Kate Carlisle: Homicide in Hardcover

The first book in the Bibliophile Mystery series, 2009

As this is my first book, I owe a debt of gratitude to so many people I can’t begin to name, but please indulge me as I mention a special few.

My agents, Christina Hogrebe and Kelly Harms of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, for great advice, wonderful enthusiasm, and consummate skill at guiding this new author along the bumpy path to publication. And thanks to my editor, Kristen Weber, whose positive energy calmed all fears and helped make my book shine. Thank you as well to NAL’s art department for creating the most beautiful cover ever.

Maureen Child for your friendship, love, honesty, and support, and Susan Mallery for your wisdom, encouragement, and excellent taste in wine. I am deeply grateful to call you my dear friends and fellow plotters, and I can never thank you enough for all that you’ve given me.

Muchas gracias to the remarkable writers who make up the Romance Bandits (http://romancebandits.blogspot.com), whose collective wit, kindness, and dedication to the cause have made this journey so exciting. I am also grateful to Romance Writers of America and Sisters in Crime for opening doors and providing opportunities to develop friendships and gather knowledge.

Thanks to master bookbinder Bruce Levy, who first introduced me to the art of bookbinding, and to the San Francisco Center for the Book and bookbinding expert Ann Lindsey for giving me the skills and knowledge necessary to create beautiful books using classic nineteenth-century methods. Also, many thanks to book artist Wendy Poma for teaching me so many different binding techniques, all in one afternoon. Any mistakes with regard to these methods and techniques are my own.

Finally, I am profoundly indebted to my wonderful family-my husband, mother, brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, and outlaws-for your love, support, and enduring humor. I swear, any resemblance between you and the characters within these pages is purely coincidental.

My teacher always told me that in order to save a patient you’d have to kill him first. Not the most child-friendly way of explaining his theory of book restoration to his eight-year-old apprentice, but it worked. I grew up determined to save them all.

As I studied the faded, brittle, leather-bound volume that lay near death on the worktable before me, I knew I could bring it back to life, too. But it wouldn’t be easy. With six hundred pages of crusty, smelly pulp, the book’s once-elegant, gilded spine was nearly severed from its body.

“Sorry, old thing, but I’m not letting you die on my watch.” I dusted its hinges with a soft brush, then ran a finger along the spine. It came away covered in red powder. Red rot had set in. The leather binding was terminal.

I picked up my scalpel and pierced the frail calfskin along the aged brown hinge, extricating the bits of thready sinew still clinging to the sticky bits of leather.

Despite my mother’s misgivings, I was grateful I’d bypassed medical school, because let’s face it, if this book were human, I’d be drenched in blood up to my elbows and probably unconscious. I didn’t do so well around blood.

I heard a sharp intake of breath. “That’s disgusting!”

I flinched and the scalpel flew from my hand. I looked up and saw my best friend, Robin Tully, staring at the flaky leather chunks and moldy paper splayed across the table.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” I said, patting my heart.

“Apparently not,” she said as she retrieved the scalpel off the floor and placed it safely on the table. “A bomb could go off and you wouldn’t notice.”

I ignored that, jumped off the high stool and grabbed her in a tight hug. “You’re early, aren’t you?”

She checked her watch. “Actually, I’m right on time, which I suppose is early in your world.”

I smiled, then held up my camera. “Do you mind? I need another few minutes to map and shoot this stuff.”

“Procrastinate all you want. I’m in no hurry.” She pulled off her fuzzy black jacket and fluffed her hair.

“I’m not procrastinating.” I took several close-up shots of the decomposing front foredge, then looked up and caught Robin’s look of profound pity. “What?”

She held up her hands. “I said nothing.”

“I can hear you judging me.” I put the camera down and grabbed a handful of chocolate-swirled caramel kisses, a product I personally considered a miracle of modern technology. I popped a few pieces into my mouth, tried to enjoy the warm burst of flavors, but finally threw my hands up in defeat. “Okay, I’m procrastinating. Can you blame me? I could be walking into a trap tonight.”

She laughed. “We’re going to the library, not sneaking down a dark alley.”

“I know it.” I scowled. Tonight was a private showing of the most important book collection to open at the Covington Library in years. And the man being honored tonight, the man responsible for the restoration of the rare antiquarian books on exhibit, was Abraham Karastovsky, my lifelong teacher and mentor.

And nemesis?

I didn’t know. We hadn’t spoken in six months and I was frankly nervous about seeing him after being estranged for so long.

Six months ago, after years of indecision, I’d finally given Abraham notice that I’d be moving out from under his shadow to start my own business. He hadn’t taken the news well. He’d never been good at accepting change. He was old school, settled in his ways, determined to fight the modern trends in both book restoration and life in general. When I went off to college to study book restoration and conservation, he declared it was a useless waste of time and I’d learn more on the job, working with him.

Despite his gruff ways it had been a difficult decision to leave him, even though I’d essentially been working independently for years. Abraham had been furious and had said some things I hoped he might regret now.

What would happen when we met face-to-face again? Would he treat me like an enemy? Cut me off without a word? Ridicule me in front of friends and colleagues? I was beyond worried. Could anyone blame me for procrastinating?

“He sent you an invitation,” Robin said. “That proves he wants to see you. He’s not the best communicator, but he loves you, Brooklyn. You know that.”

I felt tears spring up and I prayed she was right. It was both comforting and annoying to know she usually was.

We’d been best friends since the age of seven, when my parents joined a spiritual commune up in the wine country north of San Francisco. My mom and dad had dragged me and my five young siblings off to experience the excitement of growing our own vegetables, wearing clothing made of hemp and sharing in the harmony and oneness of nature. I did not go quietly.

When we arrived at the commune, the first person I noticed among the crowd of strangers was a dark-haired girl about my age, defiantly clutching a bald-headed Barbie doll clad in a red satin dress and black stiletto heels. That was Robin. We bonded immediately, despite the fact that we were opposites in so many ways.

These days Robin comes across as a glamorous, carefree society girl. You’d never guess she runs her own tour and travel business and is also a brilliant sculptor. She is a curvy brunette with almond eyes and an uncanny ability to cause men to wander off side-walks into oncoming traffic.