Books of a Feather (24 page)

“How can you tell?”

“It has the Havell watermark.” He set the book down and looked at me. “Havell was the engraver of the artwork.”

“I know. I was just reading about him.” I grabbed the book and held it to the light, as Ian had done. I could barely make out the watermark. “I noticed the watermark but couldn't make out what it said.”

“You'll notice it doesn't occur on every page,” Ian said. “And I'll tell you why.”

“I'm all ears.” I was always ready to learn more about books.

He grinned. “Audubon sold his
Birds of America
paintings by subscription. One hundred and seventy-five subscribers paid to receive his work in lots of five over the course of a decade. All of the engravings were made on the same double-elephant-sized paper. By the end, each subscriber would've collected over four hundred of these amazing paintings. And Havell, the engraver, was responsible for transferring the original prints to hand-colored copperplate engravings that were created in his London studio.”

“So where do you think this little book fits into the story?”

“Here's my theory,” Ian said. “The double-elephant folio paper had Havell's watermark on it to guarantee to their subscribers that they were receiving original limited-edition Audubon works.”

“Right.”

“But for this smaller book, I'm going to speculate that the paper was cut down and given to the artists to create whatever they wanted. And when the book pages were sewn together, the watermark wasn't always visible on every page, but here and there in a few random spots throughout the book.”

I smiled at him. “That's fascinating.”

“If it's true. Who knows? But I like it.”

“I do, too.” I sat back in my chair. “You're a pretty smart guy.”

“And devastatingly handsome as well,” he said, grinning. “Look, neither of us is an expert in art provenance. As far as I know, these paintings could've been done by Audubon or anyone else. Unless we can track down an expert, it's just a guess.”

“There's the rub.”

“Sorry, kiddo.” He picked up the book again. “It's possible that this is a collection of paintings—or aquatints, really, since they're engraved from the paintings—that Havell thought was worth turning into a book. Who can say?”

“But this book was published in Scotland. Havell was in London.”

“But he had to have had control over the project because it's his paper and his watermark and his copperplate engravings. And as an illustrious engraver, he probably had contacts in Edinburgh. And yet truly we know nothing more than we knew an hour ago.”

“So I'm essentially back where I started.”

“You know about the watermark now. So maybe we can find something else that will indicate who the artist is.”

“I wonder if there's anything in your art book collection that would help.”

“Our art department is huge, but I'm not sure you'll find examples of an obscure Chinese artist from the early Victorian era.”

Dejected, I put my elbow on his desk and cradled my chin in my hand. “I would love to be able to give this book to Crane as a definitive collection of his ancestor's works. But it's not mine to give.”

“You know, we have someone in residence, temporarily, who's working on Chinese artists from that era.”

“You do?”

“His name is Sheng Bai.”

I folded my arms on the desk and buried my head. “Oh God.”

“What's wrong?”

“That's the guy I was telling you about. The brother of Derek's friend, the one who's looking to cause some turmoil around here.”

He let out a dramatic sigh. “Are you sure? He seems like a nice guy. And his girlfriend's a beauty.”

“You've met her?”

“I've seen them together a few times.”

“So what does she look like?”

“Gorgeous,” Ian said. “Asian. Supermodel type.”

“Must be nice to be Bai,” I murmured. It didn't sound to me as though Bai had much to be jealous of Crane about, despite what Derek had said.

“They make a very attractive couple.”

“Yeah, Bai's pretty cute. But his brother, Crane, is even better-looking.”

“Really?” Ian grinned. “In that case, I'd love to meet him.”

I had to laugh. “Sorry, sweetie, but he doesn't play for your team.”

“A boy can dream.”

“Now that I think about it, you might've seen him here on opening night. I would've introduced you if you'd been free for a minute.”

“Okay, wow, I just remembered something. I'll assume Crane is Chinese, right?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, I think I did see him that night. But there's something else.”

“What?”

