Homicide in Hardcover

Chapter 3

“Mother?”

“Whoa!” My mom laughed nervously and the sound echoed in the stairwell. “Brooklyn! Whew, I’m glad it’s you and not your father.”

Not the greeting I’d expected. But nothing was meeting my expectations this evening.

She clung to the stair rail, catching her breath. She wasn’t exactly dressed for a high-society art opening in her pink and white jogging outfit and gym shoes. Her dark blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her skin glistened with moisture as though she’d been working out for the last hour.

“Mother, what’re you doing here?”

She glanced anxiously over her shoulder. I did, too, suddenly paranoid. Assured we were alone, she whispered, “I needed to see Abraham privately.”

“Tonight?” I frowned. “It’s kind of the opposite of private around here, Mom. What’s going on?”

She bit her lip. “Nothing.”

I almost laughed. “Nothing?”

“That’s right, nothing.” She fisted her hand on her hip, annoyed. “He stood me up.”

“What? Who stood you up? Abraham?”

“I can’t talk about it.”

“But Mom, you-”

She held up her hand to shut me up, then closed her eyes, rolled her shoulders and put her palms together, yoga-style. I recognized the move. She was finding her center, calming herself, aligning her chakras, balancing her core. She was one with the universe. Good grief.

“Earth to Mom.”

She slowly opened her eyes and bowed her head. “All is well.”

“No, Mom, all is weird. What’re you-”

“Om shanti shanti shanti,” she chanted, as she reached out and touched the center of my forehead, my third eye, the seat of higher consciousness where inner peace reigned.

“Mother.” There was a warning note to my voice.

“Brooklyn, breathe. You worry too much.” She rubbed her fingers lightly across the frown lines of my forehead, then smiled sweetly. “Peace, baby girl.”

I almost groaned. She’d passed through to another place and now wore what my siblings and I liked to call her Sunny Bunny face. When she clicked on that eerie, happy mask, all battles were over.

I shook my head in defeat. Nothing penetrated the Sunny Bunny face.

“We’re not finished here, mom,” I said. “I want to know what’s going on.”

“Perhaps, in time.” She glanced around again. “Do me a favor, sweetie.”

“Okay.” I said it hesitantly.

She patted my cheek. “Don’t tell your father you saw me here.”

“What?”

“Namasté, honey. Gotta go.”

Before I could stop her, she zigzagged around me and raced away, up the stairs. My yoga mom was speedy when she wanted to be.

I stared at the empty stairway for a few seconds. So, it was official: My mother had gone insane. The upside was, back at the commune, nobody would notice.

But seriously, what the heck was that all about?

I took a big sip of wine, tried to lighten up, align my own chakras, whatever, and continued downstairs.

My mother was the most open, honest person I knew. She couldn’t keep a secret to save her life, or so I’d always thought. Was something going on between her and Abraham? Clearly the answer was yes. The real question was-what was going on between her and Abraham?

And did I really want to know the answer?

“Nothing’s going on,” I told myself, then repeated it a few times. Of course there was nothing going on. Mom and Dad had been sweethearts ever since they’d met at the tie-dyed T-shirt booth during a Grateful Dead weekend blowout at the Ventura Fairgrounds in 1972. We’d heard the story often enough to recite it by heart.

Mom was nineteen, Dad was twenty-two. Mom wore frayed, button-fly cutoffs with a short, tight T-shirt that read like an advertisement for a local motel. BED & BECKY, it said. And yes, Mom’s name is Becky. We all figured Dad was probably stoned, not to mention turned on, but he insisted he was enchanted by her sweet, natural spirit.

They made their early years together sound like a fairy tale. But the bottom line was, my parents were still lovey-dovey to this day. They’d stayed together through good times and bad, through six kids and major moves and family issues and commune politics. The very idea that Mom and Abraham were… no. Ugh. Not that I didn’t love Abraham but… no, forget it.

I know it sounds sappy, but deep down inside, I liked to think my parents represented the possibility of everlasting love. Meaning, maybe someday, I might experience my own version of that. It had eluded me so far, but it could happen.

