Books of a Feather (22 page)

Setting the tape measure aside, I examined the book further. The brown morocco leather was rich and lustrous. The book itself was well made and now even more structurally sound, thanks to two days in the book press. I opened the book to check all those items I always made a habit of inspecting. Copyright date, country of publication, author name, any dedications, possible author signatures, odd watermarks in the paper. And of course, illustrations, lithographs, woodcuts, or other artwork that might add to the value of the book. In this case, the artwork was all there was, the book's raison d'être. And the illustrations were glorious.

Audubon truly was a talented artist, I thought, as I paged through the small book. I had gotten close enough to the big Audubon book to wonder how an artist could actually capture the emotion an animal was feeling in that frozen moment.

Did I dare say the paintings in this book were even more amazing? The colors were more vibrant, the animals more alive, if that was possible. The branches of the trees were made with more delicate brushstrokes than I'd noticed in the paintings of the larger book. I pulled out my powerful magnifying glass to study them more closely.

A snowy owl looked so real I could've counted the individual feathers in its wings. So soft I was tempted to stroke the downy fluff beneath its outer plumage.

A gorgeous yellow-tailed bird studied a purple flower bud with such deliberate concentration he might've been preparing to write a thesis on its exquisite form. It was uncanny. Even a small worm crawling toward the tip of the thin branch had enough detail to almost make me think it was alive.

A family of brightly colored parrots appeared so realistic I wouldn't have been shocked to hear them start squawking and
talking. They perched on slender green bamboo leaves that shimmered in the background.

Maybe it was the fact that Mr. Audubon was creating on a smaller canvas that made these illustrations seem so much more delicate. Maybe he had to use different brushes or give more attention to finer details than with the larger paintings.

It took a few more minutes, but I managed to pull myself out of the book. It would be easy to spend hours studying the illustrations. No wonder Audubon had won international acclaim.

Since reading all about him at the Covington exhibit, I knew Audubon had been a prodigious writer as well as an artist. His journals were studied alongside his illustrations.

He wrote about his travels, his journeys with the Shawnee and Osage Indian tribes, frightening earthquakes, floods, and wars. He went bankrupt and was thrown in jail. He had successes and setbacks; he discovered two hundred of his drawings were eaten by rats. He traveled back and forth from Europe to the United States even though he was prone to seasickness and his ship was once attacked by pirates.

The large Audubon book on display at the Covington had an extended introduction and biography included in the front of the book. Each plate identified the bird or animal shown. Occasionally, it included the Latin name. So for instance, the purple gallinule was also identified as
Gallinula martinica
, more commonly known as the purple swamp hen.

But this small illustrated book had no writing in it. No introduction by Audubon, no foreword written by another artist or ornithologist, not even a short biography. And no names identifying the birds themselves. It was all artwork, and it was wonderful, but where were the attributions?

I had the strongest urge to go to the Covington to do more research. I also wanted to compare this smaller edition's painting style with the large elephant folio on display. Even though Jared hadn't asked me to appraise the book, I wanted to know more about it before I returned it to the National Bird-watchers Society headquarters.

I checked the time. It was only one o'clock. And since Derek wouldn't be home until later that evening, I decided to go for it.

An hour later, I was standing in the main hall of the Covington. I only had to wait a few minutes before I was able to use the interactive computer set up next to the large Audubon display, on which you could call up a photograph of any page. Along with the paintings, you'd find Audubon's notes on the animal and cross-reference to when and where he had drawn the pictures. I was just about to pull the smaller
Songbirds
book from my satchel when I heard a voice behind me.

“Well, look who's here.”

I whipped around and came face-to-face with Crane's brother. “Bai, what a surprise. What are you doing here?”

He looked uncomfortable despite the grin. “Didn't Crane tell you this is my new hangout?”

“He mentioned that you were doing some work here. And if you've got to have a hangout, what could be better than the Covington?”

He frowned. “I'm not sure my brother would approve of that theory.”

“Oh, sure, he would,” I said genially. “It keeps us off the streets, right?”

My remark startled a laugh out of him. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“And since I make my living with books, this is my natural habitat, so to speak.”

“At least you have a reason to be here,” he grumbled. “He wouldn't say the same for me.”

“I can't believe that,” I said with a smile, trying to keep the conversation casual. But I was dying to ask him why he was in such a crabby mood. “Crane says you're one of the best artists in China, and since this building is filled with wonderful artwork as well as books, I can't imagine him disapproving.”

He looked taken aback but recovered quickly. “Thank you.” He gave a slight bow. “You are as wise as you are beautiful.”

I raised my eyebrows. “And you are full of it, but thank you just the same.”

That surprised another laugh out of him, but he instantly sobered. “I know you feel close to Crane because of your relationship with Derek, but please accept this friendly warning.”

Wary, I took a step back. “What is it?”

“Crane is not the paragon you think he is. You shouldn't believe everything he tells you about me.”

I tried to appear clueless. “What do you mean? He told us about your incredible talent, but other than that, he's only mentioned that your mother is anxious to have you return to China.”

“Yes, she is,” he said darkly. “But only because Crane frightens her. I have always been a buffer between the two of them.”

I started to question him, but he jerked abruptly. Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he murmured, “Sorry. I've got it on vibrate, so it's always a shock when it goes off.”

“I know what you mean.”

Wearing a fierce scowl, he walked away, whispering into his phone.

As I watched him go, I had to admit that I was still confused by him. He couldn't be serious about Crane, could he? True, I didn't
know Crane very well, but Derek did, and I trusted his opinion beyond anyone else's. This had to be another case of Bai trying to undermine his brother and maybe even turn me against him.

