Books of a Feather (19 page)

I was excited to have them open my gift.

Vinnie lifted the package out of the bag. “How charming. It's a nursery mobile made of origami cranes.”

“That's so cool,” Suzie said.

“It's a do-it-yourself project,” I explained. “So first you do the folding and then you hang them.”

“It's so clever,” Vinnie said.

“There's a handmade book in the bag, too, but it might be a little too delicate for Lily right now.”

“It will go on her shelf in a place of honor,” Vinnie said.

“Thanks, you guys,” Suzie said. “Lily's going to love gazing up at the cranes. They're good luck, aren't they?”

“They're thought to be immortal,” I said. “And magical.”

Vinnie beamed. “How wonderful.”

It was indeed pure luck that I'd seen the origami mobile in the window of the Chinese gift shop on Clement Street the other day. After talking to Crane about my cutout pop-up book of
Alice in Wonderland
and having him describe the much older Chinese art of paper folding called
zhezhi
, it almost seemed like fate when I saw it in the window.

“I hope she has many sweet dreams with cranes flying above her bed,” I said. Seeing the gleam of happy tears in Vinnie's eyes, I knew my work there was done.

•   •   •

Monday morning I received the call from Trina Jones, the lawyer in the
Mockingbird
case, as I had started calling it. She confirmed that I would be needed in court the next morning. That afternoon, a messenger delivered a subpoena duces tecum to my house. Trina had explained that they always served a subpoena to any experts hired to appear in court. It was a matter of form and a necessary part of any trial. It basically ordered me to appear before the court and produce documents or other tangible evidence for use at the trial.

I put the subpoena in my file folder and went back to my notes.
I wanted to double-check everything, including the list of repairs necessary to bring the copy of
To Kill a Mockingbird
up to the level of the comparable versions I'd found online. I made four copies of the comps I was using: one for each attorney, one for the judge, and one for me.

Tuesday I dressed in the outfit I'd planned out last week, put my notes and the book in a small folder, and slipped it into my satchel. Then I drove over to the Civic Center and the Superior Court Building on McAllister Street.

Two hours later, I was sitting on the stand and swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. It was all very exciting but frankly stressful, until I started talking about the book. Then I calmed down and did what I'd been born to do: talk about books. I read my findings into the microphone, improvising here and there when I thought it was necessary to expand on a particular thought. The judge was attentive and Trina kept nodding with encouragement, so I was pretty sure things were going well.

“Objection!”

I jolted in my chair. So much for relaxing. The opposing attorney had a bellowing voice that echoed off the walls. If I wasn't mistaken, his client, the husband, seemed to be egging him on. I suppose it made sense, since the husband appeared to be a book collector of sorts, that he would have opinions about such things. But whatever the lawyer was objecting to, he was wrong and I was right.

“Hearsay!” the guy shouted.

Trina, representing the wife, stood at her podium. “Your Honor, when an expert gathers comparable prices for a particular item, it's not considered hearsay.”

“Of course not,” the judge said. “Cool your jets, Mr. Slocum.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” the husband's attorney muttered.

The husband looked furious, so I avoided eye contact with
him. The wife didn't look too happy, either, but I couldn't blame her. She'd been married to that guy for way too long.

After explaining all the sources I'd used to determine the book's value, and giving my own evaluation of the cost involved in bringing the book up to a higher value, I finished by announcing my appraisal price. I just hoped they would be happy with the amount. But in the end, their happiness didn't matter. I was there to do a job, and I'd done it to the best of my abilities.

Ten minutes later, after a brief, inconsequential cross-examination, the judge thanked me for my testimony and excused me. I walked out of the courtroom and waited in the hall for a few minutes, unsure what to do next.

The door to the courtroom swung open and Trina scooted out.

“I'm sorry I couldn't appraise it for more money,” I said immediately. “Your client didn't look very happy.”

She waved off my concerns. “That's the way these things go sometimes. My client is thrilled to be getting rid of that jerk and that's all that matters. So thank you. Send me your bill and I'll get a check out to you immediately.”

“That's it?”

“That's it,” she said, grinning. I gave her the book to return to the divorcing couple. Then we shook hands and I walked out of the courthouse and back to my car, feeling very righteous and Perry Mason-y.

•   •   •

That night I had a few minutes to double-check my figures on the comps I'd presented in court that morning. It was probably silly to dwell on it, but this was the first time I'd ever appeared in court, so I was a little fixated on the process.

