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.”
I put the water bottle down and reached for the candy bar. “What do you mean, dangerous? I’ve known Enrico Baldacchio forever.”
“You don’t know him as well as you think. He’s a liar and a thief.”
Whoa. Harsh words from someone who defined political correctness in this business.
“Why, Ian? What did he do?”
“I guess you didn’t know that the Winslows hired Enrico first, before they ever came to the Covington.”
I put the water bottle down. “You’re right. I didn’t know. What happened?”
He held up his hands to make a disclaimer. “Keep in mind, this is all secondhand information.”
“Fine. Just tell me.”
“Things were great for a while. They just wanted some books rebound.”
“How did they find him?”
He chuckled without humor. “In the phone book. His name is listed first under bookbinders.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No. You can look it up.”
I would. “Wow, who uses the phone book anymore? I thought everyone used Google.”
He folded his hands together on the table. “Not everyone.”
“Apparently not.” Then I noticed Ian gritting his teeth. “You’re probably not here to talk about the Yellow Pages.”
“No,” he said.
“Right.” I smiled. “You were saying about Enrico?”
He looked uncomfortable and I almost offered him some of my chocolate, but figured I needed it more.
Ian sighed. “Some book-savvy friends of the Winslows were concerned that Enrico wasn’t doing a good job. They’d seen some of his avant-garde leather work on several antiquarian books and were horrified. They insisted the Winslows bring their books to the Covington before Baldacchio destroyed the integrity of the collection. These friends convinced them-well, Sylvia anyway-that they had an incredible collection and needed a conservator and restoration experts to work with them.”
“Smart friends.”
“Doris Bondurant and her husband.”
I smiled. “I love her.”
“Yeah, she’s great.”
My stomach growled again. “I’m starving. Do you want to talk while we walk to the Rose Room?”
“Sure.”
I ignored his amused look, grabbed my purse and walked out, locking the door behind us. Outside the main library entrance, we made a right turn and followed the wide path around the building, then wound our way through the camellia garden to the small Victorian building that housed the Covington’s elegant Rose Room, named for the famous terraced rose garden it overlooked.
I turned and stared at the view from here at the top of Pacific Heights. The wind was brisk and the sky was a shade of blue no paint could replicate. From here, we could turn in three directions and see most of the City and the bay. It was spectacular. For a moment I felt at peace. This was the best place in the world to be.
“I’m buying,” Ian said, snapping me back to reality as he held the door open.
I looked at him. “I’m just going to grab a sandwich.”
“No, let’s sit and talk.”
I checked my watch again. Almost noon. I had plenty of time, but sitting around doing nothing was the last thing I wanted to do. Still, he was the boss and there was eating involved, after all.
It was early so we got a table by the window overlooking the sea of colorful roses spread across several acres. A swath of coral, ribbons of white, rows and rows of perfect pink, glorious deep reds.
A waitress arrived with a pot of tea, took our orders and left. Ian poured tea for both of us.
“So the Winslows brought their collection here,” I said as I reached for my cup. “Why didn’t you bring Enrico along to finish the restoration work?”
“Are you kidding?” Ian said in a furious whisper. “The man is a hack. The last time he worked here, he took a priceless Shakespeare quarto and turned it into rags.”
“Why am I just hearing this? He’s supposed to be a genius.”
“Oh, come on. Didn’t Abraham tell you stories?”
“Well, yeah. But I figured it was because they were rivals.”
“But once Abraham came to the Covington, he heard the full story. He still didn’t tell you anything?”
I squirmed. “We, you know, hadn’t talked in a while. I’d just moved to the loft, and business was booming. Then I flew to Paris for a week before starting the class at L’Institut in Lyon. I hadn’t seen him in six months.”
He nodded in understanding. “He was a difficult man.”
I wrapped my hands around my cup for warmth. “So I guess Enrico didn’t take it well when they took their collection away from him.”
“He was enraged. He warned the Winslows they’d lose money on the deal.”
I laughed. “Well, duh. They were donating their entire collection, right? Not much money in that. Unless you purchased it. Did you?”
