Kate Carlisle - Homicide in Hardcover

He’d professed his so-called love shortly after watching me produce an exact copy of a Dubuisson binding, right down to the gilded imprinting of one of Dubuisson’s “one o’clock birds.” Ian was easily impressed, though I must admit I was damn good.

See, Pierre-Paul Dubuisson was an eighteenth-century bookbinder, the royal binder to Louis XV of France. And one of his most celebrated signature designs was that of a bird with wings extended, facing one o’clock. The “one o’clock birds.”

Only a fellow book geek would get excited about something like that, and Ian was geekier than most. I could picture our kids, scary little Poindexter types with leather-stained hands and annoying tics and constant questions. No, I’d done us all a favor by breaking up with him.

“Brooklyn?”

“Huh?” I blinked up at him. “Sorry, I zoned out.” Did I tell you we were a pair? “What’s up?”

“It’s about the Faust.”

I shivered. “What about it?”

“I need you to take over the restoration. Can you start tomorrow?”

“But…” What could I say? Images of Abraham passed like a slide show in my head. The party atmosphere earlier. The hugs. The shared laughter. Doris Bondurant playfully slugging him. Then the fear. Finding him dying. The whispered phrase. The book slipping out of his jacket. Then death. And blood. So much blood.

The curse.

“Ian, you know I would help if I could, but…”

His expression was sorrowful. “I know, I know. I hate to even ask.”

He slung his arm around my shoulder and led me down the hall, away from the curious glances of the police. “The Winslows are threatening to pull the book from the exhibit if it’s not ready by next week’s official opening. I really need to know if you can do it.”

“Of course I can do it,” I said quickly. “That’s not the issue. There’s, you know, Abraham to consider.”

It seemed to me, stepping in to take the place of a murdered friend carried a fairly high creep factor with it.

“I know, babe,” he said, running both hands through his hair in frustration. “But there’s no one else I can count on.”

“The Winslows can’t pull the book, can they?”

“You haven’t met them, have you?” he asked warily.

“Yes. No.” I stopped walking and looked up at him. “But the Faust is the most important book in the collection. It doesn’t matter if it’s restored or not. It’s already a work of art. Display it as is.”

“Believe me, I’d love to, but they don’t see it that way. Mrs. Winslow said she wants it to look pretty.” He shook his head in disgust. “Civilians.”

He had a point. On the other hand, if there weren’t “civilians” out there wanting me to make their old books look pretty, I’d be out of work.

“You’ll be paid well,” he said.

“You know I don’t care about that.”

Then he quoted the salary he was willing to pay me and I knew I’d be a complete idiot not to take it. Yes, the timing was unfortunate. And yes, I was about to sacrifice my principles for money. So sue me, but the job needed to be done and I wasn’t about to let it go to somebody else.

I smiled tightly. “Of course I’ll do it.”

He let out a relieved breath. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you.”

“Always.”

He grinned and gave me a chuck on the chin. “Good stuff, you.”

It was a classic Ian thing to do and say, and it brought home the fact that Ian wasn’t a laid-back Californian but an upper-crust, old-school Bostonian, out of his element in the land of fruits and nuts. I imagined he grew up in a stately home where his parents and siblings greeted one another with cries of “hail, fellow” and “pip-pip” and “cheerio, old bean.”

“Do you mind if we discuss the details tomorrow?” I asked. “I’m really beat.”

He gave in with a nod. “Sure. Why don’t you come by my office around ten tomorrow morning and we’ll talk?” Then he surprised me by pulling me close for a hug. My eyes began tearing up again, so I took a deep breath and stepped back.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.

He slugged my arm gently. “Thanks, kiddo.”

While Robin took a shower in my guest bathroom, I did what I always did when I was completely at my wits’ end and unsure what to do next.

I worked.

Robin had kindly insisted on spending the night and I was frankly grateful for the company. So now I focused my camera lens on the medical treatise I’d been working on this afternoon, trying to get a good shot of the book’s tattered foredge.

“How can you concentrate on work?” she asked as she came into the room rubbing a towel over her wet hair. I had to marvel that even in my old chenille bathrobe, she looked like a party girl.

And since I was closer to her than I was to my own two sisters, I didn’t mind confessing, “I’m working so I can keep from seeing him dying over and over again in my mind.”

“Oh, honey.” She gave me a tight hug. “Keep working, then. I’ll just wander.”

“Help yourself to wine if you want.”

She disappeared down the hall and was back in two minutes with glasses for both of us.

“Your place is great,” she said as she strolled through the room, moving from window to window to check the view from the sixth floor of what was formerly a corset warehouse, now converted to trendy artists’ lofts.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” I glanced around with more than a little pride. I’d fallen in love with the place six months ago after I’d decided to concentrate on my own book restoration and conservation business. The wa-a-ay South of Market Street neighborhood was, hmm, eclectic, as my mother would say instead of admitting it was downright scary and no place for her daughter to live.

Despite Mom’s fears, I’d taken the plunge and was now the very proud owner of one-eighth of the top floor of the six-story brick building. The open, sunny, warehouse-sized front room was perfect for my studio. It was filled with all my book presses and worktables and benches and tool racks and leather rolls and supply cabinets and bookshelves, along with an office desk and chair.

My living area in back had massive skylights, lots of windows, a huge bathroom and a view of the bay so breathtaking it made the slightly seedy environs and semiweekly frantic phone calls from my mother completely worth enduring. Add a mere six-block walk to the Giants’ ballpark and that was enough to sway my father’s opinion in my favor.

And so far, I loved all my neighbors. How often did that happen?

I watched as Robin checked that the front door was still locked. A minute later, I could hear her fiddling around in the kitchen.

While she was gone I had another troubling vision of Abraham dying in front of me and felt more disturbed than ever. I wondered how I was supposed to sleep, tonight or ever again.

I tried to feel some pleasure and satisfaction that Ian had singled me out to restore the Faust . But at what cost? I hated that Abraham and I had repaired our friendship only to have him die in my arms.

At that moment, I vowed that I wouldn’t rest easy until I’d brought his killer to justice. Even if the police never found the bastard, I swore I would track him down and make him pay.

Robin returned with a small plate of cheese, crackers and olives.

“Hey, thanks.”

“I know you were dreaming of Chinese food, but this will be healthier.”

I acknowledged the truth with a grunt and a sip of wine as she cruised back to the front window and checked the street scene below. A few seconds later, I heard her gasp.

“What’s wrong?”

She whipped around. “Don’t panic. But Derek Stone followed us home.”