I powered up my computer and went directly to my favorite rare-book sites. I searched
To Kill a Mockingbird
as usual, and the first book that came up was one I hadn't seen online before.

I stared at the book and read and reread the description. I studied the seller's name, Books by Bryce. I'd never seen it before, so I Googled it.

Books by Bryce, after further digging, turned out to be operated by Bryce Flint. Flint was the name of the divorcing couple in the case I'd testified for that morning. Bryce Flint was the husband!

The copy of
To Kill a Mockingbird
that he was selling online was in pristine condition. There were no creases or rips in the dust jacket. It was clean and bright, unlike the copy I had examined. There was no rubbing along the back cover, no hideous water stain on the back, the cloth was like new, and the spine stood straight and tall. There was no tearing along the front joint, and the edges were smooth and straight. No chipping anywhere.

What was going on here?

And then it hit me. Holy cow, the guy was trying to cheat his wife. He'd somehow come across a mediocre copy of the same book and that was the one I'd been given to appraise. But the real book, the one they were supposed to sell in order to split the profits, was this immaculate one I was viewing right now, from Books by Bryce.

This copy was worth at least ten times more than the copy I had appraised. The husband would get the entire amount of this book's sale price. He wouldn't have to split it fifty-fifty with his wife. No, all they would be splitting was the lesser amount of the inferior book.

What a creepy cheater!

And nobody would ever guess, because very few people knew what I knew about books: that to some people, they were worth lying, cheating, stealing, and killing over.

The next morning, I called Trina Jones to report the husband's larcenous behavior. She was shocked by the news, but quickly turned gleeful. “I knew that jerk couldn't be trusted. The judge is going to kick his ass across the courtroom.”

“I hope so,” I said, angry because I'd been lied to as well. “If you need me to explain the details to the judge, just let me know.”

“You bet I will. Thanks again, Brooklyn.”

•   •   •

Derek called from his car a few hours later. “I'm on my way home, love.”

I glanced at the clock and smiled. “It's barely noon. That's good news.”

“Not exactly. I've got to fly to Los Angeles this evening.”

“Oh. Not-so-good news. What's going on?”

“We've got an errant client who needs a lesson in deportment.”

“Not again.”

“Yes. He doesn't seem to think his stalker is all that serious.”

“But didn't the woman get inside his house and try to poison his dog?”

“Yes,” he said darkly.

As far as I was concerned, anyone who would harm a pet like that belonged in prison. And I wasn't the only one. Derek was determined to catch the woman and make sure she spent a long time behind bars.

“So can't he see that she's escalating?”

“He can't see beyond his inflated ego. He's like a petulant child with no boundaries.”

It figured. Their client was a rich, good-looking “minor celebrity” who just couldn't get a break in television or movies, but had
somehow caught the attention of a deranged fan anyway. Now he was being stalked and tormented by her. But he wasn't willing to listen to the advice of the security team he'd hired. I wondered if maybe he was enjoying the attention a little too much.

“Paul seems to think he'll listen to me,” Derek said. “So I've got to get down there before he gets himself killed.”

Paul was Derek's partner in charge of the case, but Derek was the boss. Some clients only responded when the boss was the one doing the talking, which meant Derek had to make these out-of-town trips on a regular basis.

People were so stupid sometimes. This guy in Los Angeles was in danger. He was the one who had contacted Derek's company, but now he was balking at every little turn. He hated having to go around town with bodyguards. He hated being advised to stay close to home until his stalker was caught. He didn't like having his phone calls monitored.

And how did he feel about dying? I wanted to know. Derek had to deal with these types of people all the time.

And all of a sudden, I was staring at myself in the mirror, metaphorically speaking. I was doing the same thing that his childish client was doing. Both Derek and Inspector Lee had warned me to be careful, not take chances, and not put myself in danger. And yet I hadn't really taken their advice.

I felt sick to my stomach. Was this how Derek saw me, as a petulant child with no boundaries?

On the other hand, his clients were wealthy and used to being indulged. I wasn't like that.

Derek was the absolute best at calming down an errant client. But that meant he had to take an unscheduled trip out of town every so often. Like today.

I didn't want him to have to calm down his errant girlfriend. I vowed at that moment to follow his advice and be careful.

He made it home quickly and grabbed the small suitcase that was always packed and ready to go.