Looking perplexed, Ian rubbed his forehead. “I was so frazzled at the opening, I completely forgot to mention this to you. But Bai asked about you and Derek that night.”

“Bai? Okay, that's weird.”

“Yeah. We were talking, and he pointed to you two and asked who you were. He thought you might be friends with his brother.”

“We
are
friends. We were with Crane that night. Didn't you see him?”

“Like I said, I was frazzled.”

“You're never frazzled.”

He frowned more deeply. “I know. But you're right. I saw a good-looking Chinese man with you.”

“Which means Bai saw us, too.”

“Yes.”

So Bai had seen us all at the event, but Crane hadn't seen him. Had Bai been avoiding his brother that night? Had he already begun his “Audubon Shame” plot to cause trouble for Ian and the Covington?

A big shuddering shiver rolled down my spine and caused the hair on my arms to stand on end. If Bai was there that night, was he looking for this copy of
Songbirds in Trees
? Had he met Jared Mulrooney?

Had he
killed
Jared?

I shook my head, wondering when I'd become so overly dramatic. Bai might have been a pain in the butt to his brother and even to Derek, but that didn't make him a murderer. How would he even have known about this obscure little book, and what possible connection could it have to his ancestor? There was no attribution, either way. I was getting ahead of myself.

“Speaking of Bai,” I said, “I need to tell you something.” I related everything I'd heard about the “Audubon Shame” scheme to Ian. As I predicted, Ian accepted the news with interest but not much trepidation. He repeated his belief that both good and bad publicity worked in his favor.

I was no closer to answering the questions surrounding
Songbirds in Trees
than I had been before, but it was fun talking to Ian about it. As always, he had a million vague facts and possibilities to ponder. But I still didn't know if we would ever be able to attribute the book to Sheng.

Nevertheless, to my delight, Ian allowed the Audubon exhibit to be closed down to give me a chance to look at the opening pages of the big double-elephant-folio book. One of the curators pulled the book from the large glass case and took it into the back room,
where a wide utility table was set up for that very purpose. Placing the book unopened on the table, he handed me a pair of flimsy white cotton gloves.

“Please wear these.”

“Sure.” I pulled the gloves on and opened the book. I had to stand up to do so because the pages were too big to turn while sitting down.

It was a rare honor to examine the Audubon masterpiece up close. Each page was more illuminating than the previous one. “You guys have the best job in the world,” I said, smiling at the curator.

“It doesn't get much better than this,” he said, nodding.

I stared at the next page, of a large wild turkey traipsing over leaves and twigs. His feathers were vibrant and I could see almost every color represented in his wings.

“What's this?” I asked. “Is this the artist's signature?”

The curator moved closer and squinted at the page. “Yes, that one is signed.”

“Can you read it?”

After another moment of study, he said, “I assume it is Audubon's signature.”

“Yes, I would assume that, too.” I pulled out my portable magnifying glass. “It looks a little like John Hancock's on the Declaration of Independence, doesn't it?”

He took another look through the glass. “You're right.”

I turned the page using both hands. “Oh, but look at this one. This cuckoo painting has no signature.”

He shrugged. “It might've been a different day or he might've been in a hurry. And the painting itself is not done in the same style, either, is it? The turkey is painted in its habitat, and all that wonderful detail fills the entire page. This picture of the cuckoo,
on the other hand, is more of a study. There's no real context. It's a bird on a branch, and it's beautiful, but there is no background to ground it in reality. So perhaps Mr. Audubon didn't want to sign it for that reason.” He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “If that makes any sense.”

“It does.” I gave him a big smile. “Thank you.”

I turned a few more pages and studied the signatures wherever I could find them, along with some other details I realized might be important. After twenty minutes, I took off my gloves and stood. “I really appreciate your time. Thank you.”

I'd seen what I had to see.

