Books of a Feather (4 page)

I could try to clean the worst of the foxing with brushes and a dry bleaching technique I'd tried before, but I didn't feel comfortable taking the book apart and actually washing the pages in an aqueous solution unless Gen approved it. And frankly, I wasn't sure it would matter. With a book this old and wonderful, the foxing wouldn't detract all that much from its value.

This was another book that would have to wait until later in the week to be fixed. For now, I made notes and took photographs
of all the books for my own reference. I always liked to take “before and after” photos to show my client and to post on my Web site.

I checked on my methyl cellulose and found it had reached a perfect consistency. I poured some PVA into a small beaker and added enough of the methyl cellulose to reach my sixty/forty blend and whisked the two together. After a few minutes, I was satisfied that the final mix was smooth and lump free.

I assembled everything I would need to fix
The Maltese Falcon
's drooping hinges on the table in front of me and began to work my tried-and-true bamboo-skewer fix. Basically, my glue, several sheets of wax paper, and two bamboo skewers. And the book, of course.

I stood
The Maltese Falcon
upright. Taking hold of the first skewer, I dipped the long, thin spike into the glue until it was completely coated. Careful to avoid the spine itself, I guided the glue-covered skewer into the small breach that was the inner hinge of the front cover. I twirled the skewer a few times to evenly distribute the glue, then removed the stick. I did the same thing to the back hinge.

I slid a piece of wax paper between each of the covers and their flyleaf pages, then closed the book. Grabbing my bone folder, I pressed the edge of it along the front hinge to emphasize the crease. I repeated the action along the back cover hinge, then placed a weight on top of the book. Ten minutes later, both covers were firmly affixed and
The Maltese Falcon
's droopy text block was history.

•   •   •

That night, I walked through the doors of the magnificent Covington Library and felt almost giddy with joy. I couldn't help
it. I loved this place. It was because of the books, of course, but also because the building itself was so striking, a glorious sanctuary and a loving monument to the written word. It was home to some of the most beautiful books ever created, and I'd fallen in love with every inch of the place the first time I visited when I was eight years old.

A grand Italianate mansion situated at the very top of Pacific Heights, the Covington overlooked the city and the bay. The views were breathtaking, both inside and out. And if books weren't your thing, the artwork throughout was spectacular and the gardens alone were worth visiting.

This was something else I'd missed while we were away. This place, the books, the wonderful reading nooks, the scents, the quiet. I'd missed my friend Ian McCullough, head curator and newly crowned president of the Covington Library and Museum. I'd heard about his promotion but hadn't had a chance to congratulate him. I couldn't wait to see him.

I waited for Derek inside the Covington's large, elegant foyer, next to the wide staircase that led to the upper levels. The foyer floor was a checkerboard pattern of polished black-and-white marble tiles and the centerpiece of the room was a gorgeous Tiffany chandelier hanging from the ceiling that sparkled dazzlingly above me. French doors on both ends of the foyer led to either the main hall or to another wide hallway that wound around to the West Gallery.

From the sounds emanating from the main hall, I could tell the party was already hopping and I hoped Derek found a parking spot soon. And by “hopping,” I mean that guests were laughing and talking and enjoying the wonderful hors d'oeuvres and excellent wines while a string quartet played classical music from their perch
on the second-floor balcony overlooking the main exhibit hall. So maybe “hopping” wasn't the right term, given the elegance of the crowd and the highbrow entertainment, but it sounded as though everyone was already having a good time. And with the exception of those few artistic types who perennially dressed in unrelieved black from head to toe, we were a colorful, sparkly group.

I checked my watch. We weren't expecting Crane to arrive for another hour. But that was fine; I would still have enough time to give him a quick tour of some of the exhibit rooms before the unveiling of the big Audubon book at nine o'clock.

“Brooklyn. Thank goodness.”

I turned to see Genevieve Taylor rushing toward me from across the foyer. She wore a little black dress that fit her petite frame perfectly. Classic pearls and shiny black heels completed the outfit.

