Kate Carlisle - If Books Could Kill

The second book in the Bibliophile Mystery series, 2010

Heartfelt thanks to Maureen Child for great advice, fabulous ideas and unflagging support, and to Susan Mallery for her plotting genius and wise counsel. Thanks also to Christine Rimmer and Teresa Southwick, all part of the most amazing plot group ever. Gracias, my friends. Drinks are on me!

Once again, I am amazed and inspired by book artist Wendy Poma, who has the lovely ability to make an esoteric art seem approachable and downright fun.

Many thanks to my literary agent, Christina Hogrebe of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, whose intelligence, charm and enthusiasm for my work make me the envy of all my friends.

I am so grateful to my new editor, the extraordinary Ellen Edwards, for taking Brooklyn -and me-under her wing. Thank you! Thanks, as well, to everyone at NAL who worked so hard to help Brooklyn hit it out of the park her first time up at bat.

I’m also indebted to P. J. Nunn and Breakthrough Promotions for helping to put this newbie author on the map. You are the best!

To the bookbinders, librarians and readers who have let me know how much they love Brooklyn, your support means so much to me.

To the Banditas, y’all rock!

Finally, a big, fat thank-you to my darling husband, Don, who makes me laugh and believes in me, always.

If my life were a book, I would have masking tape holding my hinges together. My pages would be loose, my edges tattered and my boards exposed, the front flyleaf torn and the leather mottled and moth-eaten. I’d have to take myself apart and put myself back together, as any good book restoration expert would do.

I had just finished my first glass of India Pale Ale in the pub of the Edinburgh hotel I’d checked into an hour earlier, and it seemed as good a time as any to throw myself a pity party and reflect on the strange turns my life had taken recently. I wasn’t happy about it. I needed to get back on track. And it occurred to me, why not treat myself as I would a damaged book? Study the twists and turns and knots and smudges that had left me short-tempered and befuddled. And threadbare. Then I could dust off my pages, resew the torn folds, trim the frays and smooth out the dents. And be my happy self again. Trust me, nobody liked a grumpy bookbinder.

“You look like you could use another, love, and quickly,” the waitress said, placing a second glass of ale on the table to replace the one I’d just swilled.

Great. Just in case I’d imagined things were okay with me, a kind stranger was here to assure me that I was indeed a total mess.

I smiled at her, an older woman with short, curly gray hair and a teasing grin, and said lightly, “I don’t look that bad, do I?”

She studied me for a moment. “Aye, you do, love. And for that, the IPA’s on the house.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said with a rueful laugh, then explained, “It’s just jet lag. I’ll be fine in twenty-four hours.”

She nodded judiciously. “Of course it’s jet lag if you say so.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied me. “But my woman’s intuition thinks ’tis a man you’re mulling over.”

I laughed a bit desperately. “Truly, I’m not.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Then you’ll be returning the IPA?”

“No.” I gripped the beer I’d been craving for the last six hours of my transatlantic flight. “No, I’m sorry. I’m going to need this.”

Her eyes twinkled gaily. “Aye, I knew it.” She tapped the side of her head. “Can’t another woman tell when one of her ilk is suffering, then? And isn’t it always about a man. Damn their skins!”

“Order up, Mary!” the bartender shouted.

“Haud yer wheesht!” she yelled over her shoulder, then smiled sweetly at me. “Enjoy your luncheon and take good care.” She turned and marched to the bar, where she bared her teeth at the burly bartender as she collected a tray of drinks.

I wasn’t an expert in the Scottish dialect, but I believed she’d just suggested to her boss that he shove a sock in his piehole.

I chuckled as I checked my wristwatch, then paid the bill. Barely an hour in Edinburgh and I’d fallen in love with the people all over again.

I’d arrived at the Royal Thistle Hotel after flying nonstop from San Francisco to London, then catching a quick shuttle flight north. I’d checked in, unpacked my bags and headed straight for the hotel pub to grab a sandwich and a beer. Now I was ready for a brisk walk out in the cold March air. In travel, I believed in hitting the ground running.

I was here to attend the annual Edinburgh Book Fair and was looking forward to visiting with friends and colleagues I hadn’t seen in a while. I would be giving a few workshops, and there would be thousands of beautiful books and fine bindings to study and drool over. With any luck, I’d find one or two bargains to snag for my very own. I expected lots of good conversation and much pub crawling in one of the most delightful cities on the planet.

I should’ve been elated. Instead, I was sad and feeling a little overwhelmed, knowing that Abraham Karastovsky, the man who first taught me bookbinding years ago, the man I’d worked with most of my life and always considered a mix of beloved uncle and benevolent dictator, wouldn’t be in Edinburgh with me.

I’d known him since I was eight years old, when he’d repaired a favorite book my brothers had ruined. Fascinated with what he’d done, I’d gone back every day to watch him work in his small bindery, pestering him so much that he’d finally brought me on as his apprentice.

Now Abraham was gone, senselessly murdered last month, and I felt an emptiness I’d never experienced before. It didn’t help that the man had left me the lion’s share of his estate, some six million dollars, give or take a million. And while it gave me a secret thrill to know that in his will, he’d called me the daughter of his heart, I hated that I’d benefited so greatly from his death. After all, I was now rich beyond my wildest dreams and all it had cost was Abraham’s life.

“ Brooklyn?”

I whipped around, then jumped up when I spied an old friend walking briskly toward me. “Helen!”

Helen Chin grinned as she glided confidently through the bar, her glossy black hair cut in a short, sassy bob. She’d always been demure and soft-spoken, a brilliant, petite Asian woman with lustrous long hair and a shy smile. The haircut and the confidence were major changes since the last time I saw her. That had to have been over two years ago, when we’d both taught spring classes in Lyon, France, at the Institut d’Histoire du Livre. But we’d first met and bonded while teaching summer courses at the University of Texas at Austin. A hurricane had come through, blowing the roof off the dormitory we were staying in. Nothing forges a friendship better than sharing trail mix and toothpaste while sleeping on cots in a crowded, smelly gymnasium for a week.

I gave her a tight hug. She felt thinner than I remembered.

“I saw your name in the program,” she said, and clasped my arms with both hands. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” I took a closer look at her, checking out the new hairstyle, her pretty red jacket, black pants and shiny black shoes. “You look amazing, and you’ve lost weight. Are you moonlighting as a supermodel?”