Kate Carlisle - Homicide in Hardcover

I sniffed. “Frankly, I’m not even sure how gay you are if you’re willing to roll around on a dirty blacktop parking lot.”

“Good point,” he said.

I tapped my foot in annoyance. “If this is such a joke, why were you paying for Enrico’s silence?”

He pouted. “You really are a killjoy.”

“I’m just asking.”

He rolled himself up to his knees, then pushed off the ground. Steadying himself against the car with one hand, he smoothed his hair back into place with the other.

“When the Covington hired me three years ago,” he began, “they thought I was engaged to be married. Mrs. Covington likes her upper management to be steady and family oriented.”

I frowned. “In twenty-first-century San Francisco, she discriminates against gay people?”

He sighed. “She’s a conservative old biddy who doesn’t approve of anything outside the norm.”

“But gay is the norm here.”

He chuckled. “You’re preaching to the choir, babe.”

“Okay, so get another job.”

“But I love the Covington,” he insisted. “I was born to run this place. And Mrs. Covington loves me. She’s promoted me every six months for the last three years.”

“Then talk to her. Maybe she’ll understand.”

“I was going to, I swear.” He paced back and forth. “But then Enrico found out somehow and threatened to tell her before I could. I was just placating him until I could find the right moment to tell her.”

“Placating to the tune of five thousand dollars a month?”

“I just needed time,” he said, and continued pacing. “I needed to get her in the right mood. Serve up some martinis, then give her the news. As soon as I told her, I was going to call the police on Enrico and get my money back.”

“I don’t suppose you killed him.”

He stopped midstep. “What? No!”

I frowned. “I didn’t think so.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“It would make this whole thing easier to figure out.”

“Can’t help you.”

I pulled my bag onto my shoulder and straightened my jacket. “I’d better get back to work.”

“All right.” He reached over, pulled something off my jacket and looked at it. A twisted, dried noodle. Then he looked at me. “You lead a strange and interesting life.”

“You have no idea.”

I took a shortcut through the camellia garden to get back to the Covington entrance. The huge camellia bushes were thick with flowers filling every branch. Their lush perfume hung on the air and gave me a break from my soy sauce stench.

I jogged silently down the mulch-covered lane, darting back and forth to dodge errant branches and overgrown bushes. The garden was world-renowned for showcasing more than a thousand different varieties of the flower, thanks to the present Mrs. Covington’s great-grandmother-in-law who started the garden in the beginning of the last century. At least, that was what the guidebooks said.

But my favorite aspect of the camellia garden was what it hid in its center, a charming Shakespearean herb garden complete with the Shakespearean references of rosemary, tansy, lavender, chamomile and others, all carved in stone.

But I couldn’t concentrate on the beauty of the garden. Instead, my mind wandered to Gabriel. He’d saved my life, so I owed him something, but I wasn’t about to give up the Plutarch simply because some unknown “client” of his wanted it. Yes, so maybe I’d come into possession of the book through illicit means-okay, I took it-but that didn’t mean I’d let it go without getting a few questions answered first. And besides, how did Enrico get his hands on it? Had he stolen it? Probably. But that didn’t make my action any less wrong.

Did the Plutarch have anything to do with Enrico’s death? Impossible. The book had been sitting in plain sight on the table. If that was what the killer was after, he would’ve taken it right then.

As I passed the ornate brass sundial in the center of the well-tilled herb garden, I heard a leaf snap somewhere behind me.

I wasn’t alone.

My heart pounding, I whipped around, ready to face anything. Oh, who was I kidding? I was scared to death and my throat was threatening to close up on me. There was no one in sight, but that didn’t mean anything. Someone was watching me. I ran faster than I’d ever run, all the way to the front door of the library.

I decided I’d work at home the next day. I knew I could finish the book faster if I had fewer interruptions, such as people attempting to kill me everywhere I went.

I found Ian’s secretary, Marissa, in his office, organizing files. She called Ian’s cell to get approval. Since the Faust was currently in a hundred different pieces, and fully insured, Ian gave his okay.

I spent another hour in the workroom, packing up the wood press that still held the Faust text block in its grip, boxing up all the pieces and all the tools I’d need tomorrow. I borrowed a small hand dolly from Marissa and lugged everything out to my car. By the time I got home, my body was down for the count. But when I opened the door and saw my studio still in shambles, I couldn’t stand it.

I locked the door and parked the dolly next to my desk. As I removed my jacket, I caught a disturbing whiff of soy sauce.

“First things first,” I said. Checking again that my front door locks were set, I headed for the bathroom where I peeled off my broth-soaked clothing and took a long shower. I dressed in sweats and a T-shirt, satisfied that I no longer reeked of Chinese noodle bowl.

Back in the studio, I noticed the red light flashing on the phone and played back the messages. Doris Bondurant had called to offer me a job rebinding a vintage Alice in Wonderland she’d found recently. I understood it would be a test to see whether I passed muster with her. I felt a pang of sadness, knowing Abraham had been responsible for my connecting with her.

There was also a message from Robin, who called to let me know she’d bought me some cute pajamas so I would no longer embarrass her on our sleepovers. The third message was from Carl, Abraham’s lawyer, who wanted to meet and hash out my new financial condition. I made a face. I’d honestly forgotten I had a new financial condition. Not that I wasn’t grateful, you understand. I could always use more money. But it still felt odd to be the lone recipient of Abraham’s entire fortune.

I left Carl a message, putting him off for a week or two. I could only concentrate on one or two major upheavals at a time.

Grabbing a trash can and a broom, I began the cleanup. I threw away the stacks of torn and crushed endpapers, gathered my scattered tools and organized them precisely as they’d been before, picked up every spool of thread and put them back in color order in the narrow shelves I’d had built for that purpose. I rolled up the leather skins and stacks of cloth that weren’t damaged and put them back in their rightful places.

An hour later, I looked around, pleased that things were almost back to normal. I would need to order more marbled paper and a new set of glue brushes, plus two of my bone folders were missing, but that was the only real damage I found.

Except for Robin’s vase, which had been crushed to smithereens.

Despite that minimal damage, I could tell that whoever was behind all this destruction had been in an absolute rage, and that was the most frightening part of this ordeal. I just couldn’t picture anyone I knew being capable of such behavior.

I thought of Abraham’s studio up in Sonoma. Someone had gone through there in a similar fashion. But who? And what had they been looking for?

Whoever it was, they hadn’t found it, and I guessed that was why they’d struck back with violence. But at least they hadn’t destroyed my books. That would’ve been a lot more painful to me.