Books of a Feather (6 page)

The West Gallery was still well lighted, but the lights in two of the connected display rooms had been turned off for the night. I checked my watch. It was almost closing time. Maybe Genevieve had already left for the evening.

I could see that the Sports Gallery still had its lights on, so I decided to check anyway. “Genevieve, are you here?”

The room was empty.

“Okay,” I muttered, and turned to walk out. I felt bad that I'd missed seeing her, knowing how upset she'd been earlier. I would have to call her tomorrow morning to get the full story.

As I walked back through the West Gallery, I noticed the last room on the opposite side wasn't completely dark. Instead, its lights
were set on dim, which I found interesting. Was there a new exhibit in there that demanded low lighting? I'd seen a museum employ this sort of lighting before, during a wonderful presentation of Leonardo da Vinci's drawings and letters. The paper and ink he'd used back in the fifteenth century had grown too delicate to withstand the glare of modern lighting.

I was curious to see what they were setting up, so I stuck my head inside the door to take a look around—and was immediately sorry I'd done so.

All I saw were legs sprawled across the floor, directly inside the doorway. I scrambled backward and then couldn't help myself. I screamed bloody murder.

I'm not sure how, but Derek was already halfway down the hall when I went bellowing around the corner. In seconds I was wrapped in his arms more tightly than I would've thought possible.

“What is it?” he demanded. “What happened?”

“B-body. In there. Dead.”

Somehow he kept hold of me as he darted to the doorway. He managed to shield me from the sight as he took a quick look.

“Genevieve,” I moaned, burying my face in the warmth of his strong chest.

“Darling, it's not Genevieve. It's a man.”

It took a few seconds for his words to penetrate through the buzzing in my head. I stared up at him. “A man? Who is it?”

“I have no idea.” He continued to rub my back in soothing strokes. “I only took a brief look, but he's wearing trousers and his feet are quite large. I've met your friend Genevieve and she's rather petite.”

“True. And she was wearing a dress. Duh.” I finally managed to pull away from him because frankly, my curiosity was killing me. I mentally excused the pun.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to center myself and prepare my emotions for another shock. A small part of me was seething at the insult of my finding yet another dead body, but mostly I was sad and angry on behalf of the person who'd been left alone to die in a dimly lit gallery of the Covington Library.

Clutching Derek's hand, I moved forward slowly and leaned in to see inside the room again. Sure enough, the feet were large and the long legs were covered in khaki trousers. This time I looked above the man's waist to see the tan sweater he wore. No, it was a tan vest. So it was a man, all right. And not just any man, but Jared Mulrooney, the president of the National Bird-watchers Society.

My head was beginning to spin.

My first thought was that someone had killed him for ruining the bluebird book. But that was crazy. Or was it? How could I forget that people had killed for less, more often than I cared to remember?

My second thought was that the poor guy had committed suicide, unable to deal with the way he'd damaged the book. Either way, I felt heartsick over the death of the bumbling bird-watcher. I gazed up at Derek. “I know who it is.”

Derek nodded. “We'd better find Ian and call the police.”

•   •   •

Homicide Inspector Janice Lee walked into the main hall of the Covington Library and spied me and Derek sitting together on a padded bench along the wall. “Hey, looks like old home week around here.”

“Hello, Inspector,” Derek said, standing to greet her.

“Hi, Inspector Lee.” I was so happy to see her I almost jumped up and gave her a hug. But that would've been a big mistake and
I felt foolish for considering it even for a moment. There had been times in the past, though, when I thought the two of us could be friends. I suppose it was still possible, but she didn't make it easy. Especially when the only times we ever saw each other were at the scenes of violent murders.

I confess, I'd developed a bit of a reputation for finding dead bodies. It wasn't my fault and it wasn't something I was proud of. It just
was
. I couldn't begin to explain it, but I appreciated the way my parents' spiritual leader, Robson Benedict, had put it, that somehow I'd been chosen to speak for the dead. To find justice and closure for their families. Was it mere coincidence that in every case, a
book
invariably played a central role in determining how or why the victim died? I didn't think so, but if I were to admit this out loud, I would have to give up my career. After all, who would hire a bookbinder if they knew her clients kept dying off?

On the upside, I had worked with hundreds of clients who hadn't died at all, so there was no reason to be paranoid. Was there? No, absolutely not. This wasn't about me. I was just here to help.

Each time I'd been involved in a murder in San Francisco, SFPD Homicide Inspector Lee and her partner, Nathan Jaglow, had been assigned to the case. I'd lost track of the number of times we'd all worked together. Ten times? Maybe more? So when she said it looked like old home week, it was obvious why.