“I'll be back Friday afternoon,” he said, kissing me good-bye at the door.

“Be safe,” I said, trying to keep it light.

“You be careful,” he said sternly. “Promise me. I don't want you taking any chances.”

“I promise. I swear I'll be careful. I won't go out of the house unless I have someone with me. I'm sorry I worried you.”

He gave me a perplexed smile. “What's wrong with you?”

“I don't want to be like your errant client. I know I'm in danger and I assure you I'll take every precaution.”

He stroked my hair. “Darling, you're nothing like my errant client. You're smart and clever. I admire your courage and I love you very much.”

I sniffed back a tear. “I love you and miss you already.”

“I love you.” He kissed me and then grinned and assured me he'd call when he landed. I stood in the hall and we waved at each other until the elevator doors closed. Feeling completely goofy and truly missing him already, I stepped back inside and went to work.

•   •   •

An hour later, I was just about to start work on the next book when I received a call on my business line. Happy to know that business was booming, I grabbed the phone.

“Hello?”

“This is Bryce Flint,” the caller said. “And you're going to be sorry you ever opened your big fat mouth.”

Furious and frightened, I slammed down the phone without responding. As soon as I did, I started trembling.

How dared he try to scare me! He really was as big a jerk as Trina said he was. No, he was even bigger. She had no idea how big. But I was about to tell her. I picked up the phone again and called her office. She wasn't in, so I left a message, letting her know that I'd just been threatened by her client's lying, cheating
husband.

In order to take my mind off that ugly phone call from Bryce Flint, I buried myself in a frenzy of work.

I pulled all the books from the safe and laid them out on my worktable. I had already completed two of the books, the ones that required the least amount of work. So I immediately started work on the
Cuckoo's Nest
book jacket repair, first whipping up a batch of wheat paste. I cleaned and brushed the pages of another book until the paste was ready to use.

The dust jacket came out looking fabulous, if I did say so myself.

Next, I tackled Inspector Lee's art book, repairing the torn pages first. I'd promised she wouldn't be able to tell that they'd ever been removed from the book, so that became the challenge.

The problem with this book, as with many art books, was that the thick glossy paper would not respond well to moisture. So using a semiliquid glue and rice paper wasn't going to work.

But the good news was that little five-year-old Inspector Lee had managed to tear the pages out of her mama's book right along the inside seam, or the gutter. So I was able to use a transparent,
pressure-sensitive archival mending tape that was as thin as a piece of rice tissue and was nonyellowing, with a neutral pH.

I nudged the torn page into place so that it lay perfectly even against the inside seam and then stretched the tape down so that it overlapped the page and the seam. With a bone folder, I gently flattened the tape to get rid of any tiny folds or wrinkles and then ran the tool back and forth to burnish the tape and stimulate and strengthen the adhesive. When I was finished, the tape was invisible and the page was affixed in the place where it belonged.

I repeated the process for all eight torn pages and was thrilled with the results. I hoped Inspector Lee and her mom would be equally thrilled.

I planned to construct the book box tomorrow or the next day. Now, though, it was finally time to deal with
Songbirds in Trees
, the book I'd received from Jared Mulrooney. I'd been avoiding it because I knew it would take a lot of delicate, complex maneuvering to repair it, and even then, I wasn't sure I could bring the pages back to the life they'd known before being drowned in wine.

But I owed it to Jared to give it a try.

The phone rang, jarring my nerves. This time I stared at the screen. I didn't recognize the number and I was unsure whether to answer it or let it go to voice mail. I didn't want to hear Bryce Flint's threats again. But if it was him, I was going to let the police know.

I realized on the other hand that the call might have something to do with actual business, so I grabbed the receiver and said hello.

“Brooklyn, dear. This is Crane.”

I almost dissolved into a puddle of relief. “Oh, Crane. How are you? I hope you had a nice time last weekend.”

“The party was a huge success from my point of view. I couldn't
be more grateful to Derek and his partners for showing me such a good time and introducing me to some extremely important contacts.”

“That's great. I'm glad it's working out for everyone. And it was nice to see your brother show up.”

“Yes, that was an unexpected highlight. But now I just spoke to Derek, who told me he was called out of town on business. I imagine you're all alone, drowning your sorrows, so I thought I'd take the opportunity to invite you to lunch tomorrow. If you're available.”

I laughed. “That's so nice of you. I'd love to join you for lunch.”