“Hi, Gen. Wow, you look beautiful.” I reached out to hug her, but she was too anxious to notice. “Is everything okay?”

“I'm so glad I found you first thing.” She fumbled with her purse and got the zipper open, then stopped abruptly. Glancing around, she asked, “Is Derek here?”

“He's parking the car, but he'll be here any minute. What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I'm just feeling a little paranoid, I guess.”

“Why?”

She took my arm and pulled me a few feet farther back from the door, away from all the guests who were milling around the lobby area, greeting friends and checking out the crowd.

Pulling a small wrapped package from her bag, she handed it to me. “I found this a few hours ago. Or rather, I found Billy walking away with it and took it from him.”

“What is it?” I started to tear off the tape, but she grabbed my hand to stop me.

“Don't open it here,” she whispered gruffly.

I frowned at all the intrigue but went ahead and slipped it into my purse. “I'll assume it's a book.”

She smiled for the first time. “Yes. I'll let you have the fun of discovering for yourself what book it is, but I'll tell you this: it's worth as much or more than some of the books we found hidden in the stacks so far.”

“Can you give me a clue of what's going on?”

She took a deep breath. “I thought things were starting to calm down. I mean, it's been a rough year, you know?”

I patted her arm. “I sure do.”

The violent death of her father had been awful enough, but then to have the store involved in a string of burglaries? I couldn't blame her for being suspicious of every little thing.

“But now after today,” she continued, “I'm afraid I can't trust Billy anymore.”

“But he's your cousin.”

“I know, but . . .” She shook her head in dismay. “You didn't see his face when I caught him. He looked so guilty.”

“You can't really believe he had anything to do with the book thefts.”

“I don't. Not really. It's just that . . .” She shook her head and waved her hand dismissively. “Never mind. Can you just hold on to this for me? And, well, feel free to look it over and maybe clean it up a little and appraise it when you have a chance.”

I almost laughed, since I would've done that anyway. “Sure.”

“And don't tell anyone you have it, please.”

“Of course not. How about if I call you tomorrow after I've taken a look at it? We can talk then.”

“Thank you, Brooklyn. I know I can trust you.” She glanced around again and then squeezed my arm. “I'll see you inside.”

I watched her walk through the wide French doors into the exhibit hall and disappear.

I gripped my purse a little tighter. Apparently, Genevieve's paranoia was contagious.

Seconds later, Derek walked in and I waved him over.

“I'm surprised you haven't joined the party yet,” he said, taking my arm and tucking it through his.

I smiled sweetly. “Just waiting for you, darling.”

He gave me a sardonic look that made it clear he didn't believe me. I shrugged. “Something weird happened. I'll tell you about it later.”

He held my arm a bit more securely. “I can't wait to hear all about it.”

We walked into the main hall, and as always, I was struck by the beauty of the space with its three-story-high coffered ceiling and the fragile-looking wrought-iron balconies of the second and third floors with their rows and rows of books lining the narrow walkways. The room never failed to delight me.

We slowly made our way through the crush of people to the bar, pausing here and there to say hello to some familiar faces. It took us fifteen minutes to reach the far end of the room, and as expected, the line for drinks was long, despite three bartenders working behind the bar.

“Brooklyn! Derek!”

We both turned. “Ian!” I cried, and grabbed him in a hug. “I've missed you.”

“Me, too, kiddo.”

After a moment I let him go and he and Derek shook hands. “Great to see you both.”

“Congratulations on your promotion, Ian,” Derek said.

“Yes, congratulations,” I said. “That's such great news and well deserved.”

“Thank you. It means a lot to hear that from both of you.”

“Can we get you a drink to celebrate?” Derek pointed to the line.

“I wish I could say yes, but no, thanks.” He grinned. “I'm on duty.”

I started to ask Ian another question and Derek stopped me. “You stay here and talk to Ian, darling. I'll brave the line.”

I squeezed his arm. “My hero.” Watching him go, I realized I'd been saying that a lot lately. But then, he really was heroic sometimes.

