“And who killed Galina?” Mom asked.
Derek struggled not to smile as he and I exchanged glances. Mom and Dad were hanging on to every word of the story.
“Again, we’re not sure,” I said. “Rajiv and Shiva have denied killing her, even though both of them had the means and motive. But now that Galina is out of the picture, it becomes a matter of ‘he said, she said’ between Shiva and Rajiv. We may never know what truly happened unless one of them breaks their silence.”
“So many deaths,” Mom whispered.
“It’s all an ugly mess,” Robin said. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly before she continued. “They let me see Shiva before they took her away. You know what she said to me?”
“What, honey?” Mom said.
Robin sniffed. “She said I should forgive her because she didn’t do anything to hurt me.”
I gasped, then covered my mouth quickly.
Robin glanced at me. “I know; it’s unbelievable. She used me as an unwitting mule. I was drugged. Viciously attacked. A man was killed in my home. My friends were almost shot. I could’ve been killed by any one of those silly agents, not to mention that jackass Rajiv, and she wouldn’t have given a damn. As long as she got her money.”
Guru Bob took her hand again. Austin held her other hand tightly. I got up and knelt before her. Mom and Dad came around the back of the love seat and touched her shoulders.
“You are loved, gracious,” Guru Bob said. “You are strong. Your mother was weak.”
“We love you, honey,” Mom said, and squeezed her shoulder.
“Sure do,” Dad said.
I slipped Robin a tissue as tears trickled down her cheeks.
Guru Bob stood. “We will not speak of her again.”
“Right on, Robson,” Dad said, and raised his fist in solidarity.
Derek kissed my forehead and gave me a tight hug, and I sighed with relief that it was all over.
“Rebecca,” Guru Bob said, turning to my mother, “I suggest you perform one of your charming purification ceremonies to rid us of the negativity that the woman has wrought upon us all.”
“Super idea!” Mom said, clapping her hands. “I’ve been working on a cleansing chant that’s a guaranteed humdinger.”
Robin laughed, and it was the loveliest sound I’d heard in days.
Brooklyn’s Glossary
PARTS OF THE BOOK
Boards—
Usually made of stiff cardboard (or, occasionally, wood) and covered in fabric (cloth, paper, leather).
Covering—
Cloth, paper, or leather fabric used to cover the boards.
Endband—
Small ornamental band of cloth glued at the top and bottom of the inside of the spine, used to give a polished finish to the book (also called a headband or tailband).
Endsheets—
The first and last sheets of the textblock that are pasted to the inside of the cover board; the pastedown.
Flyleaf—
First one or two blank pages of a book, not pasted to the inside of the cover board. These pages protect the inner pages of the textblock.
Foredge—
The front edge of the textblock opposite the spine edge. The edge is usually smooth but may, on occasion, be rough, or deckled. The edge may be gilded or, in rare instances, painted. Fore-edge painting gained popularity in the seventeenth century when religious or pastoral scenes were painted onto the foredge to embellish the book’s content. The painting was invisible until the pages were fanned in a certain direction.
Grain—
The direction in which the fibers are aligned in the paper. When grain direction runs parallel to the spine, the paper folds will be straighter and stronger and the pages will lie flat.
Head—
The top of the book.
Hinge—
Inside the book cover, this is the thin, flexible line where the pastedown and flyleaf meet and is the most easily damaged part of the book.
Joint—
Outside the book at the point between the edge of the spine and the hard cover that corresponds with the inside hinge. Its flexibility allows the book to open and close.
Linen tapes—
Strips of linen sewn onto the signatures and used to hold the signatures together. The tapes run perpendicular across the spine edge and are pasted down between the cover boards and the endsheets.
Pastedown—
See
Endsheets.
Signature—
A gathering of papers that are folded and sewn to make up the textblock or the pages of a book.
Spine—
The back edge of a book, where the pages are sewn and glued.
