Homicide in Hardcover

Chapter 11

My mouth dropped open. “You are not.”

She threw down the knife and planted her hands on her hips. “Am, too.”

Okay, this was unexpected. I studied her for a minute, then wondered how I hadn’t seen it before. The hair was a dead giveaway, the same curly dark mop as Abraham’s. She looked about twenty-five years old, probably five feet two, short for someone who claimed Abraham for a father. Her mother had to be really short.

“I’m sorry,” I said helplessly. “I didn’t know Abraham had a daughter.”

She blurted out a harsh laugh. “Yeah, well, neither did he till a week ago.”

“You’re kidding me. Where did you come from? When did he… hmm.”

She shrugged. “I live in Seattle with my mom. She only told me a month ago who my father is.” She grabbed a spool of sewing thread and rolled it between her hands. “She’s, um… My mom’s dying. Of cancer. Guess she figured it was time to come clean.” She put the thread down and rubbed her eyes. “I’m so tired. I’ve been staying with a girlfriend near Ghirardelli Square. She’s kind of a night owl.”

“Did you…” How did I ask this question? “Did you get a chance to meet Abraham?”

“Yeah.” She smiled. It transformed her face and I realized she was even younger than I’d first thought. Late teens or early twenties, maybe.

“He’s a big bear, isn’t he?” she continued, chuckling. “We had a great dinner in the City; then I came out here the other night to meet him, see his place, but he wasn’t here. I left him a note but he didn’t call.”

She looked perturbed. “He told me all about you, even showed me your picture.”

“My picture?”

“Yeah, the one he carries in his wallet.” She said it like an accusation. Hey, it wasn’t my fault if she was miffed. But why was she talking about him in the present tense? I was getting a bad feeling.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I told him I’d meet him at the Buena Vista last night but he didn’t show up. Then all of a sudden you were there. I recognized you and I-I didn’t know what to do, so I took off.” She waved her hands helplessly. “Probably a chickenshit reaction, but it was weird to see you there. I felt a little threatened, I guess. Fight or flight, you know? So I ran.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So I thought I’d try to snag him here today, but no such luck. And here you are. Must be my lucky day.”

I would’ve risen to the sarcastic bait but I couldn’t. She didn’t know. Now what? I really wished my mom were here. She would handle this so much better than I could.

“I’m sorry, Anandalla,” I said, clasping my hands tightly. “Abraham died a few days ago.”

“What?” She shook her head. “No, I just saw him. What’s today?”

“It’s true,” I said softly. “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes were wide, filled with shock. “No, no, I’m supposed to… um, no.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s not possible,” she whispered. “You’re lying. You’re just…”

She blinked a few times and gulped. Then her face crumpled as the tears started. She buried her face in her hands and her shoulders hitched as she cried silently.

I grabbed a stool and forced her to sit. She laid her head on the surface of the worktable and continued to cry with heart-wrenching sobs. I rubbed her back but felt completely useless. I rifled through my purse and found a packet of tissues and shoved one into her hand.

I couldn’t believe it. After a lifetime of not knowing, this girl finally had a chance to meet her father. And now he was gone. And her mother was dying, too. How could anyone survive that much pain?

My heart broke for Abraham, too. What a happy shock it must’ve been to find out he had a daughter after all these years. At the same time, I felt a spurt of anger for Anandalla’s mother. How could that woman have kept them both in the dark for so many years?

And I suddenly realized this must’ve been what Abraham had been talking about the night of the Covington opening. “Life is good, Brooklyn,” he’d said, hugging me. “I didn’t think it could get any better, but it can.”

At the time, I thought he’d been referring to the overwhelming success of the exhibition. Now I realized he’d been talking about his daughter. It was so unfair.

Anandalla’s sobs echoed in the room and reached right inside me. As always, no one cried alone when I was nearby. I wiped my damp cheeks as I put my hand on her arm.

“I’m so sorry, Anandalla,” I said. “He was a good man and I know he would’ve gone to any lengths to find you if he’d known. I-I don’t know what else to say. It’s just a tragedy.”