I took another fortifying gulp of wine, banished all thoughts of Mom and… you know, and kept going.

When I reached the basement level, I followed the signs and arrows pointing the way to Conservation and Restoration. After several series of switchbacks and two sets of double doors, I finally ended up at one end of a long, deserted hallway. There were doors on both sides of the hall, probably twenty all together. These were the book restorers’ workrooms. Every door was closed.

“Abraham?” I called.

Nothing.

I supposed he was intent on keeping the priceless Faust under wraps and behind closed doors, so I would have to hunt him down. I finished off the glass of wine before trying the handle on the first door. It was locked. Same for the next three. The fifth door was unlocked but the room was completely empty.

The next door opened easily.

Every light was on full blast. The room was glaringly bright. Papers were scattered everywhere. Tools and brushes lay in disarray on the counters and on the floor. Cabinet drawers were pulled out and upturned. A high stool lay on the floor next to the center worktable.

What a mess. I stepped inside to look around.

That was when I saw Abraham, lying on the cold cement floor. A pool of dark liquid seeped from under him.

“Oh my God.” My glass slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor. Spots began to spin in front of my eyes. I sucked in a breath, ran over and fell on my knees by his side.

“Abraham!”

His arms were wrapped tightly around his chest. Alive? Please, God, alive.

I was screaming, couldn’t help it.

“Abraham. Wake up.” I tried to pull him into my arms, but he was so heavy I couldn’t budge him. “Oh, please don’t die.”

I grabbed his shoulders and shook him hard before I realized that was a bad idea. I leaned over and held him close to me. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you? Oh God, I’m sorry, so sorry.”

I felt him stir.

His eyelids fluttered, and I almost fainted with relief. “Oh God, you’re alive. Thank you. I’ll get help. Don’t worry.”

He gazed up at me, his eyes blurry. He coughed, then muttered something.

I leaned closer. “What?”

“De-vil,” he whispered. His arms relaxed around his chest and his jacket loosened.

“What are you saying?”

He coughed again. “Remember… the… devil.”

A thick, heavy book slipped out from inside his jacket. I quickly snatched it before it slid onto the bloody floor. Instinct, I guess, ingrained in me from childhood. Save the book. I gaped at the faded black leather binding. Once-elegant gold tooling created a pale border of fleur-de-lis around the front edges of the cover, and each flower point was studded with bloodred gems. Rubies? Ornate but rusted brass clasps in the shape of claws held the book closed.

Goethe’s Faust.

My gaze darted back to Abraham. His lips trembled as he formed a slight smile.

I shoved the book inside my suit jacket.

He nodded his head in approval. At least, I thought it was a nod. Then his eyes glazed over and flickered closed.

“No.” I grabbed his jacket. “No. Don’t you dare. Abraham. Wake up. Oh God. Don’t-”

His head slumped to the side.

“No! No, please-”

“Let him go.”

“Yikes!” I snatched my hands away. Abraham sagged to the floor. I stared at my hands. They were covered in blood. I screamed again.

“That’s enough. Stand up and move away from him.”

I whipped my head around. The frowning man from upstairs stood at the door holding a gun pointed directly at me.

And yeah, he was still frowning.

I stared, unable to move. The lights were too bright. Shards of color twirled like kaleidoscopes at the edges of my vision. Frowning Man waved the gun as if to catch my attention, but he was getting blurry.

I felt myself sway. And everything faded to black.

Calloused hands pushed my hair back from my forehead.

“Women,” a male voice muttered in scorn.

I groaned.

“Wake up, now.” The voice was clipped, British, impatient. It had to be the frowning man. Who else? From his tone I imagined he wasn’t exactly beaming at me.

He patted my cheek. “Come on, snap out of it.” He smelled like heaven. Manly and warm with a hint of green forest and a touch of leather and-

He slapped my cheek a little too vigorously. “I know you’re awake. Come on now. That’s it. Come about.”

Come about?

“I’m not a boat,” I grumbled, and shifted away from him. There were cushions beneath me. A couch. How’d I get on a couch?

“Good, you’re awake.” He gave me another smack for good measure and I managed to reach up and grab his hand.