Inspector Jaglow walked in directly behind Lee and grinned at us. He was older, somewhere in his fifties, slightly balding with unruly gray hair. A sleepy smile belied his sharp powers of observation, and his infinite patience was the perfect counterpoint to his partner's shoot-from-the-hip style. “Hello there, Commander, Ms. Wainwright. Haven't seen you two in a few months.”

“We've been out of town,” Derek explained, and shook the
man's hand. The cops had referred to Derek as “Commander” from day one, mainly because that had been his rank in the British Royal Navy and it said so on his business card. But beyond those points, the title just suited him. He was tall, dark, handsome, and a bit dangerous-looking. And he easily commanded the attention of everyone in the room.

I was grateful that Derek's connection to law enforcement automatically exempted me from the police suspect list. It hadn't always been the case. On the contrary, the first few times I'd found a dead body, I'd been lucky they hadn't thrown me directly into jail. Thank goodness those days were long gone. At least, I hoped so.

“You cut your hair,” I said to Inspector Lee. “It looks beautiful.”

“Don't try sweet-talking me, Wainwright,” she said.

I laughed, despite the unfortunate circumstances. “I'm not. You look great.”

“Thanks,” she muttered. Self-conscious now, she ran a hand through her jet-black straight hair. She'd cut several inches off the length and she was wearing bangs. It was adorable, but I wasn't about to mention that out loud.

Janice Lee was first-generation Chinese-American. She was very pretty and thin, although she'd thankfully put on a few pounds over the last year, owing to her quitting smoking. I was horribly envious of her wardrobe. The woman knew how to dress for success—or for intimidation, maybe, which probably spelled success in her book.

“Nobody ever comments on my hair,” Inspector Jaglow said mournfully.

I grinned. “Your hair is lovely, Inspector.”

He flicked an errant curl coquettishly. “Why, Ms. Wainwright, I'll bet you say that to all the fellows.”

“You're a sick puppy, Jaglow,” Inspector Lee said, rolling her eyes.

Jaglow gave me a quick wink, then glanced around the room at the twenty or so people left from the party. “Were these the only people here tonight?”

“No,” Derek said. “Your officers took names and information from a number of others and let them go. These people here are acquainted with the deceased.”

“Ian will have the full invitation list if you want to contact the ones who already left,” I said.

“Will do,” Jaglow said. He conferred with one of the officers for about five minutes and then announced aloud that the remaining guests could go home. There were sighs of relief and even a few tears as the group filed out of the hall. I figured many of them had been friends with their bird-watcher president and felt sorry for their loss.

Derek led the two inspectors around to the West Gallery and showed them where we'd found the body of Jared Mulrooney. I tagged along, naturally.

Ian had assigned two of his security guards to protect the scene and they stepped away from the door to allow the two inspectors and Derek to enter. I tried to follow, but one of them stepped in front of me. “Officials only.”

“I'm official,” I lied.

“Let her in,” Inspector Lee grumbled. “She's already got her footprints all over the place anyway.”

“I only took one step inside,” I argued.

“I know, but it's always fun to give you grief.”

I smiled. “So you've missed me.”

She snorted. “Yeah, I have. I really have.”

Despite the snort, I believed her.

Jaglow skirted the body and walked to the far corner of the room. He stared toward the open door as if trying to get some perspective on what might've taken place here.

“Who was this guy?” Lee asked, staring down at the body. “Looks like a professor type.”

“He was president of the National Bird-watchers Society.”

She frowned. “Are you serious? And somebody killed him? Why?”

I hated like heck to tell her about the damaged book, mainly because she would probably take it from me. Unfortunately, though, I felt it was my duty to tell her the whole truth. Not telling her would've been withholding evidence and would get me in more trouble later. So I pulled the small book from my bag.

“Earlier tonight, he gave me this book to repair.” I handed it to her.

She stared at it, frowning as she turned it over a few times. Then she opened it. “Oh man. What a mess.”

“I know. I just hope I can fix it.”

“Good luck with that,” she said, and handed the book back to me.

“You don't think it might be important?”

“Do you?”

The fact that she was asking my opinion was a first. “It might be, in terms of motive. But the book itself won't do much good stuck away in an evidence box.”

“Yeah, I agree. So as long as I know you have it, I figure it'll be safe.”

“It will be.” I gave her a limp smile and said nothing else. I was pitifully relieved to get the book back and stunned that she was at least willing to admit that someone might actually be willing to kill over a book. Another first.