Ian and I maneuvered away from the bar crowd over to an alcove that held a glass-fronted display of nineteenth-century American ephemera, including letters written by Walt Whitman, Henry David Thoreau, and Abraham Lincoln. We were laughing and catching up on all the latest gossip when Ian glanced around the room in an obvious attempt to locate someone.

“If you need to go and mingle, I'm fine,” I said. “Maybe we can get together for lunch next week.”

“I wanted to introduce you to someone, but I can't see where he disappeared to.”

“Is it work-related?”

“Yes, he's got a book for you to repair.” He craned his neck to search farther, then relaxed. “Guess he'll find us eventually. So, how's your mom?”

“Crazy as ever,” I said, and launched into a funny story about my wonderful New Age Wiccan mother and her latest adventures. We were both laughing as a tall man wearing khakis, a denim shirt, and a sweater vest approached.

“Hey, Ian.” He almost sagged with relief. “I thought I'd lost you.”

“Not a chance,” Ian said jovially. “Jared Mulrooney, I'd like you to meet Brooklyn Wainwright, the bookbinder I was telling you about.”

We shook hands and I said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Mulrooney.”

“Believe me, Ms. Wainwright,” he said, pumping my hand enthusiastically, “the pleasure is all mine.”

“Please call me Brooklyn.”

“Okay. Thanks, Brooklyn. I'm Jared.” He glanced at Ian nervously as if waiting for permission to do something. To be honest, the man seemed like one big nerve ending. He was tall and very thin and a little gawky. He had big eyes, big teeth, and a large beak of a nose. I smiled, thinking how nice it was that book collectors came in every size and style.

“Jared is president of the National Bird-watchers Society, which has its headquarters in the Bay Area,” Ian explained.

“Bird-watchers? Oh my goodness, how interesting,” I said. Because truthfully, the man looked like a bird! A tall, skinny one, like a stork or a heron. Or a certain big yellow one on a popular kids' TV show. Except his eyes were more owl-like than anything else. I found him fascinating to observe. “You must be looking forward to seeing the Audubon exhibit.”

“That's putting it mildly,” he gushed. “I'm over-the-moon. Most of our members are here tonight, and Ian has promised all of us a private showing later this week.”

“That should be exciting,” I said.

“Go on, Jared,” Ian said, hurrying the man along. “Show her the book.”

“Oh. Right. The book.” His mood shifted and he turned to face us head-on, as though he was shielding his actions from the crowd behind him. Flipping open the man purse he wore strapped across his chest, he handed me a book. “I sure hope you can fix it.”

I took it from him and held it, weighing it in my hand for a moment. It was heavy for such a small volume, maybe four by seven inches, an inch thick, and leather bound. Even at first glance, I could tell it was an exquisitely crafted work. On the cover was a lovely illustration of—what else?—a bird. I didn't know a lot about birds, but I would guess it was some sort of bluebird. Because, duh, it was blue.

“This is charming,” I said, looking more closely at the artwork. The detail was extraordinary, with every feather visible. The color of the wings was almost iridescent and I had to marvel at the ability of the artist to capture the bird's bright-eyed curiosity. It was perched on a slim tree branch dotted with delicate purple and pink blossoms. “It's a glorious painting. Is this Audubon's work?”

“Yes, of course,” Jared said, frowning.

I turned it on its side to examine the ribbed spine.
Songbirds in Trees
. “What a sweet title. And the gilding is still bright and unmarred. It's lovely.”

“Open it,” he said flatly.

I did as he instructed and felt my spirit deflate. “Oh my.”

“It's my fault,” he lamented. “I never should've taken it out of its display case. But I couldn't resist. It's just so spectacular, I wanted
to get another look at it. I shouldn't have been drinking wine at the same time.”

I didn't trust myself to speak. There were lovely illustrations of birds throughout the book, but more than half of the pages were badly wrinkled and stiff, as though they'd been dunked in a pool. Liquid was the natural enemy of paper—didn't everyone know that? I could imagine the hot blue fury flashing in my old bookbinding teacher's eyes if he'd been here to see the injury done to this book.