Swell—
Term that indicates the way paper lies after folding. Generally, the folded edges of a stack of paper will be thicker than the outer edges. Consolidating and rounding the textblock will reduce swell and allow the book to lie flat and even.
Tail—
The bottom of the book, where it rests when shelved upright.
Textblock—
The sections of paper sheets or signatures sewn through the fold onto linen tapes.
OTHER BOOKBINDING TERMS
Conservation—
The care and preservation of books, often at a total resource level—that is, a library or the archives of an institution. Conservators will take into consideration the damaging effects of age, use, and environment (including light, heat, humidity, and other natural enemies of paper, cloth, and leather) and strive to apply their knowledge of bookbinding, restoration, chemistry, and technology to the restoration and protection of the collection under their care.
Consolidation—
Once the textblock is sewn and pressed, the spine should be consolidated (that is, compressed, in a press) and coated with adhesive (PVA). When consolidation is completed (the glue is dry), the textblock is rounded by pushing and pounding against the sections, first one side, then the other, with a bookbinders hammer.
Kettle—
The kettle actually refers to the first and last holes (usually found at each end of the page) where the stitching together of the signature pages begins and ends (or reverses back to the beginning). The kettle stitch refers to the stitch used to sew one signature page to the next, linking the next page to the previous one, as well as binding the linen tapes to the textblock.
Restoration—
The process of returning a book to as close to its original condition as possible. A book restoration specialist will pay close attention to the materials and techniques in use at the time the book was first made, and will attempt to follow those guidelines in terms of resewing, rebinding, and reconstructing the book. This is in contrast to book
repair
, which does not encompass restoration or conservation but focuses strictly on bringing a book back to its basic functional level (which may or may not involve duct tape).
Rounding—
The process of hammering or manipulating the textblock spine into a curved shape after gluing and before backing. Rounding diminishes the effect of swelling and helps to keep a book standing upright on a shelf.
SOME BASIC BOOKMAKING TOOLS
Awl—
Used for punching sewing holes in folded paper.
Bone folder—
A tool used for making sharp creases in folded paper and smoothing out surfaces that have been glued. It is generally made of bone and is shaped like a wooden tongue depressor.
Bookbinders hammer—
Used for rounding the spine of a book, a bookbinders hammer is smaller and lighter than a carpenter’s hammer, with a large, flat, polished pounding surface.
Book press—
There are various types. One small type of wood press can be used to hold the textblock while gluing. With a newly finished book, a large brass press will help strengthen, straighten, and fuse the book together.
Punching jig or Punching cradle—
A V-shaped piece of equipment with a slim opening at the bottom for cradling signatures in order to punch holes in them.
PVA (polyvinyl acetate)—
Preferred adhesive in bookbinding, it is liquid and flexible and results in a permanent bond. It dries colorless and is pH neutral, so it is recommended for archival work.
Books . . . and people . . . are lost and found
in Brooklyn’s next murder investigation in
One Book in the Grave,
the next Bibliophile Mystery,
available from Obsidian Mysteries
in May 2012.
A peek at the first chapter follows. . . .
Hello, my name is Brooklyn Wainwright, and I am a book addict.
It was Monday morning, and I was on my way to the Covington Library to sniff out my personal version of crack cocaine: books. Old, rare, and beautiful.
I didn’t need a twelve-step program; I just needed more bookbinding work to keep me off the streets. That was why I was heading over to Pacific Heights to see my good friend, Ian McCullough, head curator of the Covington. He’d called earlier to let me know he had a job for me.
I found a lucky parking spot less than a half block away. As I walked up the broad concrete steps of the imposing Italianate mansion, I took a moment to appreciate this beautiful building, its setting here at the highest point of my favorite city, and the glorious day itself.
Last month, after coming within striking distance of yet another callous criminal, I had vowed that from that moment forward, I would take the time to be grateful for every wonderful thing in my life. So now I breathed in the crisp, clear air, smiled at the sight of newly planted pansies lining the sidewalks, and savored the stunning view of San Francisco Bay in the distance.