Anandalla sat up, took in a big breath and let it out. She hopped off the stool and absently pulled at the cuffs of her jacket. “Yeah. It sucks.”

“That pretty much sums it up,” I said.

After a moment, she blurted, “You can call me Annie.”

“Annie?”

“My mom tried to be Hindu for a while, so that’s where I got the name.”

“There was a lot of that going around back in the day.”

She snickered. “Yeah. After a few years, she went back to being a legal secretary and I’ve been Annie ever since.”

“I like the name Annie.”

“Thanks. So I guess I’m going to be an orphan,” she said with a chuckle, but it set off a fresh bout of tears and another round of heavy sobs.

I pulled her into my arms and held her. After a few minutes, she stopped sobbing but began to gasp with heavy jerks as she tried to catch her breath.

“Easy,” I said. “Take it slow.” I patted her back. Her breathing slowed, deepened, softened.

Finally, she stepped away. “I’ll be okay.”

“I don’t know how,” I said. “I’d be a complete disaster.”

“Denial helps. I’m hoping it’ll kick in any minute now.”

“Well, I can promise you one thing.”

She dabbed the tissue along her wet temple. “Yeah? What?”

“You’ll never be an orphan. Not while you’ve got the Fellowship around you.”

“The what?”

I sighed. “I guess your mother never told you about that, either.”

She took a defensive step back. I was making an educated guess that her mother had kept Abraham from her because of his connection to the commune and Guru Bob. To an outsider, Guru Bob had often been mistaken for a cult leader. But he wasn’t, just as his followers weren’t held captive and hypnotized into drinking Kool-Aid.

“What exactly didn’t my mother tell me?” Annie asked as she swiped her eyes dry with her knuckles. Some of her Goth eye makeup smeared across her cheek and I handed her another tissue.

“I could try to explain but it would take hours.” I grabbed my bag. “Why don’t I show you instead?”

The three hundred or so assorted family and friends still partying at the town hall were overwhelmed by the news that Abraham had a daughter. But never let it be said that the members of the Fellowship for Spiritual Enlightenment and Higher Artistic Consciousness couldn’t rise to the occasion and welcome a newcomer into the fold.

Literally.

They closed in, encircling Annie in a warm, loving, sugary sweet human sandwich as they plied her with good wine and platefuls of delectable treats, then began peppering her with nosy questions and sentimental stories.

After twenty minutes, Annie was able to catch my eye. I almost laughed at her unmasked look of sheer terror. She was in serious danger of frying from happy face overload. I took pity on her and worked my way through the crowd to rescue her, but I was too late. My mother had cleverly intervened. She assured everyone they’d have their chance for a one-on-one heart-to-heart with Annie, then tucked her firmly under her wing and whisked her away to our house.

It was pretty much guaranteed I was about to inherit a third sister. I needed another sibling the way I needed a sixth toe. Or a twelfth toe. You know, an extra one on each foot. Never mind.

Three hours later, as the lights of the City cast a foggy glow on San Francisco Bay, I headed west on Highway 37 toward home. I gripped the steering wheel and tried to concentrate on the road. It wasn’t easy and it had nothing to do with the darkness or the fog. No, I was blown away by the fact that I was six million dollars wealthier than I’d been this morning.

Six. Million. Dollars.

Except for a generous bequest to his housekeeper and assorted knickknacks to friends plus a few rare books to Guru Bob, Abraham had left his entire estate to me.

Me. I got it all. His house, his business, his library of books and papers, his portfolio of property and stock investments, which, his lawyer hastened to assure me, were extensive.

The daughter of his heart, he’d called me in his will. After hearing that, I’d run through the rest of my packet of tissues.

After the will was read, my father had to hold me up as we walked outside. I was in a daze. I had to escape. I couldn’t go to my family’s house. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, especially Annie.

As soon as I’d promised my dad I’d call when I got home, I jumped in my car and escaped Dharma. I felt guilty leaving but knew it would only get worse if I had to look into Annie’s sad eyes and know she was wondering what might’ve happened, if only.

If only her mother hadn’t lied. If only Abraham were alive.