I spent another hour in front of a computer in a tiny carrel in the Covington's basement research lab. I had been racking my brain, trying to figure out what to call my searches. I looked up “artists who paint birds” and studied a list of names from the early to mid-Victorian era. None of the artists listed appeared to paint in the same style I'd seen in the smaller book. I had the book sitting on the desk next to the computer and I glanced at it often.

“Songbirds in Trees,”
I murmured. “Spill your secrets.” I wasn't even quite sure why I was bothering with this, but my curiosity was definitely tweaked.

“Songbirds in Trees.”
I stared at the title. “Trees.” I stared at the computer screen and typed “Victorian artists who paint trees.” At the last minute I added “Chinese.”

And up popped the name Sheng Li.

I stared dumbfounded at the screen. “Trees.” I had to breathe in and out a few times because seeing his name was like taking a blow to my solar plexus. “You painted trees. Not birds. I mean, of course you painted birds, too, but your specialty was trees.”

There were images of Sheng's work on the Web site I clicked onto, although the online photos of cherry blossom branches and juniper sprigs didn't do the actual paintings justice. On the same Web site, I found all sorts of legends and philosophies and fanciful writings about trees. There was a list of virtues represented by different trees. Bamboo, for instance, was a symbol of old age and modesty. The five petals of the plum tree blossom represented the five gods of good luck.

“Who knew there were five?” I muttered. Reading further, I found out that if a bamboo shoot was shown with a plum tree branch, it represented husband and wife. A pine tree symbolized longevity, steadfastness, and self-discipline. But the peach tree blossom was the most symbolic of all. It, too, represented longevity, but it was also used to keep demons at bay and its petals were helpful in casting spells on men.

There were many more examples of trees and symbols, but those were the most fascinating. And now that I was studying images of Chinese artists, something occurred to me. I pulled my magnifying glass from my portable tool set in my satchel, and after opening the
Songbirds
book, I tried to make out the tiny doodle I had been seeing on many of the pages. It was an inconspicuous squiggle, usually tagged onto the end of a branch or hidden at the edge of a bird's foot. Was it a Chinese symbol? Was it Sheng's signature? Or was it just a random scribble? The fact that it showed up on every page made me certain it had to have some meaning.

I shut down the computer and sat for a long moment, thinking about what I'd read and seen. All of it, combined with what Crane had told us about his ancestor's journey, his association with Audubon and his travels through Scotland, made me think that Sheng
was almost definitely the painter of the beautiful artwork in
Songbirds in Trees
. Maybe I would never verify it beyond a shadow of a doubt, but I would bet money that it was true.

I was bummed that I couldn't go back and take another look at the big Audubon book. What if I could find more of those discreet Chinese symbols in some of the bigger paintings? It might not come to anything, but it would be totally cool if I found some. On the other hand, given the artist's humble ways, I doubted that he would be so vain as to sign the work he did on Audubon's behalf.

I packed up my tools and left the basement workroom. It wasn't until I stepped outside and saw that the sun had set that I realized how many hours I'd spent at the Covington. I'd always been prone to losing track of time when I stepped inside those doors and walked through those quiet halls. Whether I found myself upstairs in one of the cozy book carrels, studying the finer points of conservation, or downstairs in one of the dozen or so basement bookbinding studios, repairing a rare book or a medieval manuscript, I always felt like a happy little mole blinking its way to the surface when I left for the day.

I couldn't wait to get home and tell Derek what I'd found. I had called him once but had to leave a message. I was hoping he would get in touch with Crane and I could tell them together. Preferably over a nice glass of wine.

As I drove across town, I thought about the copy of
Songbirds in Trees
tucked safely away in my satchel, and wondered again about the copyright date that was years after Audubon's death. Was it a clue, too? Was I grasping at straws again? It wasn't unusual for a book to be published posthumously by someone's disciples or his
family, but still, it was another puzzle piece. Would it fit into the whole picture or would it turn out to mean nothing?