“We weren’t in a position to purchase the collection,” he said discreetly. “But we might if it does well.”
Translation: if it brought in crowds. And it might, if they twisted the advertising toward the lurid. Focus on the Faust curse, the Hitler connection and all that good stuff.
“Okay, so Enrico’s right,” I said. “They won’t be cashing in on eBay.”
“Which was exactly what Enrico had in mind.”
“You’re kidding me. EBay?”
He shrugged. “A lot of dealers work through eBay.”
“I know, but a collection like theirs? They could’ve found a reputable dealer to work with.”
“Enrico assured them he could handle the whole business.”
“And they bought it.” I shook my head. “He probably used his cheesy Italian accent on them.”
Ian absentmindedly stirred his tea. “People don’t understand the book world.”
“Conrad Winslow did admit he was pretty clueless when it came to books.”
Ian just shook his head.
“I thought he was nice,” I said.
“Right.”
I laughed. “Ian, tell all.”
He grimaced. “He’s always bugging me about money. He wants to sell the collection and I don’t know what to tell him. Of course I know dealers, but I want to show the books here. And it’s important to keep the collection together. The show hasn’t even opened yet, but if I have to put up with his threats much longer…” He didn’t finish, just shook his head.
“It’s not like the Winslows need the money.”
“No, they don’t,” Ian said, staring into his teacup.
“But he’s got a bug up his butt about making money all the time. He doesn’t get the whole nonprofit thing.”
“Who does?”
He chuckled. “Isn’t that the truth.”
“Maybe you should start dealing with Sylvia,” I suggested. “She seems to be the more savvy of the two.”
He nodded. “Not a bad idea. But he’s the one who comes around.”
The waitress arranged our plates in front of us, checked the pot of tea, then left us. I’d ordered the curry chicken sandwich and they served it cut in four triangles around a delicate baby lettuce salad. I scooped up a triangle and devoured it.
After a few bites, I slowed down. “So essentially, your only beef with Enrico is over the quality of his work?”
“No.” Ian took a sip of tea before continuing. “I’ve heard from a few dealers about some deals they’ve come across recently on the Internet, for finely bound rare German books.”
I bit into another triangle and chewed as Ian spoke.
“One of the books is an extremely rare Rilke first edition, autographed. His
Duino Elegies
, I believe. The dealer paid an outrageous sum of money and when he received it, he found an ex libris with the Winslow insignia on the inside cover.”
An ex libris is an ornate label pasted inside the front cover of a book with the owner’s name or family crest.
“That was silly,” I said. “Why didn’t he remove the bookplate? He’s just asking to get caught.”
“To remove it would’ve devalued the book.”
“Maybe,” I allowed, but knew I could’ve finessed the label off without ruining the endpaper. “Maybe he just doesn’t care.”
“He certainly doesn’t worry about getting caught. I suppose he’s got a fake company name with a P.O. box, the whole deal. So far, six rare books have been traced back to the collection.”
I tried to do the math. “So we’re talking ten, twenty thousand dollars?”
“Try two hundred thousand,” he said, looking at me with pity. So I didn’t excel in math. Or market economics.
“Do the Winslows know?”
“I had to tell them.”
“Yikes. What did they do?”
“Meredith wanted to take out a contract on him, but Sylvia calmed her down by suggesting the police run a sting operation. I think that’s what the authorities have in mind.”
I took a bite of salad. “I’m sure Enrico figured nobody would miss a dozen or so books out of hundreds in the collection.”
“I’m sure,” Ian agreed. “But the world of rare books is small. He’ll get caught eventually.”
“Minka told me Enrico was working with a new collector now. She wouldn’t tell me the guy’s name but said he made them sign a confidentiality agreement. I wonder if-”
“Wait. Minka’s working with Enrico?”
“Apparently, but-”
“That’s a pile of crap. What does he need an assistant for?”
“I’ve never seen you so fired up,” I said. “He must’ve really burned your butt.”
“You have no idea.” He finished off his last triangle and wiped his hands on his linen napkin.
“But listen,” I said. “Maybe this confidentiality agreement guy is part of the government sting you’re talking about.”