On the other hand, I couldn't imagine that Jared Mulrooney had been killed over this particular book, no matter how much damage he'd done to it. I planned to look it up online when I got home, but it didn't seem all that rare or valuable.

Jaglow, kneeling by the body, looked up at his partner. “Stabbed.”

Lee just shook her head in disgust. The two of them began a cursory examination of the area around Jared's body, so I had started to walk out of the room when Inspector Lee stopped me. “Oh, hey, Brooklyn, that reminds me.”

I stopped and looked back. “What is it?”

“I've got a book I'd like you to look at, maybe see if you can spruce it up a little. Mind if I swing by your place tomorrow sometime?”

I had to force myself to stay calm and try to keep the absolute shock from showing on my face. “Um, sure. I'll be glad to take a look at it.”

“Great, thanks.” She shrugged, obviously uncomfortable about asking for my help. “It was my mom's and I kind of destroyed it when I was a kid. She went ballistic and I'm surprised I survived. Anyway, I found it in one of her drawers the other day and took it, hoping you would fix it up for me. It's her birthday next week.”

“I'll be glad to give it a try.”

“Thanks, pal.”

•   •   •

On the drive home, Derek and I discussed the murder of Jared Mulrooney and the fact that Inspector Lee had actually been willing to admit that the book might be related to his death.

“I was pleased that she considered it,” Derek said.

“Me, too. Although I can't really see the connection between the book and his death.”

“We often don't get the connection until later when we have more facts. But there's always a connection, especially where you're concerned.”

“Oh yeah.” I gulped. “Thanks for that.”

He reached over and took my hand in his. “Sorry, love, but facts don't lie.”

“I know.” We drove in comfortable silence for another thirty seconds before I gasped out loud. “I forgot all about Genevieve's book!”

I immediately pulled the wrapped package from my purse and stared at it. “I guess I can wait until we get home.”

“Of course you can.”

“Who are we kidding?” I ran my finger under the taped end and eagerly pried open the small bundle. And stared some more.

“It looks like some sort of old magazine,” Derek said after a quick glance down at what I was holding.

“It's actually an almanac,” I murmured.

“Interesting.”

“I'd say so. It's a first edition of
Poor Richard's Almanack
, and it's over two hundred and seventy-five years
old.”

After breakfast the next morning, Derek left for work and I went into my workshop and called Genevieve. “Are you kidding me?”

“No.” She obviously knew who was calling and exactly what I was talking about. “Look, I'm sorry about all the cloak-and-dagger stuff last night, but I didn't know who else to talk to.”

“So tell me what happened.”

“All I know is what Billy told me. He says he found the
Almanack
shoved behind another book and he was just going to put it in the office for me to look at. Except that he had his hand on the back-door knob and it looked like he was leaving, so I'm not sure what he was really planning to do with it.”

“Maybe he was just going out for . . . I don't know, lunch. Or a jog around the block. Maybe he didn't realize how valuable it was. I mean, it doesn't look like much.”

“I highly doubt that was his plan, but I appreciate your sunny optimism. Lately, I'm more the overly suspicious type, I guess.”

“I can be suspicious, too,” I insisted. “But I just can't see your
own cousin doing something to hurt your business. Or doing something unlawful, either.” I was referring to the past burglaries because I had a feeling that was where Gen's suspicions lay.

“Maybe I've lost perspective,” she lamented, “but can you blame me? After all that's happened this last year, my spirit is a little weakened.”

“Oh, honey, I hear you. But look, there could be a perfectly innocent explanation for all this. It's Billy, after all. He doesn't have a larcenous bone in his body.”

“He never used to, but maybe someone else is luring him over to the dark side.”

I paused to consider that possibility. Billy was a sweet guy, but not the brightest bulb in the lamp. If some nefarious book collector had swayed him with money or promises, he might buckle.

“I suppose it's possible,” I said. “But I'm holding out for a happier explanation.”

She laughed. “I hope you're right.”

“So you missed the excitement last night,” I said, changing the subject.

“I know. I left before Ian unveiled the book. I was just too bummed out to have a good time.”

“The Audubon is spectacular. You'll have to get over there to see it. But no, I'm talking about a murder. Someone was killed in one of the small rooms off the West Gallery.”

She didn't say anything and I thought we might've been disconnected. But finally she said, “O-oh my God. Are you kidding? I spent at least half an hour in the West Gallery last night.”

“I actually went looking for you over there, hoping I'd catch you before you went home. That's when I found the body.” I didn't mention that at first I'd thought the body might be hers.

“Oh no, Brooklyn. You found the . . . ugh.”