With one eye opened, I glared at him. “Stop hitting me.”

“Ah. You’re feeling better.”

“No thanks to you.” I pushed my way up to a sitting position. “Where am I?”

“Two doors down from where I found you.” He’d found me with Abraham. The memory came rushing back. My tears welled up and spilled over.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” He reached in his breast pocket and thrust his white linen handkerchief into my hand. Then he stood and began to pace.

I was about to thank him for the handkerchief when he said, “You’d better sit all the way up or you’ll likely drown yourself.”

“Oh, be quiet.” Then I blew my nose and dabbed away the tears, determined not to cry anymore in front of this insensitive jerk. I sat straighter and folded my arms tightly around my chest-and realized with alarm that the book I’d been hiding was gone.

I jumped off the couch. “Where’s my-”

“Looking for this?” He held up the black leather-bound Faust, clutching it with a white dust cloth.

“That’s mine,” I blurted.

“Yours?”

“What I mean is, it’s not yours.”

“It’s not?”

“It belongs to the Winslow collection. Abraham gave it to me.”

“Gave it to you?”

I clenched my fists. “Stop repeating my words.”

“Repeating?” He pursed his lips in a smirk.

I no longer cared that he was sexy and smelled good. He was too incredibly annoying.

I took a deep breath. “Abraham gave the book to me for safekeeping.”

“Of course he did.”

“You don’t need to be sarcastic,” I said, glaring at him. “He really did give it to me.”

He grunted. “Right.”

“Who the hell are you?”

He carefully placed the book down on the side counter. “We’ll get to that.”

“We’ll get to it right now or I’m leaving.” I swept my hair back from my face and said, “Why am I even talking to you? I’m out of here.”

He stepped in front of me. “You’re not going anywhere. The police arrived just moments ago and they’ll want to question you.”

“Fine. I want to talk to them, too.”

“You won’t have long to wait. They’re upstairs handling the crowd right now. They’ll be down shortly to survey the murder scene and then they’ll have a little talk with you.”

I gulped and sat back down on the couch. Why did that phrase make this horrible night feel even worse? “Murder scene?”

“Oh, that’s very well played,” he said. “Should’ve known you’d be trouble the moment I saw you.”

I scowled. “What are you talking about?”

“This innocent routine.” He strolled about the room with his hands in his pockets. “I’m certain the local police will be impressed with your little fainting act, but I saw you in that room with Karastovsky.”

Appalled, I pushed myself off the couch and cornered him. “You think I killed Abraham?”

“You have his blood on your hands.”

I looked at my hands. Maybe I wavered because he grabbed me by the shoulders, shook me and said, “Oh no, you don’t. No more fainting.”

I slapped his hands away. “Let go of me. I’m not going to faint.”

“Then stop breathing so heavily.”

“What is wrong with you?”

He leaned back against the counter and crossed his ankles nonchalantly. “You killed a man and there’s something wrong with me?”

“I didn’t kill anyone!”

“Tell it to the cops.”

“How dare you?” I sucked in a much-needed breath before continuing. “You don’t even know me. Abraham Karastovsky was my friend. My teacher. He-he was like my uncle. We talked tonight and he was so happy and-and then I found him in that room. He died in my arms.” I felt my throat close and had to stop. I put my hand over my eyes.

“Oh, here we go again,” he said. “I’m sure the local cops will be properly hoodwinked.”

I shrieked. I admit it. Then I gritted my teeth, looked him in the eye and said, “First of all, I never faint. Well, except for tonight. It was the blood. I have this thing about blood. Never mind, why am I explaining myself to you?”

“I have no idea.”

I paced away, then whipped around. “Second, I don’t give a damn what you think. I did not kill Abraham Karastovsky. I know the truth and that’s all that matters. And by the way, I’m thinking the cops are going to be interested in hearing your alibi, too, pal.”

He snorted with contempt.

“And third,” I continued, “no one says hoodwinked anymore.”

His eyes narrowed to angry pinpoints as he leaned closer. “Hoodwinked. It means to trick, deceive, dupe.”

I jabbed his lapel. “I know what it means, but nobody uses it outside of a Dickens novel.”