It was obvious Abraham hadn’t had a clue Annie existed until a few days before he died. Her name was never mentioned in the will.

I shook my head as I swung onto the 101, still in shock over the full disclosure of Abraham’s net worth. I knew property values in Sonoma were high and everyone who’d invested in the commune and Dharma had made money over the years, thanks to smart fiscal planning by Guru Bob and my dad and a few others.

Naturally, Guru Bob had presented a cosmically correct reason for making sound investments since the more money one had, the less negativity one suffered. Maybe that theory didn’t translate out in the real world, but in Dharma, people were pretty darn happy and grateful most of the time. At least, that was the goal. But just in case they forgot, Guru Bob was always there to remind them to be joyful, damn it.

So, Abraham was loaded. Who knew? And I was in a quandary. What was I supposed to do with Abraham’s stuff now that Annie was in the picture?

I could sign his house over to her. I didn’t need a house in Dharma. There was no mortgage to worry about and Annie might be happy to live there once her mother was gone. She might enjoy the small community that would envelop her as one of their own. But that was a decision she probably didn’t want to think about for a while.

It was too much for me to think about right now, too. As I hit the bridge, then drove through the Fast Track lane at the bridge toll plaza, I made up my mind to call a family meeting next week. My sibs and parents would probably agree that Annie should have Abraham’s house. I would also find a way to give her some money or a portion of the investments. I didn’t think she’d care about Abraham’s books or his business as much as I did.

My brother Jackson, always the pragmatic one, would insist that Annie undergo a paternity test. So would the lawyers. But if anyone had a doubt that she and Abraham were related, they’d just have to look at all that hair.

The poor girl would need a chunk of Abraham’s money just to support the hair products she’d require for the rest of her life. And I think Abraham would be pleased to know she was roaming around in that big house of his.

I dashed away the tears. I couldn’t afford to lose it right now, not when this portion of 101 twisted and narrowed as I drove through the Presidio toward the Marina district. And not while a gas-guzzling SUV was zooming too fast toward me. It stayed right on my tail, flashing its brights to effectively blind me.

I had a moment to wonder whether this was just your everyday jackass or someone so angry that they’d actually threaten me on the open road, before they gunned their engine and roared past, kicking up road dirt and tiny rocks that pinged against my windshield.

I let out a breath. Just your everyday jackass, after all. But I was seriously tired of being frightened to death at every turn. And now that Annie was in the picture, my determination to find Abraham’s murderer took a seismic leap. I wouldn’t give up until the bastard was brought to justice.

I’d been home ten minutes when someone knocked at the door, and then I heard my neighbor Vinnie call out, “Halloo, Brooklyn? You are home?”

Oh no. I’d forgotten to feed the cats this morning. Were they dead?

I hurried to the front door, only to discover I’d left it unlocked. Vinnie was poking her head inside, looking around.

“Come in,” I said. Had I truly been so distracted I hadn’t locked my door? How dumb was that?

Vinnie walked in holding a straggly green plant in a pot. “We wish to thank you for taking good care of Pookie and Splinters.” She bowed her head slightly, then handed me the pot. “We are so grateful.”

“Oh, how pretty.” I took the plant and bowed before I could stop myself. “But I didn’t… ”

Was I really going to confess to neglecting her beloved felines? Um, no.

“You didn’t need to do this,” I said feebly. “The cats were great. No problem at all.”

“It meant so much that you cared for them,” she said. “They are our children. Suzie worried all weekend.”

The door opened and Suzie sauntered in. “Yo, hey, Brooks.”

“Hey, Suzie.”

She thrust out her knuckles and I bumped mine against hers. She was such a guy. She wore tight jeans and a black T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off to reveal a tattoo on her upper arm of a snake wound around a woman’s curvy leg. Her bleached hair was chopped and spiked and she had a dozen tiny steel hoops hanging from each ear. Vinnie gazed at her in adoration.

Suzie jerked her thumb toward the plant. “Thing needs some CPR. It was trapped in the car for five hours. Just water it. It’ll come back.”

Vinnie beamed. “Yes, it will be so pretty, we promise. It is a stargazer lily. It already has a few buds ready to flower. You will be pleased, I think.”

