nodded. “I think you’ve got the right attitude about this whole ‘curse’ business, so I’ll get out of your way and let you get back to work.”

“I enjoyed talking to you,” I said, surprised to realize I meant it.

“Then you’ll do me another favor?”

I paused, wondering what bomb he might drop this time, but then nodded. “Of course.”

“Don’t put a pink cover on the damn thing,” he said with a wink. “It might make the ladies happy, but the book lovers will swallow their dentures.”

I laughed with relief. “No pink covers, I promise.”

“And one more thing.”

“Sure.”

“Be careful, my dear.”

The next time I looked up, it was five o’clock. I’d worked for four hours straight. I dropped the dry brush on the table and rolled and stretched my fingers to ease the cramping, then raised my arms up and rolled my shoulders to work out the tightness. It was already dark outside and I knew I was probably one of the last ones left in the building. I packed up my tools and found a security guard who took the Faust for safekeeping.

I stepped outside and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. I glanced around warily, then pulled my jacket tight and ran to my car.

Rather than sit in traffic, I had the taxi driver drop me off at Larkin and Beach and I walked a block over to the Buena Vista. Cabbing it to Fisherman’s Wharf on a Friday night solved two problems for me. I wouldn’t have to fight for a parking place and I’d avoid the idiocy of drinking and driving.

But speaking of idiocy, I wondered if I was nuts for hoping to find the unknown Anandalla, based on a flimsy cocktail napkin note.

“Flimsy maybe, but intriguing nonetheless,” I maintained as I maneuvered my way along the crowded sidewalk, then had to cover my ears as a cable car rumbled down Hyde. It gained speed and clanged its bell loud enough to wake the dead and to alert the large crowd milling at the cable car turnaround a half block away.

Reaching the door of the Buena Vista, I stared in dismay at the standing-room-only crowd inside. Robin was going to kill me for bringing her into this madness. If I ever made it to the bar, I’d make sure to have a drink waiting for her when she showed up.

I forced my way inside and nudged people out of the way until I hit the bar. As the scents of chili and fried fish hit me, old memories poured in.

I was ten years old the first time I came here. My parents had brought our whole brood along to meet some Deadhead friends for breakfast. It was the Friday morning after Thanksgiving and we had so much fun, we insisted on making it a yearly tradition. Mom and Dad would perch at the bar, drinking Irish coffee and enjoying the fantastic view, while we six kids would pick a likely table and hover anxiously until the seated customers paid their tabs and left.

After a huge breakfast, we would pile into cars and drive out to the polo fields at Golden Gate Park where Dad and his friends and all the kids would play football for a few hours. After a few years of that, Mom and her girlfriends and my sisters and I got smart enough to pass on the football insanity and head instead to Union Square and the shopping insanity.

Within five minutes, I lucked out and grabbed a barstool. Two bartenders worked at each end of the long bar. They’d each lined up twenty Irish coffee glasses in the well of the bar. The show was about to begin.

I watched the tall, lanky bartender at my end grab a pot of hot water and move down the line, spilling hot water into each glass to warm them up. Then he quickly tossed the water out of one glass and dropped a sugar cube inside before passing to the next glass. His hands worked so fast, I could barely follow the action. After filling each glass with fresh coffee, he whisked a spoon into each one to dissolve the sugar, then added a healthy shot of Irish whiskey, followed by a large dollop of freshly whipped cream.

Classic.

There was some scattered applause. I calculated that it took both bartenders less than ninety seconds to make forty Irish coffees. Given the way the two men eyed each other, I had a feeling there was some competition involved.

I held up my hand and made eye contact with my guy. He grinned and placed an Irish on a napkin in front of me.

“Thanks,” I said.

“De nada,” he said in a twangy Texas accent and I noticed his name tag said “Neil.” He must’ve been a new hire because I didn’t recognize him. Even though I hadn’t been here in a year, I still knew the faces of most of the employees. There was very little turnover here. Seriously, they still called one busboy “the kid” and he had to be seventy years old.

I blissfully sipped my drink, drawing the hot coffee through the cream so I could taste the individual flavors without stirring it all together and losing both the coolness of the cream and the heat of the coffee.

Turning on my stool, I glanced at the thick crowd behind me and the picture-perfect view beyond. There was nothing complicated here, nothing to deal with other than the sounds of laughter and the aroma of Friday night clam chowder.

I didn’t want to think about Abraham or murder or blood or books. I was tired of spinning my wheels, going around in circles and ending up back where I’d started. So instead, I spun around on my stool and ordered another drink. From here on out, I would forget about solving murders and spend my energy tracking down Abraham’s journals. That was all I wanted. I didn’t need to unravel any mysteries other than the mystery of the book. The police could do the rest.

“Is that so much to ask?” I wondered, and took a healthy sip of my new drink.

“Wha’d you say?” Neil, my tall bartender, asked. I did like an attentive bartender.

I smiled and took a chance. “Do you know someone named Anandalla who comes in here regularly?” I asked casually.

“Anandalla.” His eyebrows squinched together, so I figured he was thinking. “You a friend of hers?”

“Sort of. She told me to meet her here tonight.”

“Huh.” He grabbed a wet towel and dragged it along the well where the multiple Irish coffee creation had taken place. I imagined it got pretty sticky if they didn’t mop up immediately. “I haven’t seen her since, hmm, must’ve been Wednesday.”

Could I be this lucky? Could we really be talking about the same Anandalla? But seriously, how many women with that name were running around San Francisco?

“Is she out of town?” I asked.

“Nah, I don’t think so.” He pulled twenty glasses out of the tray the busboy left and began lining them up to make another batch. “She said something about going north for a few days.”

“You mean like Canada or something?”

“Nah, she’s got relatives up in the wine country. Said she might hang out there for a few days.”

“Oh. Must be nice to have a place to stay up there, huh?”

“Bet your ass.”

I smiled thinly. I’d have to leave a nice tip for Neil because he’d been so forthcoming, even though I still didn’t know much. I still didn’t know how she knew Abraham. Was she a bookseller? Another bookbinder? Was she the one who’d torn his studio apart?

“Oh, hell, maybe she’s a hooker.” I shook my head in disgust. Neil had given me some answers, but now I had more questions. I hated when that happened.

“Hey, you,” Robin shouted, tapping me on the shoulder.

I bounced four inches off the stool and almost spilled my drink.

“Aren’t you the jumpy one,” she said.

“People keep sneaking up on me,” I complained.

“That’s got to be a problem since you’re currently surrounded by a few hundred of them.”

“Never mind. You want an Irish coffee?”

“Sure.”

I caught Neil’s eye and held up two fingers. Then I stood up and gave Robin a hug.

“Only one barstool,” I said. “Do you want it?”

“You go ahead. I’ve been sitting all day.”

Neil was waiting with our drink when I turned the stool around. The new kid was okay.

“Remind me again why we’re here,” Robin shouted.

“I love this place.”

“So do I, but you’ve got to be a masochist to show up on a Friday night. I had to park three blocks away.”

“Sorry about that.” I filled her in on everything that had happened since we last spoke. I left nothing out. Well, except for the irritating twinge I got in my stomach whenever Derek Stone looked at me with those eyes that saw too much. I didn’t mention that.

When I was finished, Robin shook her head and ordered another round of drinks since we’d both plowed through the ones we had.

“Okay, this better be my last one,” I said, toasting her.

“Famous last words,” she murmured, clicked my glass with hers and drank.

“So, what do you think?” I said.

“What can I say? I think you’re insane.” She took another sip, then looked me up and down. “And even though you have atrocious taste in clothing and worse taste in shoes, I’ll really miss you if you get yourself killed.”