Kate Carlisle - Homicide in Hardcover

I, on the other hand, am serious, blond, tall, still barely out of my gangly stage and occasionally have men ask me about my revolutionary technique for stretching leather. Sounds kinky but sadly, it’s not.

I was wearing a somber yet elegant black suit while Robin looked simply smashing, all dressed up for a splashy art opening in a sassy cocktail dress and spiky black heels, her only accessory a classic strand of pearls she’d inherited from her great-grandmother.

Unfortunately, we weren’t going to a splashy art opening.

“Why are you so dressed up?” I asked, carefully removing my dust-covered lab coat. Tonight’s private showing for the Covington Library Founders’ Circle would be a quiet affair attended by the library trustees, past and present donors, the board of directors and the wealthiest members of San Francisco society.

“Hey, there may be nothing but wall-to-wall old farts tonight, but I’m still there to par-tay.”

“Ah.” I hung the lab coat up in the small closet near the front door. “I thought maybe you’d forgotten where we’re going.”

“How could I forget?” she said, steering clear of the table, which was covered with brittle hunks of leather and swollen manuscript pages. “Abraham called me again this afternoon to make sure I was coming tonight. He was almost hyperventilating, he was so excited.”

“He’s been calling you?” I felt a tug of resentment that Abraham had contacted her. But why wouldn’t he? He’d been a commune member as long as Robin and I had lived there. We were all very close, but I’d always been his favorite. Now I didn’t know what I was to him.

“He never used to call me,” Robin pointed out. “I figure it’s his way of keeping tabs on you.”

“Maybe.”

“And he never asks directly about you, but I always end up talking more about you than me. Go figure.”

I refused to get my hopes up. “So, he’s anxious about tonight?”

“ Frantic would be a more accurate word,” she said, as she sat down at my desk. “I guess one of the most important books in the show isn’t finished yet.”

“The Faust ,” I murmured. It was all I could do to keep the woefully bitter jealousy that was yapping inside me from creeping into my voice. “I hear it’s really something.”

That might’ve been the understatement of the year.

Here I sat, toiling away on a set of lovely but anonymous old medical treatises, while Abraham had snagged the dream commission of the century-the legendary Heinrich Winslow collection of rare antiquarian books and prints.

The Winslow book collection was considered one of the finest in the world, and the crowning glory was said to be a jewel-encrusted, gilded edition of Goethe’s masterwork, Faust , commissioned by Kaiser Wilhelm in 1880.

And it was cursed.

Some attributed the curse to the fact that it had briefly belonged to Adolf Hitler, who apparently had little appreciation for books-no big surprise. Der Führer had passed the priceless Faust on to Heinrich Winslow’s wife as a token gift for a dinner party thrown in his honor.

Shortly after that fateful dinner, Heinrich Winslow was poisoned and died a gruesome death. The books were distributed among the Winslow brothers, and several other family members died after taking the Faust into their homes. No wonder they thought it was cursed.

Nobody loved a good book curse more than I did. I was so jealous of Abraham that I could barely think straight.

“Hallooo? Brooklyn? I come with food?”

My eyes lit up as a pretty young Indian woman poked her head inside the doorway.

“Hey, Vinnie, come on in,” I said.

Her torn 501s and clunky biker-chick boots belied her chirpy voice and delicate features as she walked in carrying a shopping bag stuffed with little white cartons. “I don’t wish to interrupt but Suzie and I agreed you would like our leftover Chinese food. This is true?”

“God, yes,” I said, practically drooling as the tempting scent of orange chicken and beef with broccoli sauce wafted my way. I turned to Robin. “Vinnie’s one of my neighbors.” To Vinnie I said, “This is my friend Robin.”

“Nice to meet you,” Robin said.

Vinnie bowed her head. “I am Vinamra Patel, but please call me Vinnie.”

Vinnie and her girlfriend, Suzie Stein, lived in a loft down the hall from me. They were wood sculptors and animal activists. Until I moved here, I’d never actually seen two chain-saw-wielding lesbians go to town on a three-hundred-pound hunk of redwood burl. It was impressive.

“This is really sweet, Vinnie,” I said, staring into the stuffed shopping bag. “Thanks.”

“We leave tonight for the Sierra Festival and didn’t want to throw food away,” she explained to Robin. “It will not go to waste here.”

Robin shot me a look. “They know you so well.”

My eyes narrowed. “They’re attentive neighbors.”

“She is a good little eater,” Vinnie said with a soft smile. “I will put this in the kitchen.” She disappeared down the hall that led to my living area.

Robin laughed. “No wonder you love this place.”

She also knew me well. Yes, I liked to eat. A lot. I wasn’t picky. I loved everything. Especially chocolate. And pizza. Oh, and red meat. I loved a good steak. I blamed it on my parents and the two-year “vegan phase” they’d foisted on me and my siblings during our formative years. I still had the emotional scars and enjoyed reminding them of the pain whenever they lit up the barbecue grill.

“Everything is in the fridge,” Vinnie said in her singsong voice as she handed me a cluster of keys. Her eyes widened as she noticed the lumpy shards of leather and paper on my table. “This is your new work?”

“Yes,” I said proudly.

Her gaze darted to Robin and her forehead creased in distaste. “It is… very nice.”

Robin snorted. “You mean ‘It’s a pile of rancid crap’?”

Vinnie nodded. “As you say.”

“Thanks so much for the food, Vinnie,” I said, shaking the key ring. “You and Suzie enjoy the art festival. I’ll take good care of Pookie and Splinters.”

Vinnie didn’t seem concerned about the fate of her cats. She just stared at the decrepit book parts as if she were hypnotized or something.

I jiggled the keys again and she blinked. “You are most kind to attend to our darlings.” Then she bowed one last time and took off.

Robin’s brown eyes sparkled with amusement. “She left you in charge of her pets?”

“I can handle two cats for three days.”

She laughed. “Famous last words from the woman with the largest plot at the commune pet cemetery.”

“That’s not fair.” I grimaced. “I had goldfish. Goldfish always die.”

“Come on. They banned you from the pet store.”

“Shut up, please.” I grabbed my purse. “Let’s go.”

She glanced down at my feet and her eyes widened. “Oh my God. You can take the girl out of the commune…”

“Oh dear.” I kicked off my comfy sandals and slid into the pair of black pumps I’d left by the door. “Better?”

“Marginally.”

“Such a bitch.”

She laughed as she opened the door. “Okay, I love the suit and the heels are definitely an improvement. But I can’t believe you still wear Birkenstocks.”

“Just when I’m working.” I sighed. “It’s like my feet are molded to their shape.”

Robin snorted delicately. “Like a geisha, only not.”

“Sad but true.” I turned off the light. “But for Abraham, I’ll bite the bullet and wear heels.”

“Don’t worry; you look great,” she said over her shoulder. “He’s just going to die when he sees you.”