Even if my research fizzled to nothing, I couldn't wait to tell Derek about my discoveries. So, where was he? I had left him a message and I'd sent him a text. I'd asked Corinne to have him call me as soon as he was available. Maybe he was in the process of leaving town again. I hoped not.

My cell phone rang and I pressed the button on my Bluetooth to activate the call. “Hello?”

“Oh, Brooklyn, dear. I'm so glad I caught you.”

“Hi, Corinne. Did you hear from Derek?”

“Not exactly. I heard from his friend Mr. Crane, who let me know that they are out at a business dinner and asked me to pass the message along to you.”

“Oh.” My lower lip popped out involuntarily. Pouting wasn't pretty, but sometimes it was justified. Momentarily. I sucked it in and tried to behave like a grown-up. “Thank you, Corinne. I appreciate the call.”

“You're welcome, dear.”

I was bummed that Crane had called instead of Derek, but I figured he must've been busy and didn't dwell on it. Except now I wouldn't be able to talk to either Derek or Crane for hours. My frustration tempted me to drive to Tasty Burger and drown my sorrows in a double cheeseburger, french fries, and a chocolate milk shake, but that would've been childish. Or would it? I faced a real dilemma while waiting for the light to change at the corner of Van Ness and Eddy, but I was more than halfway home now. I could always phone in a pizza order if I wanted to. So I continued on my way, knowing I would survive alone for a few hours, thanks to pizza. But I owed myself a burger. Really soon.

•   •   •

I pulled into my parking lot and was momentarily thrilled to see Derek's Bentley parked in his space next to mine. My excitement was short-lived when I figured out that Derek had probably come home and then Crane had picked him up. So it was settled: I would eat pizza and be perfectly happy. Plus a glass of wine. I wasn't about to forget the wine.

Instead of going upstairs, I walked out of the building and straight down the block to Pietro, our favorite local pizza place. While I waited, I thought more about
Songbirds in Trees
. Where had the book come from? A small bookshop in Scotland, yes, but how had it wound up there? And what odd twist of fate had brought Jared Mulrooney into that shop to start this strange, mysterious ball rolling?

And with regard to the book, what was I to make of those little wisps of signatures—if that was what they were? When I got home, I would use my high-powered microscope to study them even more closely and maybe find some answers.

“Pizza's ready, Brooklyn,” Pete said, ten minutes later. “Chicken wings and salad are in this bag.”

“Thanks, Pete.” I grabbed the bag with the salad and wings and the pizza box and walked home. My mind was bouncing all over the place and now I was thinking about Bai and his girlfriend. What was up with them? Why were they giving Crane so much grief? Since I was crazy about my family, it was hard to understand how siblings could be so much at odds. I felt bad and wished there was something I could do to help Derek's friend.

A half block away from my building, I noticed a man standing out front waiting for someone. I didn't think anything of it, since our street was lined with apartments and shops and restaurants,
and it was early evening. There were always people walking around, going from here to there. I was perfectly safe if maybe a little jittery after all the traumatic events of the past few weeks. I pulled my key from my bag as I got closer.

“Thought you were so smart, didn't you?”

I blinked, not expecting the guy to talk to me. It was hard to see his face with the night darkening, but I realized who it was. Bryce Flint. The cheating spouse who had tried to get away with larceny.

Oh boy. Nerves jangled and I gave a quick look around. Normally, our street was a bustling hive of activity. Naturally, when I needed the crowds, there was no one nearby. But I didn't want to let the man see how nervous he made me. It wasn't as if he would attack me on a city street. Would he?

“You should go home, Mr. Flint. You got caught and that's too bad, but you don't want to be here threatening me.”

“Oh really? You think you know what I want? You don't know jack.” He was furious, his face florid, his eyes wild. “Thanks to you, I was fined and had to spend a night in jail.”

“What for?”

“Contempt of court.”

I nodded, unsurprised. “You're lucky. You committed fraud, Mr. Flint. You'd be spending a lot more than one day if you were convicted. Think of it as a warning.”

