Kate Carlisle - Homicide in Hardcover

I made two more quick phone calls and had to leave messages both times. Where was everybody today? The first call was to Derek, explaining what I’d discovered and asking him to come by whenever he could. The other call was to my dad, telling him I was absolutely certain that Mom would be released later today.

Then I folded Gretchen’s letter, wedged it back into the wildflower book, and shoved the book back into place on the shelf.

Now there was nothing to do but wait for the phone to ring. I nibbled on noodles but I wasn’t really hungry. On any other day, that would’ve been cause for alarm, but today I was hyperaware of the source of my anxiety.

So I got back to work, first testing the glue on the spine. It was dry. Time to put it all back together.

Adjusting the Armageddon painting back into its pastedown/flyleaf position, and using Mylar and waste sheets to shield the pages from any excess glue, I rolled the text block onto the glued, refurbished cover boards and sealed the book.

I cleaned and polished the rubies until they sparkled with new life, then glued them back into place on the front cover.

It was gorgeous if I did say so myself. Next, I covered the jeweled front cover with a layer of protective foam, then wrapped the entire book in thin cloth and slid it between the plates of the book press for thirty seconds to seal the deal.

I would take pictures of the finished binding tomorrow. I hoped that someday I’d have the time to replicate the intricate design with its gilded royal crest and fleur-de-lis finishes. But in the meantime, the photos I took would be uploaded to my Web site with a detailed description of the work I’d done to complete the restoration.

The book itself gleamed in the fading light, a rare and beautiful work of art, but what it represented was tarnished and ugly. So much for its legendary curse. The curse didn’t exist-unless you considered arrogance, greed, fear and stupidity a curse.

The light in the studio had grown dim as I’d worked, so I turned on some lights. It was only four o’clock but the fog was rolling in. The phone hadn’t rung and my head was beginning to pound again.

I felt the painful lump on the back of my head, a dull reminder of the attack last night. I needed some aspirin and my stomach was growling. I’d left the bowl of noodles virtually untouched. My world was truly cracked.

Checking that the protective foam and cloth were still wrapped tightly, I secured the Faust between two pieces of smooth plywood and put a ten-pound weight on top. I would keep it wrapped and pressed overnight until the glue was completely dry and the aged black leather was securely fastened to the boards.

The restoration was complete.

I celebrated by sticking a piece of leftover pizza in the microwave, then popping two aspirins while I waited for the pizza to heat up.

Ten minutes later, the pizza was history and I was feeling more like myself, no longer suffering hunger pangs and now wondering whether it was too early for a glass of wine. Unfortunately, there was some pesky business to deal with involving a killer and the police, so sobriety was called for until further notice.

I was washing my dishes when the phone rang. I dried my hands and grabbed it on the third ring.

Conrad Winslow lost no time getting to the point of his call. “What the hell are you trying to pull?”

“Hi, Mr. Winslow.”

“You’re trying to blackmail me?”

“Abraham Karastovsky is dead and now I know why.”

“And blackmail is your way to handle it?”

“No, that was just a little joke,” I said, rubbing my head where I’d been coshed last night.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

My doorbell rang. I figured I had the killer on the phone, so I didn’t have a second thought about whipping the door open.

Sylvia Winslow stood there, looking fresh and elegant in a peach suit and matching heels.

“Hello, Sylvia,” I said. “This is a coincidence.”

“Hang up the phone,” she said, lifting her hand to reveal a small but lethal gun pointed directly at me.

“Uh, good-bye,” I said into the phone, and put it down on the desk. She followed me inside and nudged the door shut with her hip.

She glanced around. “You’ve cleaned the place up.”

“Yeah,” I said as I carefully backed away from her. “Some slob made a real mess of things.”

“You’re pretty funny for someone facing the wrong end of a gun.” She waved it for emphasis. “Give me the letter.”

“I don’t have it.”

“We both know you’re lying.”

“Why do you think I have it?” I backed up another step, closing in on my worktable where I knew I’d left at least one knife and several bone folders I could use as a weapon. Not that a flimsy bone folder would be much of a match against a gun. And I had no illusions that she wouldn’t use it, since she’d already killed at least two people.

“Because you left a clear message on my husband’s voice mail,” she said. “Must we play this game?”

“You screen your husband’s voice mail?”

“Yes, I do. Otherwise, nothing would be done on time or correctly.”

“Why did you kill Enrico?”

She sighed. “Why do you care? The man was a pig.”

“I’m just wondering what he did to you.”

“He stole from me.”

“You could’ve called the police.”

Her laugh was laced with contempt. “That was Conrad’s solution. Men.”

“Yeah, men are funny.”

“Brooklyn dear, just give me the letter.” She smiled tightly. “I might decide not to kill you if you cooperate.”

“Oh, right.” My heel grazed the leg of the stool. “I hand you the letter and you go your merry way. Why do I not believe you?”

“No, I don’t suppose you should.” She waved the gun in a blasé manner. “But can you blame me? I don’t like being blackmailed.”

“And I didn’t like seeing my beloved friend die in my arms.”

“Ah, your beloved friend, the blackmailer. You saw how far that got him and yet, here you are, trying the same thing.” She shook her head in disappointment. “Just give me the letter now and let’s be done with this nonsense.”

Staring at the gun, I could feel my knees shaking. I could barely swallow, my mouth was so dry. I backed up slowly. She wouldn’t kill me without getting her hands on the letter first, would she?

“Why should I give you the letter when you’re just going to kill me anyway? Besides, do you think I’d be dumb enough to keep it here in my house?”

“You’ll give it to me,” she said.

“But I don’t have it.”

“You’re lying. It’s what you all do. Lies and blackmail. Do you really think I’d allow my family to be blackmailed by the likes of you and that big ape, Abraham? How dare you try to ruin the good name of my family with your little scheme?”

“Actually, I didn’t intend to blackmail your family,” I said as I sidestepped the stool and eased my way back against the worktable. “I just wanted to make you squirm awhile until the police arrested you.”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” she said with a hiss. Her cheeks were turning an angry shade of red. “You didn’t call the police. You’re a grasping, greedy bitch, trying to make money off the pain of others.”

“I take it Abraham tried the same thing.” I was stalling, leading her on, waiting for a miracle. To keep her talking was all I could think to do.

“He tried-and failed miserably.”

In Gretchen’s letter to her sister Sigrid, she’d bemoaned the fact that Heinrich was putting his own family in jeopardy with his grandiose schemes to save mankind. “Jews, Sigrid, can you make sense of it?” Gretchen had written. “He risks our lives to help Jews!”