“I can only hope,” he said. “But that’s another reason why I don’t want you to have anything to do with him.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said. “I promise I’ll keep my distance.”
Starting sometime after two o’clock this afternoon.
It was one thirty by the time I took off for Enrico’s house in the exclusive neighborhood of Sea Cliff. This enclave overlooking China Beach was known primarily for its famous celebrity residents, but the area also had a view of the Golden Gate Bridge from the ocean side looking into the bay that was more breathtaking than any I’d ever seen.
I guess I was an unabashed fan. I did love my City.
Lunch with Ian had been enlightening, but I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something more personal in his disgust for Enrico.
Enrico had said he had something to show me and now I wondered whether he’d show me other books he’d taken from the Winslow collection. Would he be that bold? I hoped so.
I found his house and parked a few doors down. It was one of the smaller homes on the block but still lovely, with manicured hedges and freshly planted flowers lining the walkway. I climbed the brick steps to the front door and rang the bell. After a moment, I rang it again, then glanced around the neighborhood. It was completely deserted in the middle of the day. No gardeners, no kids, no signs of life.
After another minute, I knocked on the door.
“Enrico?” I called. “Are you here?”
Maybe he was in the back. I walked around to the side of the house, but the high gate was locked and I couldn’t see whether there was a back house or studio.
I returned to the front door and knocked again. I hated to think I’d driven out here for nothing. Without a clear thought, I tried the doorknob. It turned easily and I pushed it open a few inches.
“Enrico?” I called again. “Anybody home?”
I peeked inside. I couldn’t hear a sound. I pushed the door open a foot and stepped inside. “Enrico? It’s Brooklyn. Hello.”
Was I actually walking into his house without an invitation? But he
had
invited me. Maybe he’d left the door open for me. I glanced around the small, fussy foyer. An arched entry led to the living room and after closing the front door, I ventured in farther. If he came home, I’d be sitting on the couch, waiting for him.
Yeah, that would work.
A large desk in the corner of the room was stacked with bills and papers. I glanced through a few, wondering whether I’d see any notices of sale or e-mails about his eBay business. It wouldn’t hurt to look. Well, unless I got caught. But if I could find some evidence of his thefts, I could bring the Winslows some justice.
I heard a noise out on the street and glanced nervously over my shoulder. I could handle Enrico coming home to find me sitting on his couch but not rifling through his private papers.
A small vertical file held a stack of bills and checks, and I thumbed through them. They were all made out to Enrico Baldacchio, no fake name. I recognized a few of the check writers, some booksellers and an antiquities dealer.
One name jumped out at me.
Ian McCullough.
I stared in horror at Ian’s check, payable to Enrico in the sum of five thousand dollars. The memo line said “Services.”
My first thought was blackmail. Was this the real reason Ian was so angry with Enrico? But that was absurd. It was more likely that Ian had paid Enrico for something tangible, like a book.
Perhaps a stolen book?
And there went my mind, circling back around to blackmail.
I slipped the check into my jacket pocket. Now what? I was trying to figure out my next move when I heard the scuff of a heel against the concrete walkway out front.
Crap. I froze for one long second, then scanned the room for a place to hide. There was nothing. No closet, no room to hide behind the couch.
So much for my plan to relax on his couch. I didn’t want to be discovered going through Enrico’s house, especially by Enrico. Not since I’d found that check from Ian.
I raced through the alcove dining room and into the rustic gourmet kitchen. Along with a back entry, there was a laundry room and another door leading to a full pantry. In the middle of the kitchen was a butcher block island with a stainless steel pot rack hanging from the twelve-foot ceiling. What a great kitchen. Too bad I couldn’t stay.
I dashed through the laundry room to the back door, but it wouldn’t budge. It was dead-bolted with no key, no latch. Damn Enrico for taking normal security precautions. Desperate, I slipped into the full pantry and closed the door, just as someone entered the house.
I was shaking. I folded my arms tightly across my chest to control it. If this was Enrico coming home, I would have some explaining to do. Now would be a good time to think of a plausible reason why I was hiding in his pantry. I was being followed? I suspected foul play? I was hungry?