“Good. We can gossip about Derek and flirt shamelessly.”

I laughed again, as he must've known I would, and we arranged a time and place to meet. I hung up the phone, feeling much better than I had when it first rang.

But thinking of telephones ringing reminded me of Bryce Flint. I decided that if he called again, I would get in touch with Inspector Lee to let her know I had been threatened. What was the use of having a cop on speed dial if I didn't take advantage of it every so often? Not that I expected her to do anything about it. No, I figured the best person to handle Bryce Flint would be the divorce court judge. I didn't think he would appreciate hearing that one of the expert witnesses was being harassed. Flint deserved to be thrown in jail for contempt or something.

I went back to studying the wine-damaged book. As I carefully separated the stuck-together pages, I was struck by what an exquisite book it really was—despite its wrinkled, sticky clump of pages. Every page I was able to open contained a beautiful color illustration of a bird resting on the branch of a tree.

“Duh,” I whispered. No wonder the title of the book was
Songbirds
in Trees
. I marveled that even the tree branches were beautiful, decorated as they were with delicate blossoms and vibrant leaves.

It occurred to me as I studied the book that as far as I knew, no one from the Bird-watchers Society knew I had this book in my possession. I had a passing thought that I should take a lot of pictures in order to justify getting paid, since they weren't aware that I would be doing all this work.

It didn't matter. If it came to that, I'd donate my work as a charitable contribution to the organization.

But the point was, I really had no idea if one of the bird-watchers was aware that I had the book in my possession. After all, someone had killed Jared Mulrooney, and soon after that, someone had broken into my home and killed the homeless man we called Goose. Was it a bird-watcher? Did someone from the society know I had the book?

I made a mental note to remind Derek that as soon as he was back in town, we needed to check those bird people out.

Concentrating on the book now, I knew what I would have to do. I'd had plenty of experience working with water-damaged books, although the damage usually occurred during a flood or in the aftermath of a fire when water was poured onto the house or sprinklers were set off in a building. Often, the water did much more damage to the books than fire or smoke.

In those cases, the books were thoroughly soaked, the structure was weakened, and they were often filthy, covered either in soot and ashes or dirt and refuse carried along by the floodwaters. It was important to support the books at all times, carefully transferring them into towel-lined tubs before taking them to be rinsed.

But in the case of
Songbirds in Trees
, the sturdy leather cover had helped to protect the structural integrity of the book. The spine was
intact. The adhesives hadn't been affected. It was just the central pages that were mottled, wrinkled, and sticky. The only good news in all this was that Jared had spilled some kind of pale white wine and it hadn't left a stain. Since a buttery chardonnay would've left its mark, I was guessing that Jared had been drinking a Pinot Grigio. None of this was good, but it was a much better scenario than if the poor book had been thrown into a vat of Cabernet Sauvignon.

I knew I couldn't separate the sticky pages without risking more damage. I might tear the page right out of the book, or maybe even peel the illustration off the page, which would constitute a clear case of malpractice on my part. I came to the conclusion that I would have to very lightly redampen each affected page and then proceed to carefully separate it from its neighboring page. After that, I would separate each dampened page with thin card stock to absorb the moisture and to encourage the pages to flatten. Finally, I would use the book press to compel the entire book to return to its original shape.

Since I couldn't do worse to the poor book than what Jared had already done, I took a few deep, energizing breaths and forged ahead.

Rather than spray water directly onto the pages and risk creating an environment where mold could form, I used short spurts of my portable steamer to urge those errant pages apart. It didn't take much effort at all to detach them from one another, and the result was excellent. They were no longer stiff, nor did I detect an overabundance of dampness. Now they were supple enough to be manipulated back to the flat, even state they'd been in before they were drenched with wine.

Before any of the pages could dry completely, I slipped a thin sheet of card stock in between each of them. I was momentarily worried that the addition of the card stock would cause the book
to bulge and throw off the binding, but the stock was thin enough that it wouldn't be a problem.

Altogether, there were forty-two pages affected. Within the hour, all the pages had been steamed apart and separated by thin stock. I breathed a sigh of relief that the first two steps seemed to have been effective and prayed that my luck would hold.

After wrapping the entire book in protective paper, I slipped it into the book press, securing it with a few turns of the large wheel. Then I said a quick prayer to all the book gods in heaven and on Earth and let it sit overnight.