So nothing had changed. Bai was still poised to fight Crane every step of the way. I wondered if he understood his own brother's feelings at all, or if he was similar to a few other cosseted younger siblings I'd known, whose worlds seemed to revolve around themselves. They rarely took the time to consider anyone else's feelings and were surprised when you pointed out the obvious to them.

Now that I knew Crane a little better, I had serious doubts that he would criticize Bai for hanging out at the Covington. At least, under normal circumstances. But in this case, Crane was clearly afraid that his brother would wreak havoc if he found out that Sheng's artwork had been mingled with the Audubon paintings.

As Bai disappeared down the hall, I happened to glance up. A woman dressed entirely in black stood alone near the wrought-iron railing of the third-floor balcony. She caught and held my gaze for two seconds, then whipped around and vanished down one of the narrow aisles of books.

I didn't recognize her, so I shrugged and returned to the interactive computer screen. Reaching for the
Songbirds
book, I enjoyed myself for a while, comparing and contrasting the illustrations in the two disparate Audubon books, looking up particular birds and judging which was prettier or more interesting. Not that I was any judge, but I was having fun.

After a while, I realized that a line had begun to form behind me. I sighed and slid the smaller volume of
Songbirds in Trees
back into my satchel.

“Sorry,” I murmured to the next person in line as I moved away from the exhibit. I wasn't really sorry, though. I'd been
having a blast. Call me a nerd, but I couldn't believe how lucky I was to be able to play with books and artwork all day. I had to be one of the most fortunate people in the world. Or at least one of the top ten.

•   •   •

I spent another hour meandering through the other Covington galleries before I finally walked back to my car. As I drove home, I thought about stopping off at the Bird-watchers Society headquarters and leaving the book with them. But to be honest, I wasn't ready to part with it. Since they didn't know I had it anyway, it wouldn't be a problem if I were to hold on to it for another day or two. Besides, I wanted to show it to Derek. He'd be able to appreciate the beautiful drawings as well as the elegant book itself.

I stopped at the market on the way home to pick up some essentials. I was parked at the end of the row, and as I fumbled with a full bag of groceries and my car keys, I noticed a blacked-out BMW sedan revving its engine and pulling out of its parking space one aisle over. It headed toward the store, going way too fast for safety.

“Jerk,” I muttered, and dropped my keys. There was something sinister about automobiles with blacked-out windows. I didn't like it and wondered why it wasn't against the law.

“It should be,” I grumbled, reaching down to grab my keys. I heard the car's tires screeching around the corner of the next aisle on the other side of mine. I stood up and saw the black car whizzing along toward the exit. But instead it swerved into the perimeter aisle where I was parked. It was going too fast—and it was headed straight toward me!

Without another thought, I dashed around to the front of my car. The BMW shrieked past me and kept going.

“What the—”

The car veered out of the parking lot and disappeared around the corner. I had to set my shopping bag down on the ground and lean against the front of my car to catch my breath.

That driver would've hit me if I hadn't moved. There was no doubt in my mind. Now I had to figure out if it was simply some jerk out for a joyride, or if I had just been the target of a killer's rage.

•   •   •

“Did you get the license number?” Inspector Lee asked.

I had to think. It wasn't easy. But I closed my eyes and pictured the car and remembered that detail. “There was no license plate in front,” I said tightly. “They must've removed it. I was too rattled to see if there was one in back. So, no, I didn't get a number. But I can describe the car.”

“Go ahead,” she said, flipping her small notepad open and waiting with her pen.

“Black BMW, blacked-out windows, medium-sized. Not the sporty one and not the great big one.”

“Maybe a five series?”

“Maybe. It looked almost new.” I shook my head in disgust. “Sorry. Not much of a description.”

“That's okay. Was the front windshield tinted?”

“Yes. How did you know? I couldn't see who was driving as they came straight at me.” I scowled. “That should be against the law, by the way.”

“It is,” Lee said. “I'll call it in and maybe we'll get lucky.”

“So why do people tint their windows if it's against the law?”

“Because people are stupid.”

I snorted a laugh. “No kidding.”

“It's just the front windows that matter,” she explained. “And
auto shops are well aware of the law. If we pull a driver over, we'll give him a ticket and we'll ask where he got it done. Then we slap a fine on the company who did it.”

“Good.”

She scrutinized me. “You gonna be okay?”

Sure, I thought. Except for wanting to cry. “Yeah, I'm okay. I was just shaken up. And I'm mad. But I'll get over it.”

“Mad is good,” she said firmly. “Mad will keep you alive. Hold on to that feeling. And go straight home and stay there.”

“I will. Thanks for coming out. I wouldn't have called you, but I thought, well . . .”

“I know what you thought, Brooklyn, and you did the right thing. Call me if you remember anything else.”

•   •   •

Derek got home later that night and I was pretty sure I'd never been happier to see him. Then again, I was always happy to see him.

We had a casual meal of pasta with chunky marinara sauce lightly covered in fresh Parmigiano Reggiano, and a salad. Derek poured us glasses of an earthy yet elegant Brunello di Montalcino and after dinner we sat at the table talking for a full hour.

He was furious when I told him about the parking lot incident. But since I couldn't say for sure if I was the actual target or if I had just been in the way of some feckless stranger showing off for his girlfriend, there wasn't much we could do. But he was glad to hear that I had contacted Inspector Lee, just to be safe.

“Oh, I ran into Bai at the Covington Library earlier today,” I said, and related the conversation to Derek. “I wonder, is he negative in general or is he simply jealous of Crane?”

“Both. I've known Bai for years,” Derek said, a pensive frown marring his forehead. “And I've been willing to play along when Crane said he thought Bai had changed for the better. But he hasn't changed. I remember back in school, he would alter his entire personality when it suited him, saying all the right things to the right people. But his underlying essence has always been quite negative. It may sound harsh, but I think he may be a borderline sociopath.”