“I did.” She was well aware that I'd found her father's body, too. I hated reminding her all over again of that sad time. Heck, I hated reminding
myself
of that.

“I'm so sorry,” she said. “Tell me what happened. Do the police have a motive? I can't believe someone would kill anyone at the Covington. It seems so wrong. What is this world coming to?”

I didn't want to mention that this wasn't the first time a murder had occurred at the Covington Library. It seemed like a good time to change the subject again.

“So let's talk about this
Almanack
,” I said cheerfully, staring down at the rare papers on my worktable.

“Isn't it amazing?” she said.

“I was dumbstruck when I saw it last night and I still can't quite believe it.” As much as I loved old rare books, there was a part of me that was almost terrified to touch this thin tome. Its age. Its history. At the same time, though, those were exactly the reasons why I was excited to have it.

“I was fairly dumbstruck myself,” she said. “In a good way, I mean. Aside from the fact that my own cousin might've been trying to filch it from the store.”

“Filch is a good word.”

“I like it, too.”

She sounded a little perkier than she had a minute ago, but since we were in danger of venturing into cousin Billy territory, I steered us back to the
Almanack
. “The first thing I'd like to do is clean it as much as possible with a brush and maybe a dry sponge. Then I'll sew the pages back together. I've already done some research on the proper thread, the kind they used in the seventeen hundreds. I think it'll really improve its value.”

“Even filthy dirty with loose pages, it could be worth somewhere between twenty and forty thousand dollars, I found out.”

I smiled. “It'll be worth more than that when I'm finished with it.”

“I love you so much.”

We both laughed and I was glad to hear the natural lightness in her voice returning. We talked more about the work I planned to do on the
Almanack
, including constructing a protective storage box to keep it from deteriorating any further than it already had done.

“Thanks, Brooklyn. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

“Well, don't forget I'll be back to help you finish up the inventory tomorrow,” I said.

“Are you sure? You've done so much already.”

“I'm sure.” Besides, it would give me a chance to corner Billy and get the real scoop on what he was thinking when he'd tried to filch the
Almanack
.

•   •   •

I spent the rest of the day doing preliminary work on both the
Almanack
and two of the books I'd brought home from Gen's shop earlier that week. This included sweeping each page with my softest long-handled sheep-hair brush to get rid of any minute bits of dirt and dust or carcasses of tiny bugs that might have crawled between the pages.

If you'd ever had a nice book collection or simply a bookshelf filled with books, you'd undoubtedly found remnants of silverfish or other bugs once in a while. Hopefully, they were dead and dried up on the shelf, not alive and eating their way through the insides of a favorite book.

In my own experience, silverfish were the worst. They were slimy and slithery and liked to munch along the edges of books until
the pages more resembled fine lace than a solid book. I would be perfectly happy if I never saw another one of those little buggers again.

Beetles are disastrous, too, but rather than chewing along the edges, they prefer to bore straight through a book cover and into the pages, devouring everything in their path. One telltale sign that a beetle has been at your favorite book is a tiny pile of fine sandlike particles nearby. This is known as “frass” and it's the, uh, natural output of an insect's food intake.

Some conservationists suggest freezing books to get rid of a bug infestation, but there are too many problems associated with this solution for me to sign off on it.

One natural remedy I'd found only semiuseful was tea tree oil—rubbed on the wooden shelf itself, not directly onto the book.

Book preservationists frown on applying insecticides to books, but other options along this line include pheromone lures and sticky traps on nearby shelves. In my opinion, though, the best way to prevent bugs from snacking on your books is to individually wrap each volume in clear archival plastic and keep them in a cool, dry place that's dusted regularly.

The front door buzzer sounded and I was startled out of my reverie. Jumping down from my work chair, I grabbed the phone. After hearing Inspector Lee announce herself, I pressed the button to let her in, then waited several minutes while she took the freight elevator up to my floor. I finally took notice of the clock above my desk and realized it was almost time to start cleaning up and getting ready for Derek to come home. I also realized I was starving. I'd been so wrapped up in my work I'd forgotten to fortify myself with chocolate. That just never happened.

I quickly grabbed a handful of chocolate-covered almonds and munched them as I waited at the door for the inspector.

“Hey, Brooklyn,” she said as she walked into my studio. “Thanks for doing this.”

“I'm happy to do it. Would you like something to drink? Or some chocolate?” I indicated the half-empty bag of chocolate almonds on my desk.

“No, thanks.”

“Okay, let's sit down and take a look at the book.” I led her over to the worktable and we both sat.

She glanced around the room. “Convenient having your workshop at the front of the house.”