“I hate women who think they're so damn smart.”

“And I hate cheaters who waste my time. I spent hours working on that book and it was all for nothing.”

Right now I didn't care about the book. It occurred to me that Flint had either been staking out my place or actually been following me. Either way, he was a total creep and I couldn't believe he was going to all this trouble over one single book.

But then I had to remind myself, people had killed for one single book.

Flint adjusted his stance and I realized he was getting ready to attack me. My first thought was that if he made me drop my pizza, I was going to be very angry. I tried to remember some of the defense moves Alex had taught me. Last week's lesson had been on breathing and how it helped to center me in my environment, so I tried to remember to breathe.

Flint took a step toward me and I hastily set the pizza and salad bag down on the sidewalk.

“You don't want to do this,” I said again, racking my brain to remember one or two self-defense moves. Darn, it had been too many days and I had to admit I was afraid. My mind couldn't stop spinning, all wrapped up in this clown's threats. “You just walk away now and we'll forget it ever happened.”

“You need to learn a lesson,” he muttered.

“Which lesson would that be? That you tried to cheat your wife? You're the one who broke the law. You're the one who needs to learn a lesson.”

“You women are all the same.”

Nerves were gone now and irritation was winning the day. I didn't have time to deal with a liar and a cheat who was furious that he'd been caught. “If you mean we're all too smart to be cheated by you, then yes. We are.”

He growled and rushed toward me. His stocky upper body carried him forward and I remembered Alex and her partners telling me to use the man's body weight against him. So I did, ducking out of the way at the last possible second. Flint went right into the wall. Stupid man.

Now he was really fired up. “You're dead,” he grumbled, and tried to grab me again.

I used my elbows to counter his attack. Then I yanked his left arm and it surprised him so much he didn't fight back. I had a feeling he'd been drinking, because he was clearly stronger than I was but he wasn't reacting quickly enough. I pulled his arm as hard as I could and bent it back. His scream of outrage was immensely satisfying.

I yelled, too. Even though he was no real threat in his intoxicated state, I was afraid to try to deal with the man completely on my own. “Help! Somebody help me!”

“Hey!” Halfway down the block a guy started shouting and running toward us. “Leave her alone. Get out of here!”

Flint finally got wise and took off—as soon as I let him go.

The good guy stopped and watched my assailant racing around the corner. Then he looked at me. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I said, mentally surveying myself. Amazingly, Flint hadn't laid a hand on me, so I was okay. And I was looking forward to the moment when I could call both his wife's attorney and the police to report him. I wanted him in jail. And I couldn't wait to tell Alex how awesome her lessons had been and how great they'd just worked for me.

“I'm good,” I said, feeling pumped up. “I really appreciate you coming along. That guy was not in the mood to listen to reason.”

“Someone you know?” he asked.

“Vaguely.”

“You need to call the cops.”

“Believe me, I'm going to,” I said. “Thanks again. Really.”

The guy waited while I grabbed my pizza and salad bag and let myself into the building. Then he waved and jogged off.

I should've been scared to death, but I was frankly psyched up. I had refused to show fear and I'd actually remembered some of the
lessons Alex had given me. Thankfully, Flint was a big oaf and his own lack of coordination had worked against him, but still, I had fought back and managed to make him squeal. Not much, but enough to cause a scene and attract the attention of my Good Samaritan neighbor.

“So yay, me,” I said to myself, alone in the freight elevator. I felt powerful and happy to be home. I let myself into the house—and was shocked to see Crane standing in the living room.

“Crane, hi! I'm so glad to see you. But what're you doing here?” I glanced around and called, “Derek? I'm home.”

Crane stumbled across the room and I started to laugh, thinking he was teasing, but then I stopped. He looked ill. “Crane? Are you all right? Where's Derek?”

Crane folded up and collapsed onto the floor in front of me. “Crane! Oh my God!” I dropped the takeout and looked around. “Derek? Derek!”