Books of a Feather (16 page)

I pouted a little. “Oh well. It was pretty flimsy to begin with, but still.”

“Darling, can you think back and perhaps recall whether you might've seen Featherstone at the Covington that night?”

I thought of the man I'd met at the bookshop today. Micah Featherstone, with his deep green eyes and oddly intense demeanor, was definitely unforgettable, and not in a good way. I would've recalled seeing him before. “No, I would've remembered.”

“There were a lot of people there.”

“I know. And he might've been in disguise.”

“That's possible.”

“I definitely believe he's capable of killing someone over a book. So if it turns out that he was there, I would have no trouble believing that he killed Jared.”

“I'm willing to go along with your instincts about him.”

I stared at the list for another minute, then flashed Derek an optimistic smile. “How would you feel about calling Inspector Lee?”

“To ask about the autopsy results?”

“I'm always amazed when you read my mind.” I quickly added, “But if you don't feel like calling her, then we can just sit and chat and drink our wine and have a nice, quiet evening.”

His lips twisted wryly. “I'll call her right now.”

See why I loved him?

•   •   •

The conversation was casual enough. Derek thanked Inspector Lee for treating me so kindly after my ordeal with Mr. Featherstone. He listened to her lengthy response, reaching over to stroke my hand as she spoke. The gesture made me wonder what in the world she was saying. But maybe Derek just wanted to make contact with me, to somehow bring me into the conversation through his touch alone. I turned my hand over and held on to his.

Finally, he responded, “Thank you, Inspector. I always appreciate your insight. By the way, have you heard anything from the
medical examiner as to the weapons used in both of the recent murders?”

I couldn't hear what Inspector Lee was telling him, but I could tell from the frown he wore that it wasn't the cheeriest of news. After another minute, he thanked her for the information and hung up.

“What is it?” I asked, almost afraid to hear the results.

“The murder weapon in both cases was a curved knife with a six-inch blade.”

The very thought of knives sent a quick shiver racing up my arms. My sister the chef had been accused of killing a fellow chef with a fish knife, but that weapon had been much bigger. She was not guilty, of course, but Savannah remained much more at home with knives than I would ever be.

“So the medical examiner thinks the same killer was responsible for both murders?”

Derek nodded. “Yes. Not only was the weapon the same, but the angle of the thrust was the same.”

A knife was not a clean and easy way to kill someone. You had to get up close and personal and plunge the knife, hard, into your victim's body. You had to be willing to feel his death on your hands. To see his blood seeping from the wound. It wasn't a dispassionate way to kill. And the fact that someone had carried a knife like that into the Covington Library the other night, and then into our home three days later, made me realize that not only had the same person killed both men, but also both of the murders had to have been premeditated. Or if not planned out, per se, the murders were certainly not unanticipated. He—or she—had come prepared to kill.

And once again, I had to face the fact that I was connected to each death. I had known and spoken to both of the victims only hours before they died. The thought made me a little seasick.

I wasn't crazy enough to blame myself. That would be ridiculously egotistical and shortsighted, not to mention nightmare-inducing. This case wasn't about me. This was about someone who was willing to kill over a book. Again. Which meant that, well, it was sort of all about me, since the book in question was undoubtedly among those sitting in my closet safe at this very moment.

Honestly, when I had first begun to study with my old mentor, Abraham, I believed that the world of bookbinding was a pleasant, creative, safe,
insulated
career choice. These last few years had been anything but. On the other hand, if not for becoming a bookbinder and stumbling on Abraham's murder, I never would have met Derek. So, no matter how crazed my life had become, I wouldn't change a thing. And yet . . .

“I'm so sick of this.”

“I know, darling.” He stood and circled the table. “Come here.” Pulling me out of my chair and into his arms, he held me for a long while in his comforting embrace. I sagged against him, confident that he could hold me upright, if just for a minute. It felt so good to let go.

With a final, gentle stroke of my hair, Derek released me and we sat down again.