•   •   •

The next day, I drove half a mile over to the Mission District and found a parking spot on Valencia, then walked a block up to Eighteenth and two blocks over to Tartine Bakery on the corner of Eighteenth and Guerrero. I glanced over my shoulder constantly and stared down everyone I passed on the sidewalk, but it was worth it. This was one of my favorite spots for a casual lunch and also for buying the most awesome bread and baked goods in the world. I was pleased that Crane had chosen it over one of the fancier restaurants in town.

There was usually a line out the door, so I was surprised to see him waving at me from a small table inside.

He stood as I jostled my way over to the table and sat. “How did you get a table already? You must've gotten here hours ago.”

“No, I just got lucky.”

I didn't believe him for one minute, but I wasn't going to complain. I figured some woman working there took one look at Crane and immediately offered him a table, free coffee, and maybe a drink later.

“I love this place,” I said, joining him at the table. “I start salivating as soon as I get within a block, the smells are so intoxicating.”

“I've never eaten here, but it was highly recommended.”

“I know we're here for lunch,” I said, “but you might want to order the croissant, just to experience heaven. It's just the right amount of crunchy on the outside and buttery perfection on the inside.”

“So, a croissant appetizer. It sounds perfect. We can split it.”

I smiled. “Thank you so much for inviting me out.”

“I thought it would be a nice chance for us to get to know each other a little better.”

“I agree.”

“But first, let's decide what we're having.”

It was a good idea, since we had to order at the counter and sitting around with no food on our table would quickly generate animosity among our fellow diners. I took a glance at the menu, but I already knew what I wanted. “The Niman Ranch ham and Gruyère on country bread, and a side salad.”

He stared at the menu. “Niman Ranch is a good place?”

“I think so. Their methods for raising livestock are humane and sustainable. They don't feed their animals antibiotics or hormones. Their cattle are grass-fed and their chickens are free-range.”

“All good things.”

I shook my head. “You'd never know I subsist on junk food half the time.”

With a laugh, he set the menu down. “Would you like something to drink?”

“I think I'll try the Belgian ale.” Beer for lunch? I was living dangerously. But why not?

“Excellent idea. I'll go place our order and be right back.” He
made his way to the counter while I watched people nearby. It was one of my favorite activities, although today it served two purposes: entertainment and security. I particularly enjoyed the table of four women, each with a different luscious dessert in front of her, taking one bite and passing it to the next person. Those were my kind of friends.

Crane returned shortly with a numbered card. “She said it would take about fifteen minutes.” He folded his arms across his chest and grinned. “So, Brooklyn. Tell me your life story. You have fifteen minutes.”

I obliged and gave him the shortened version—raised in an arts commune, wine country, big family, bookbinding, etc., etc. “Now I want to hear about you.”

“I've told you so much already.”

“Tell me more about your family.” I loved hearing about other people's families. Maybe because my own was so . . . interesting. I loved my family. A lot. But no one could say we fit into anyone's version of “normal.” Not too long ago, I'd met one of Derek's brothers and I was looking forward to a trip to London soon so I could meet the rest of his family. I had a feeling it would be a fascinating time.

Until then, I'd make do with learning more about Crane.

“What would you like to know?” he asked.

I couldn't help myself. “Tell me more about your brother. Are you getting along? Will he be going home to see your mother? You said she was ill.”

Crane smiled sadly. “It would be more accurate to say she's sick at heart, rather than actually sick. She has not seen Bai in many years. But at the party the other night, I was able to extract his promise that he would come home with me when I leave at the end of the week.”

But now he was frowning.

“You don't look optimistic,” I said. “Do you think he'll follow through?”

“He has a girlfriend,” he said irritably, and sighed. “He claims it's serious. That always changes things.”

“But he doesn't have to stay in China forever, does he? Just long enough to see your mother.”

“This woman. This girlfriend of his.” He shook his head and scowled. “Pardon me for sounding like an old crow, but she is not good for him.”

“How do you mean?”

“She is . . . a failure. I have had to bail her out of jail.”

“Jail?” I hadn't been expecting that. “For what? Drugs?”

“Shoplifting,” he said with a heartfelt sigh. I felt almost guilty for bringing any of this up. I hadn't meant to upset him. “She said it was a misunderstanding. She's very beautiful and manipulative. And my brother, who can also be manipulative, is an idiot. It's a dangerous combination.”