After a moment, I pushed open the heavy iron doors and walked through the elegant foyer, admiring its checkerboard marble floor, coffered ceiling, and sweeping staircases. I knew that those stairs led to the second and third floors, where dozens of spacious rooms held countless collections of the greatest books ever written throughout history. In every room, alcove, and nook, a visitor would find a comfortable chair with a good light for reading. It was the most welcoming place for a book lover I’d ever known, and I loved it as much now as I had the first time I’d come here when I was eight years old.
I bypassed the main exhibit hall and headed straight for Ian’s office down the wide corridor. I was anxious to get hold of the book he was so excited about, then rush home, tear it apart, and put it back together again. With utmost love and care, of course.
Life was good indeed.
A sudden, cold sense of dread permeated the very air surrounding me, and I shuddered in dismay. In any perfect apple, a worm might be found.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” It was Minka LaBoeuf, my archenemy.
My stomach roiled in revulsion at the sound of her squealing voice, and I instantly regretted the Spanish omelet I’d eaten for breakfast. I turned and was blinded by chartreuse-and-fuchsia-striped skinny jeans that appeared to have been sprayed onto Minka’s ample lower body. As God is my witness, the jeans were topped by a matching tube top—a tube top!—and a pixie band—a pixie band!—in her hair. She looked like a demented barber pole. I couldn’t make this stuff up.
“I was invited to come here today,” I said, shielding my eyes from the glare. “I know you can’t say the same, so you should leave. Be sure to let the door hit you on the way out.”
“You’re such a bitch!”
I smiled with concern. “Really? Is that the best you’ve got? Pitiful.”
She moved in close—so close I could smell her new perfume, Eau de Goat—and hissed at me. “If you don’t stop trying to take away my jobs, I’ll make sure you never work in this town again.”
“Threats?” I backed away from her, knowing she had an unruly left hook. “Ian won’t like hearing that you threatened me.”
She sniffed imperiously. “Ian is a jerk.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him you said so.”
“You’re a jerk, too.”
“Wow.” I shook my head. “You’re so lame today, it’s pathetic.” Then I turned and walked away. I didn’t look back—possibly a tactical error where Minka was concerned. But honestly, I couldn’t take another violent shock to my nervous system.
“You’ll be sorry!” she shrieked.
I rubbed my arms against the frigid, stagnant chi she’d managed to stir up and quickly turned a corner. I felt better and breathed easier once I was out of Minka’s eyesight. Strolling briskly down the wide hall, I entered the suite of business offices. Wylie, Ian’s current assistant, greeted me and told me to go right in. I knocked, then opened Ian’s door.
“Hey, you,” Ian said, jumping up from his chair and rushing to greet me with a hug. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been itching to get your opinion on what to do about this book.”
Shaking off the last of my Minka-induced negativity, I smiled and hugged him back. “I can’t wait to see it.”
“I’ll warn you beforehand that the outside is less than impressive. It’s in horrible shape, but I know you can make it shine. The inside is exquisite.” He led the way across the room to his lovingly restored Chippendale conference table. We sat, and I watched him slowly unwrap several layers of white tissue paper to reveal a rather nondescript book.
The book was big, probably twelve inches tall by nine inches wide, and it was less than an inch thick. The leather cover was green, or it had been at one time; now it was nearly faded to a dull gray. The front cover was frayed along the outer hinge and would probably have broken apart at the least bit of movement.
It was disturbingly familiar.
“I know it’s ugly,” Ian reiterated, misreading my reaction. “But the paper is still in excellent condition and wait until you see the illustrations.”
“Okay.” I picked it up carefully, not only because it was old and falling apart, but because I was afraid of what I would find when I opened it. I stared at the spine.
Beauty and the Beast
, it read, as I knew it would.
I opened the front cover and stared at the inscription written inside. And ached with memories.