He tore a piece of paper off the legal pad and quickly sketched a picture of a curved dagger. “The ME said that the blade was almost two inches wide.” He added more detail to the drawing, improvising a fancy carved design along the hilt.

“It could be a cooking knife of some kind,” I said. “Except for the curved part. And it's too short to get much leverage on a big piece of meat.” I realized I'd gone off on a cooking bent, forgetting I could barely boil water. I waved my words away, saying, “Never mind. I'm hardly one to talk about a chef's preferences.”

He stared at his drawing. “I've seen a number of these types of knives in parts of India and Asia, and soldiers used to bring them back from Vietnam.”

“But who carries around a knife like that these days?”

“Someone who means to kill.”

That was unfortunately true. “But why?”

“That's what we've got to find out.”

•   •   •

After showering the next morning, I dressed in my best funeral attire. Black pants, black sweater, black boots, and the beautiful black trench coat Derek had bought me on his last trip to London. I added a thin burgundy wool scarf for a slight touch of color and I was ready to go.

Derek and I parked on Cabrillo Street, a block away from the National Bird-watchers Society building, and walked down Twenty-third Avenue toward Golden Gate Park. As we got closer to the park, the sound of birds chirping and chattering and singing grew louder and louder until it was all I could hear, even above the traffic noise. The bird-watchers couldn't have chosen a better location for their meeting place than directly across from this heavily wooded section of the park near the corner of Twenty-third and Fulton Street.

The society was headquartered on the second floor of a beautiful, spacious three-story Mission Revival building with its dramatic parapet and arched doorways and window frames. We walked upstairs and found the door open, so we strolled inside to find the large space filled with people chatting, drinking coffee, and munching on some kind of coffee cake. Wide plate-glass windows lined the wall overlooking the park, giving members an extraordinary view
of dense thickets of eucalyptus, pine, elm, and Monterey cypress that formed a veritable forest in the middle of the city.

We both greeted Ian and then separated to meet and mingle with the bird-watchers. Derek headed for the windows, and I turned in the opposite direction. On the wall before me was a display of black-and-white photographs showing all sorts of birds in dramatic action. An owl lifting its wings to depart from its nest. A heron standing in a marsh with the Golden Gate Bridge in the foggy distance. A cute, fuzzy, fat bird sitting on a branch, looking more like a miniature Buddha than a winged creature.

“That's so cute,” I said, leaning in close to study the detail.

“Bushtit,” a man behind me said.

I turned to see a tall, grizzled man staring at the same photograph. “I beg your pardon?”

“That bird you're looking at,” he said, pointing at the photo. “It's a bushtit. Sweet little thing with a warble that'll melt your heart.”

“Did you take this photograph?” I asked.

“Yep. Took 'em all.”

“They're beautiful.”

“They ought to be. Took me long enough to set up the dang frames. Birds are not the most willing creatures, in case you didn't know. Downright stubborn pains in the butt is what they are.”

I grinned at him. “I'm Brooklyn Wainwright.”

“Socrates McCall, at your service.” He extended his arm and we shook hands.

“Are you from Scotland, Mr. McCall?”

“Aye, you caught a whiff of my brogue, did you?”

“I did.” I smiled. “It's charming.”

His cheeks turned pink and he frowned. “Haven't seen you around here before.”

“I met Mr. Mulrooney at the Covington Library the night of the Audubon opening.”

He made a face. “Same night he died.”

“Yes. I'm sorry.”

Socrates glanced around, then lowered his voice. “I figured he was there to steal the book and got himself killed.”

It was my turn to frown. “What book is that?”

“The big one,” he barked. “The one everyone was gabbing about. The big bird book.”

Was he kidding? I couldn't tell. Besides being massive, the Audubon book was more closely guarded than anything the Covington had exhibited in years. Not since they'd hired Derek to secure the Winslow exhibition a few years back had the place been so fortified. It would be impossible to steal something so valuable and well secured.