We stared at each other with suspicion and ire.

I shook my head. “Why am I even talking to you? You’re obviously just another insane person carrying a gun.” Oh, crap, he was carrying a gun. He could’ve used it to kill Abraham. I felt sick all over again.

“Never mind,” I said. “Nice talking to you. See you around.”

He blocked my path again. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“And you’re going to stop me?”

“It appears I already have,” he said with another one of his smirks.

I threw up my hands and stormed around the room. “You are the most annoying man I’ve ever met.” I turned and pointed at him. “No, wait. I haven’t actually met you, have I? I don’t have a clue who you are and yet you slander and falsely imprison me just because-”

“Enough already.” He pulled a sterling silver card holder from the breast pocket of his expensive black suit and handed it to me. “Derek Stone.”

I read it aloud. “Stone Security. Derek Stone, Principal.” Underneath his name it said COMMANDER, ROYAL NAVY, RET. On the next line it said SECURITY AND INVESTIGATIONS. and in smaller letters in the lower left-hand corner the card said A DIVISION OF CAUSEWAY CORNWALL INTERNATIONAL.

I looked up at him. “Causeway Cornwall is the underwriter for the Winslow exhibition.”

“Exactly.” He nodded at me as if I were a particularly bright three-year-old. “And Stone Security specializes in arts and antiquities. There were certain security issues that required my team’s presence at the opening tonight. We’re working hand in hand with the local police.”

I resisted groaning. “So why didn’t you just say so, Commander?”

He shrugged. “I was having such a good time, it must’ve slipped my mind.”

I rolled my eyes, stuck his business card in my pocket, took a breath and cautiously held out my hand. “I’m Brooklyn Wainwright.”

He started to take my hand, but stopped abruptly. I looked down and again saw the blood caked on my fingers.

The door swung open with a bang.

“Brooklyn, there you are! Oh my God!” Robin, tears streaming, ran across the room and pulled me into her arms. “I just heard about Abraham. It can’t be true.”

“It’s true,” I whispered, and lost it for real. I sobbed on her shoulder, finally releasing all the tears that had been choking me.

We stayed like that, hugging and rocking back and forth, for a few minutes, until Robin sniffled and said in a low voice, “Leave it to Abraham to make this exhibit unforgettable.”

I gave her a watery smile. “He always was a showman.”

She hiccupped and we both laughed; then fresh tears erupted.

“Forgive me, ladies,” Derek interrupted. I’d forgotten he was still there, observing our emotional water-works. I refused to care what he thought of us.

“Who’s Double-Oh-Seven?” Robin whispered in my ear.

I sniffed. “Security.”

“Extremely hot,” she said.

“A jerk,” I countered. “And touchy.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Derek coughed discreetly. “The local police will question you now, Ms. Wainwright.”

Oh boy.

“Why are they questioning you?” Robin asked.

“I-I found him,” I said, and stared at my hands.

She shrank back. “Oh my God! Brooklyn, no! Is that his blood? Oh my God.”

I felt my lip trembling and looked up at Derek. “Can I wash my hands first?”

“It’s evidence,” he said, his voice cool. “Leave it.”

Homicide inspector Nathan Jaglow, tall, probably in his fifties, with short, curly gray hair and a sad smile, was a very patient man. His partner, Inspector Janice Lee, was Asian American, pretty but painfully thin, with long, lustrous black hair. They took notes, asked questions and occasionally made me repeat myself, just so they could write my words down exactly as I’d stated them.

They’d commandeered another binder’s workroom and they sat across from me at a high worktable. I didn’t know whether they were both pretending to play good cop until someone else showed up to play bad cop, but I liked them. Unlike Derek Stone, they seemed to believe me when I insisted I hadn’t killed Abraham. However, that didn’t keep them from asking me to go over my story in minute detail several times.

Early on, a crime scene technician swabbed my hands in order to test the blood to see if it matched Abraham’s. I was allowed to wash my hands in the workroom sink, which made me feel somewhat better. I could now look at my hands without sliding to the floor.

Jaglow held up a large Ziploc baggie. Inside was a ten-inch knife with a wide, rounded blade. “Can you tell me what this is?”