“I think so. I figure if someone's here on business, they can come right into my office without going through the rest of the house.”

“Cool.” She pulled a heavy square book from her bag. “Here it is. You can see what a putzy kid I was.”

On the cover was a column of Chinese characters next to an intriguing painting of a Chinese woman in workers' garb. In small letters along the side, it read in English,
THE FINE WORKS OF CHINA FAMOUS OIL PAINTER ZHANG SONG
. I turned the book over and opened it to the title page. It was written completely in Chinese. No English anywhere. On the facing page someone had taken a box of crayons and scribbled incoherently in ten different colors.

I nodded. “Oh yeah. Very nice crayon work.”

“Yeah, thanks. And you'll notice I tore some pages out. But they're still in there in case you think you can tape them back together.”

“I can do that easily. But the crayon marks are a little trickier.”

“That's what I was afraid of.”

I paged slowly through the book. There were only about sixty pages, but the paper was thick, as in many coffee table art books. It gave the book more heft. “These are beautiful paintings.”

“I thought so, too. Which is why I tore them out and taped them to my wall when I was five years old. Idiot child.”

“I'm sure your mother understood.”

She shrugged. “Not exactly. I can still see it vividly. My mother's face crumbling as she burst into tears and ran from the room. I wanted to throw the book away after that, but I just couldn't. She must have tucked it inside her drawer that day because I don't remember seeing it around the house again. Not until the other day.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Yeah, me, too. But if you can fix it, it'll be the greatest gift I've ever given her.”

I continued turning pages. The paintings were portraits of different Chinese women wearing richly woven traditional robes and clothing. Each woman was as beautiful as the next. Some were partially nude. Others were dressed in rigorously formal dresses. The brushwork was exquisite. The colors were soft and sensual and so tangible, I felt I could almost reach out and feel the satiny textures of the clothing.

As I paged through, admiring the artwork and the subject matter, it began to dawn on me that the paintings were all of the same woman. She changed her looks, her attitude, and her hairstyle for each picture, but it was clear to me now that it was the same model. This book was all about her. I wondered who she was and I was willing to bet that the artist had been in love with her.

“This woman is so striking,” I said. “And these paintings really are fabulous. Have you seen any of the originals?”

“You could say that,” she said, twisting her lips into an irreverent smile. “That's my mother.”

I might've opened my mouth, but no sound emerged. I was
speechless. I grabbed my bottle of water and gulped down a few ounces.

Inspector Lee began to laugh. “Now you know why I wanted to tape the pages to my wall.”

“Wow,” I said, finally able to speak. “She is a gorgeous woman. I see where you get your looks.”

“There you go again, trying to butter me up, but it won't work. I'm not going to divulge anything about the murder case, so don't bother asking.”

“That's not fair.” I let my shoulders slump for dramatic effect. “Okay, fine. You look nothing like your mother. Is that better?”

“Much more believable.”

“You're impossible,” I muttered, shaking my head. The woman just couldn't take a compliment. Although I was willing to bet that if Derek had said it, she would've blushed and giggled and thanked him. To be fair, though, I'd never heard her giggle in my life.

“So, what do you think?” she asked. “Can you get rid of the crayon marks or not?”

“Probably not,” I confessed, quickly adding, “I'm going to try, but it's tricky. They've been stuck on there for years, so it's likely that even if I could lift the crayon wax off the page, the color will have seeped into the glossy paper.”

I flipped to the back of the book, where little Inspector Lee had scribbled on the shiny flyleaf. “This page, I could simply remove without too much hassle.” I held the book up and stared at the variegated doodles of a five-year-old. “It almost looks like modern art.”

“Yeah, I was a real Picasso,” she muttered.

I turned back to the title page with the multicolored crayon scribbles on the opposite page. “This frontispiece page presents
two possibilities. Since it's a blank page—or was, once upon a time—I can either try to replace it with a brand-new page or, well, I was thinking you could simply leave it as it is.”

“As it is? No.” She shook her head mulishly. “No, no, no. The whole point is to fix it.”

“But hear me out. Imagine you are your mother, and your grown-up daughter gives you this book you thought was ruined all these years. You open it up and the pages are all put back in their proper places and you see these earnest drawings done by your darling little girl when she was five years old. Be honest. Wouldn't you love it?”

“Love it? Seriously?”

I ignored the note of incredulity in her voice. “Come on, you were only five! You didn't know you were doing anything wrong. So give yourself a break. I'm thinking if you simply give it to her as it is, it'll be a delightful surprise.”

“You are insane.”