“I’ll take good care of it,” I promised.

“Come on, babe,” Suzie said, grabbing Vinnie’s arm. “Thanks again, pal.”

“Anytime,” I said. I carefully locked the door behind them, then stared at the lily and sighed. It would be dead within forty-eight hours. I might not be great with pets, but I was even worse with plants. No matter what I did or how much care I gave it, it would die. Really, I was only safe around books. Books I could take care of. Living things, not so much.

I left my house at seven thirty Monday morning, determined to get an early start at the Covington.

It was hard to keep my eyes open and my mind on the road because I was exhausted. I’d spent Sunday evening skimming Abraham’s journals but had found absolutely nothing enlightening or instructive anywhere. Well, except for the fact that he didn’t like the Winslows. There were notations on almost every page indicating their ignorance of art and process.

I’d winced as I read a few passages. Abraham had become obsessed with the Winslows, possibly to the detriment of his work. There was almost nothing written about the Faust. Not one reference to the secret panel he’d found behind the endpapers covering the front board. No slip of aged paper clipped to any of the pages with a stickie attached that said “This is the secret document you’ve been looking for.” Nothing.

Needless to say, I hadn’t slept well. The shocking confrontation with Annie, then the news of the inheritance, then that weird moment on the road Saturday night when I thought some SUV driver was going to kill me, all weighed heavily on me. Then at some point during the night, I realized I’d lost track of Derek Stone up in Dharma. Maybe he’d joined Mary Ellen’s Church of the True Blood of Ogun. I would miss him but he’d obviously found his true calling.

By midmorning, I was shaking. I couldn’t concentrate on the Faust. When I wasn’t wondering about Derek, I was thinking about Abraham. And Annie. And six million dollars. And some missing link that might reveal Abraham’s killer. Abraham’s dying words continued to haunt my thoughts and I wondered whether the devil he’d been referring to was a part of the book’s text.

It made me crazy that all these distractions were interrupting my work since I had only this week to complete the restoration. To concentrate, I grabbed a 3 Musketeers bar from my bag, unwrapped it and took a big bite. It helped, as always, and I hunkered down to work.

I’d already unsealed the black leather cover from the boards and separated the text block. I’d dissolved the glue and carefully pulled the threads out, separating the signatures in order to clean and repair those that needed attention.

I spent some time examining the pages with the worst wear, then tried to read the text for some clue to the genius that was Goethe. Unfortunately, I didn’t know enough German to understand all the words, and it didn’t help that the text itself was written in an Old English-style font.

The book was written in the form of a play, with the characters’ names written out before their speeches. As I studied the page, one short exchange jumped out at me.

MEPHISTOPHELES: Ich bin’s.

FAUST: Herein!

The words alarmed me. Even my rudimentary knowledge of German was enough to know that with one word, the arrogant Faust had doomed himself to an eternity in hell.

It is I, the devil says.

Enter, says Faust.

“Yes, do come in,” I muttered. “Take my soul in exchange for immortality and destroy everything I’ve ever loved.”

That was the devil’s plan all along, wasn’t it?

Remember the devil.

Did Abraham’s last words have anything to do with Goethe’s masterpiece? I kept forgetting to pick up a paperback copy, but in my defense, I’d had some distractions to deal with. I made a note to do it after my meeting with Enrico this afternoon.

For now, I concentrated on the foxing I’d seen on a number of the pages. Foxing referred to the small, reddish brown spots of mildew or dirt that appeared over time on the pages of old books. There were different techniques for removing the spots. Most of them involved solutions of bleach or peroxide or other chemicals that could ultimately damage the fibers in the paper. I couldn’t take that chance with the Faust, so I had decided to experiment with something I’d seen on one of my online loops.

I pulled a slice of white bread from the cheapest loaf I’d found at the market, then tore off the crusts and squished the slices together to make a ball.

The theory was that the bleached flour would help whiten the spots without damaging the paper itself. The e-mail poster had warned that the results wouldn’t be perfect but there would be some improvement.