But how else could the head bird-watcher's death be explained? I watched Socrates carefully, unsure if he was pulling my leg or not. “You don't honestly think Jared was planning to steal it, do you?”

He lifted both hands and shrugged. “How should I know? He talked about it, though. Thought it should be a law that all the Audubon books be kept here, under our jurisdiction. Jared Mulrooney was an odd bird.” He chuckled at his inside joke, then frowned again. “Drank too much for my taste, but to each his own. Ran the society well enough. Not sure if the next in line will be able to hold it together.”

I'd known plenty of Scotsmen and I'd never heard one of them complain of someone drinking too much. And besides that, I wasn't sure what drinking had to do with anything, mainly because I myself enjoyed a nice glass of wine and the occasional cocktail. But then
again, Jared had damaged the bluebird book by spilling the wine he'd been drinking. So maybe he couldn't control his liquor. I still wasn't sure what that had to do with stealing the big Audubon book, though.

“Who's next in line to be president?” I asked.

“Marva Pesca.” He pointed toward the banquet table at the end of the room. “That's her over there, the pushy one in black, running everyone ragged.”

I glanced in the direction he indicated and saw a short, heavyset woman in a black-and-yellow horizontally striped dress, telling others how to rearrange the table, impatiently moving casseroles and platters here and there herself when her minions didn't react quickly enough. She reminded me of a meddlesome bumblebee.

“Bossy old cow,” Socrates muttered.

I watched her for a moment, then asked, “Did she get along with Jared?”

“As well as anyone, I guess. But she sure was anxious to take over once he was dead. Don't ask me why. It's a thankless job with too much responsibility and none of the fun. You've got to answer to the members and deal with the city and the state, and the national society, and every environmental group under the sun, and PETA, and everyone else on the planet.”

“It sounds important.”

He rolled his eyes. “As long as you're willing to suck up to the Audubon theorists, you'll get along fine.”

“Theorists?”

“Yeah. I'm not one of 'em.” He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “I'm a Wilsonian myself.”

“Wilsonian?” I was beginning to feel like a mynah bird, repeating everything he was saying. “What's a Wilsonian?”

He straightened to his full height. “Alexander Wilson was only the
greatest bird lover of all time. He was a true ornithologist and a Scotsman to boot. He was the first to write and illustrate a book on birds.”

“He was?”

“Way before Audubon. Wilson had more knowledge and understanding of birds in his little finger than Audubon ever had in his life. But Audubon had an ego and he was determined to beat Wilson at his own game.” He shrugged. “I suppose he was a decent enough painter, although I still believe he copied Wilson's best works.”

“You mean, copied his paintings?”

“That's exactly what I mean. Audubon certainly had a flair for art. I'll give him that. But Wilson had the smarts. It's a tragedy he died so young.”

“I'm sorry.”

He blinked as if he'd come out of a dream, then glanced around furtively. “Guess I got carried away.”

“Was Jared Mulrooney a Wilsonian?”

“No way,” he scoffed. “He was your typical Audubon apologist. To be honest, very few Wilsonians can put up with the fanatical adoration most bird-watchers have for Audubon. It's all I can do to stomach some people's attitudes around here, but my wife likes coming, so what's a man to do?”

Did Socrates McCall dislike Audubon aficionados so much that he might have killed one of them? I couldn't see it. “But you said you thought Jared was a good society president.”

“Good enough. But then again, there was the drinking.” He screwed up his mouth and wrinkled his brow, indicating he was thinking really hard. “Perhaps Jared was hiding some deep dark secret. And then drowning his sorrows.”

“Do you think so?”

“It's a possibility.”

“Maybe he was a closet Wilsonian.”

Socrates blinked, then burst out laughing. “That's a good one, lass. But no, there's not a chance in the world.”

But he had me wondering. Just because Jared liked to drink, it didn't mean he was hiding some deep, ugly secret. On the other hand, he
had
been hiding a secret: he had ruined the society's most valuable treasure, the
Songbirds in Trees
book. So maybe Socrates had the right idea about him.