Kate Carlisle: Homicide in Hardcover

“Unfortunately, dear, Daddy’s right,” the older woman said. “Let’s not forget how this fiasco got started.”

“At least you admit it,” the man said bitterly. “Now I’ve got to figure out the best way to handle this asshole and the bind he’s put us in.”

“Language, dear,” the woman cautioned.

“She’s heard worse,” he argued.

“Look,” the woman said, “let’s just forget the problems with the book and try to have a nice time tonight.”

“Can I leave?” the girl asked. “This is so boring.”

“Your legacy is boring?” the man said, his voice rising. The trio marched out of the alcove, saw me and stopped dead.

I recognized them. Conrad and Sylvia Winslow and their lovely daughter, Meredith, San Francisco’s answer to Paris Hilton. They were the present owners of the Winslow collection and wealthy beyond belief, but unlike Abraham’s friends, Doris and Teddy Bondurant, the Winslows liked to flaunt their money, creating daily fodder for the local paparazzi.

I prayed I didn’t look like a deer caught in the headlights as I smiled, said a gracious “Good evening” and kept walking. When in doubt, act as if you own the damn place.

As they strutted off, I wondered who might be the “son of a bitch” Mr. Winslow had been referring to. And what was his wife talking about when she said there were “problems with the book”? If there were any problems with any books, Abraham would know. I quickly headed for the West Gallery.

I realized I’d lost track of both Robin and the frowning man. It was just as well, since the last thing I wanted to see was the two of them flirting with each other. And how silly did that make me sound? I’d never even met the man.

Temporary insanity. Too many long hours spent in the company of moldy old books. Whatever. I took another gulp of wine as I popped through the West Gallery door and headed for the basement stairs to find Abraham.

The stairwell lighting was low and the stairs were narrow and steep. My high heels didn’t help matters, so I took each step slowly, clutching the rail with one hand and my wineglass with the other as I descended.

Below me, I could hear staccato footsteps ascending quickly toward me. As I rounded the landing, a woman jerked to a stop to avoid barging into me.

I gasped in shock. She looked at me.

And screamed.

“Mother?”

“Whoa!” My mom laughed nervously and the sound echoed in the stairwell. “Brooklyn! Whew, I’m glad it’s you and not your father.”

Not the greeting I’d expected. But nothing was meeting my expectations this evening.

She clung to the stair rail, catching her breath. She wasn’t exactly dressed for a high-society art opening in her pink and white jogging outfit and gym shoes. Her dark blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her skin glistened with moisture as though she’d been working out for the last hour.

“Mother, what’re you doing here?”

She glanced anxiously over her shoulder. I did, too, suddenly paranoid. Assured we were alone, she whispered, “I needed to see Abraham privately.”

“Tonight?” I frowned. “It’s kind of the opposite of private around here, Mom. What’s going on?”

She bit her lip. “Nothing.”

I almost laughed. “Nothing?”

“That’s right, nothing.” She fisted her hand on her hip, annoyed. “He stood me up.”

“What? Who stood you up? Abraham?”

“I can’t talk about it.”

“But Mom, you-”

She held up her hand to shut me up, then closed her eyes, rolled her shoulders and put her palms together, yoga-style. I recognized the move. She was finding her center, calming herself, aligning her chakras, balancing her core. She was one with the universe. Good grief.

“Earth to Mom.”

She slowly opened her eyes and bowed her head. “All is well.”

“No, Mom, all is weird. What’re you-”

“Om shanti shanti shanti,” she chanted, as she reached out and touched the center of my forehead, my third eye, the seat of higher consciousness where inner peace reigned.

“Mother.” There was a warning note to my voice.

“Brooklyn, breathe. You worry too much.” She rubbed her fingers lightly across the frown lines of my forehead, then smiled sweetly. “Peace, baby girl.”

I almost groaned. She’d passed through to another place and now wore what my siblings and I liked to call her Sunny Bunny face. When she clicked on that eerie, happy mask, all battles were over.

I shook my head in defeat. Nothing penetrated the Sunny Bunny face.

“We’re not finished here, mom,” I said. “I want to know what’s going on.”

“Perhaps, in time.” She glanced around again. “Do me a favor, sweetie.”

“Okay.” I said it hesitantly.

She patted my cheek. “Don’t tell your father you saw me here.”

“What?”

“ Namasté , honey. Gotta go.”

Before I could stop her, she zigzagged around me and raced away, up the stairs. My yoga mom was speedy when she wanted to be.

I stared at the empty stairway for a few seconds. So, it was official: My mother had gone insane. The upside was, back at the commune, nobody would notice.

But seriously, what the heck was that all about?

I took a big sip of wine, tried to lighten up, align my own chakras, whatever, and continued downstairs.

My mother was the most open, honest person I knew. She couldn’t keep a secret to save her life, or so I’d always thought. Was something going on between her and Abraham? Clearly the answer was yes. The real question was- what was going on between her and Abraham?

And did I really want to know the answer?

“Nothing’s going on,” I told myself, then repeated it a few times. Of course there was nothing going on. Mom and Dad had been sweethearts ever since they’d met at the tie-dyed T-shirt booth during a Grateful Dead weekend blowout at the Ventura Fairgrounds in 1972. We’d heard the story often enough to recite it by heart.

Mom was nineteen, Dad was twenty-two. Mom wore frayed, button-fly cutoffs with a short, tight T-shirt that read like an advertisement for a local motel. BED & BECKY, it said. And yes, Mom’s name is Becky. We all figured Dad was probably stoned, not to mention turned on, but he insisted he was enchanted by her sweet, natural spirit.

They made their early years together sound like a fairy tale. But the bottom line was, my parents were still lovey-dovey to this day. They’d stayed together through good times and bad, through six kids and major moves and family issues and commune politics. The very idea that Mom and Abraham were… no. Ugh. Not that I didn’t love Abraham but… no, forget it.

I know it sounds sappy, but deep down inside, I liked to think my parents represented the possibility of everlasting love. Meaning, maybe someday, I might experience my own version of that. It had eluded me so far, but it could happen.

I took another fortifying gulp of wine, banished all thoughts of Mom and… you know, and kept going.

When I reached the basement level, I followed the signs and arrows pointing the way to Conservation and Restoration. After several series of switchbacks and two sets of double doors, I finally ended up at one end of a long, deserted hallway. There were doors on both sides of the hall, probably twenty all together. These were the book restorers’ workrooms. Every door was closed.

“Abraham?” I called.

Nothing.

I supposed he was intent on keeping the priceless Faust under wraps and behind closed doors, so I would have to hunt him down. I finished off the glass of wine before trying the handle on the first door. It was locked. Same for the next three. The fifth door was unlocked but the room was completely empty.