After gently rubbing in a circular pattern, I was amazed to see the white ball of bread turning darker and crumbly. It was actually pulling the dirt out of the paper. The spots didn’t completely disappear, but they were much lighter than before.

“That was amazing,” I marveled as I tossed the used bread in the wastebasket and pulled out another slice. All this bread reminded me that I’d been going on two lattes and chocolate since I’d left home this morning. I was starving. I supposed I could munch on the white bread, but that seemed pathetic somehow. Maybe I’d grab a sandwich at the Covington tearoom.

I pushed the stool away from the table, stood and stretched. Without warning, my neck muscles cramped up.

“Loafing on the job as usual,” Minka said as she walked in. She wore leopard-skin leggings, a tight black turtleneck sweater and sparkly red heels. I don’t make this stuff up.

“Didn’t I warn you to stay out of my workroom?” I asked, dismissing any pretense of politeness as I rubbed away the kink in my neck caused by her proximity.

“What bug crawled up your ass?” she said, her nasal voice fraying my nerves.

“I’m busy, Minka.” I made a show of grabbing the white cloth and covering the book, afraid her cooties might infect it. Childish, but it worked for me.

She snorted. “If I’d just inherited a shitload of chaching, I’d be in a hell of a better mood than you are.”

My mouth fell open. How had she heard about Abraham’s will? I hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. It was as if the woman had extrasensory psychosis.

She studied her half-inch-long fingernails, then nibbled at a hangnail. “I had a little talk with the police yesterday.”

“What a coincidence. So did I.”

Her brows knit together. “You did?”

“Yeah. Except in my case, I told the truth.”

“I don’t lie,” she said, offended.

“Yes, you do,” I said. “You lied about Abraham and me, remember? About us fighting the night he died? That was a lie.”

She cocked her head. “Really? My bad.”

It was probably unkind to despise someone so stupid, but I did. My bad.

She glanced at me through blue-mascara-caked eyelashes. “I bet the police would be interested to hear about all that money you got.”

I took a breath and counted to five. It wouldn’t do for another murder to occur at the Covington within a week of the first one.

“I’m sure they would,” I said. “That’s why I’m calling them this afternoon to tell them.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Whatever.” But her lip curled. I’d stolen her thunder.

“I should apologize, though,” I said. “I didn’t realize you hadn’t mentioned to the police that Abraham fired you from your job.”

Her eyes grew wide. “That had nothing to do with-”

“With murdering him?”

“You shut up.”

“They think that’s a great motive for murder.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“Now, that’s the pot calling the kettle late for dinner.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” I waved my hand at the table. “Go away, Minka. I’m busy here.”

She folded her arms tightly under her breasts and glowered at me. “You think you’re so smart.”

I thought about that. “I guess I do.”

“We’ll see who’s smarter when you’re standing in the unemployment line.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Maybe.”

“Fair enough.” I moved closer. “But if you say one more word about me to the police, I’ll make you sorry you ever crawled out from under that rock and started screwing with my life.”

“Is that a threat?” she mocked.

“Yeah, it is.”

“God, you’re such a bitch.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

She turned on her heel and stomped out, pushing Ian out of her way before he could move aside.

“Bye-bye,” I called.

Ian stood at my door, watching Minka storm down the hall. “What was that all about?”

“The usual girl talk. Come in and close the door.”

He did so, pulled up a stool and sat. “I wanted to talk to you yesterday at the memorial but you disappeared.”

“You’re the one who did the disappearing act,” I said. “Right when the cops showed up. What was that all about?”

“Hey, I didn’t want to get in their way. But then I looked for you a while later and couldn’t find you.”

“Sorry. You want some water?”

“No, thanks.”

I grabbed a bottle from the cupboard, popped the top and drank. “Girl talk makes me thirsty. What’s up?”

He adjusted and readjusted the knot in his tie.

“Ian?”

“I saw you talking to Enrico Baldacchio at the memorial service.”

“Oh yeah.” I took another sip of water. “I was surprised to see him there since he and Abraham were less than friends. But I really think Enrico might be-”

“He’s dangerous, Brooklyn,” Ian blurted. “Stay away from him.”