The knife was smeared with blood.

And there went my stomach again.

“Deep breaths, Ms. Wainwright,” Inspector Lee said, her gravelly voice calm and strangely seductive. “I know it’s difficult but we really need your expertise right now. Take your time.”

I inhaled deeply, then exhaled, and repeated that several times, telling myself to relax.

“It’s called a-a Japanese paper knife,” I said, my voice sounding hoarse. “It’s made in Japan.” Duh, I thought. I took a sip of water and continued. “It’s used to cut paper.” Again, duh. I could no longer think straight.

“You’re doing great,” Inspector Jaglow said. “So this is a tool used for cutting paper. Paper used in making or repairing books, I presume.”

I nodded. “Is that what killed him?”

He paused for a moment, then said, “We still need to determine that.”

“He was shot, Ms. Wainwright,” Inspector Lee said evenly.

“But the blood on the knife…” I gulped.

“He might’ve grabbed it,” she said, apparently unconcerned that her partner was glowering at her. “Do you own a gun, Ms. Wainwright?”

“What? No.” The only gun I’d seen lately belonged to Derek Stone, but he was one of them. Or so he’d said.

Jaglow’s eyes narrowed in on me. “What are you thinking, Ms. Wainwright?”

I chewed my lip, unsure what to say next. They’d worn out my last nerve. All I could picture was Abraham, so happy tonight, so glad we were friends again. I wanted to hug him and hear him laugh. Against my will, tears sprang to my eyes.

The two cops exchanged glances.

“I guess that’s enough for tonight,” Jaglow said as he stood and slipped his notebook into his back pocket. The action pulled his jacket back and I could see his gun in the holster under his arm. Yet another reminder that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. “We’ve got your contact information and I assume you’re not leaving town anytime soon?”

Was that cop humor? I’d probably laugh about it later.

“No, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good. I’m sure we’ll have more questions for you.”

“That’s fine,” I said, sliding off the stool. “Really. Anything you want to know, please call me. I want to help find whoever did this.”

“We appreciate that.” They led me out of the workroom and pointed the way back down the hall to the room where I’d left Robin and Derek Stone.

Derek came out into the hall just then, and as he passed me, he whispered, “I’ll be watching you like a hawk, Ms. Wainwright.”

My stomach knotted up. I didn’t know where to turn. Uniformed police officers stood guard in front of several of the doors to the different studios. Yellow crime scene tape was strewn across the double doors at the far end.

“Commander,” Inspector Lee called. “We’d like to meet in here if that’s acceptable to you.”

I turned in disbelief. They actually called him Commander? And cared about his preferences? I’d thought he might be lying, but he really was working with the local cops. I was so screwed.

I surreptitiously clenched my fists as I continued the long walk down the hall. It wasn’t pleasant to recall how many ways I’d insulted the commander, but at least those thoughts distracted me from the highly disturbing fact that I’d blatantly lied to two San Francisco homicide inspectors tonight.

Okay, maybe I hadn’t exactly lied, but if omission was a sin, I was guilty as charged. Not once, but twice.

First of all, I’d never mentioned to Inspectors Jaglow and Lee the words Abraham said before he died. I tried to convince myself the reason I’d left out that little detail was that I couldn’t be sure exactly what Abraham had said.

But that was me, lying to myself. He’d said, “Remember the devil.” I’d never forget it. But what did he mean? Maybe he’d been referring to the book. Faust was the story of a man who sold his soul to the devil. Did I need to read the book? Maybe there was something in there that would give me the first clue to what he’d been talking about. Who was the devil? And why was I supposed to remember him?

My mind was spinning and I realized I was seriously exhausted. I would need a good night’s sleep before I could begin to figure out what the words meant.

I stopped, leaned against the wall of the overly bright hallway, closed my eyes and faced the truth. Omitting Abraham’s last words to the inspector had nothing to do with the real reason why I felt truly sick with guilt.

No, the real sin of omission occurred when I’d neglected to tell the police that I had seen and spoken to the one person who had the means and opportunity to actually murder Abraham Karastovsky.

My mother.