Homicide in Hardcover (17 page)

I followed her down the hall to the front room. “Inspector, did you let my mother go?”

She pokered up. “That’s police business.”

I fisted my hands on my hips. “My mother, my business. You know she didn’t kill anyone.”

“I can’t discuss it.”

“I thought we were friends.”

She actually laughed. It sounded silly to me, too. She patted my shoulder, with some affection, I thought. “Be careful. I’ll be in touch.”

“Okay.”

The two cops were still working in the studio as Lee opened the door. She took one last glance around. “You might want to consider staying somewhere else for a few days.”

“I’ll be at Robin’s tonight.” I wrote down Robin’s phone number and handed it to her.

“Smart,” she said. “Because if this was personal, they might be back.”

“Good to know. Thanks for that.”

She chuckled as she left. More cop humor?

I walked back to the kitchen in time to see the girls gathered at the west-facing window to watch the sun set.

Robin topped off my glass. “I called a locksmith. He should be here within the hour.”

I almost collapsed with gratitude. I’d completely forgotten that little detail. I sat on the couch and watched as the sky filled with pink and coral streaks.

Vinnie broke the silence. “We are happy to have the morning sun on our side, but the evening sun is more dramatic.”

“I love it,” I said, and hated that someone had marred my wonderful home.

Robin put the bottle in the recycling bin. “Inspector Lee has great hair, doesn’t she?”

“Very pretty,” Vinnie said. “But she is too thin.”

I took a big gulp of wine. “I was just thinking the other day that she needs a makeover.”

“Yeah,” Robin said, “but tonight probably wasn’t the best time to bring up the idea.”

“You could do me,” Vinnie said, draining her glass. “I would very much enjoy a makeover.”

Suzie stared at Vinnie, appalled, then looked at Robin and me. “I’d better get her home.”

Robin insisted that I spend the night at her house and I didn’t argue. I hated leaving my place unoccupied, but Suzie and Vinnie promised they would keep their eyes and ears open and alert our other neighbors to do the same.

I called my parents’ house that night, but there was no answer. My father didn’t own a cell phone, so I had no way of reaching him if he wasn’t home. I called my sister China and my brothers, but they hadn’t heard anything yet. I made them promise they’d call me as soon as they heard from Dad.

The next day I woke up to the smell of coffee and dragged myself out of bed. After examining my face and finding the bruise had turned to pale yellow, I stumbled to the kitchen, where Robin sat reading the newspaper.

She took one look at my worn plaid pajamas and said, “We could go shopping today.”

“I don’t need anything.”

She snorted. “Yeah, you do. Appropriate sleepwear, if nothing else.”

I poured myself a mug of coffee, stirred in a little half-and-half, and took a sip before responding. Then I took another sip and decided there was no suitable response.

“I’d better get moving,” I said finally. “I need to finish the Covington job.”

“I’ll pick up something cute for you while I’m out.”

“Sweet, but not necessary.”

I showered and dressed in jeans, sweater, jacket and comfortable yet stylish flats. No more heels this week. My mangled feet and aching calves couldn’t take it. I used some of Robin’s makeup to cover the bruise on my face and thought I did a pretty good job.

Robin lived on the edge of Noe Valley, one of the nicer, upscale neighborhoods in the City, a land of attractive three-story flats, charming shops and baby strollers. Whenever we ate out in her neighborhood, Robin would warn me to watch my ankles. Those new mothers with their strollers played hardball.

After thanking Robin for safe haven and breakfast, I walked down the block to Twenty-fourth Street, where the Phoenix Bookstore had two paperback copies of Goethe’s
Faust
in stock. One of them contained a convenient German translation on the pages facing the English text. I bought that one, determined to read it from start to finish for any possible clue to Abraham’s last words. I also found a German-English dictionary and bought it for good measure.

I strolled back to my car, enjoying the cool, sunny weather. For the first time in a few days, I didn’t get the eerie feeling that someone was watching me. But I did have a compelling urge to go home, see if my place was okay and clean up and reorganize things. The burglar had made a huge mess, but the fingerprint guys hadn’t helped the situation. Fine black powder covered every surface.

After weighing the pros and cons, I figured I’d better put in a full day at the Covington and get back on track with the Winslow project. I pulled out of the parking space and headed north on Castro, then crossed Market Street. The lush, thick palm trees lining the center island at this spot along Market were always an impressive sight, but I was too uptight to appreciate them today. I checked my rearview mirror all the way across Market, up Divisadero toward Pacific Heights. As I came to a stop at Jackson Street, a homeless woman with leathery skin and tangled hair crossed in front me, shouting and cursing at no one in particular. The disturbed, ranting woman reminded me of Minka LaBoeuf going off on me yesterday, screaming to the world that I was a murderer. Okay, maybe she
had
seen my car on Enrico’s street, but you’d never hear me confess it aloud.

I’d discounted Minka as the killer, but now I had to wonder why. She certainly was capable of violence. I touched my still-bruised cheek and rubbed the scar on my hand as if to hammer home the realization.

I doubted she was clever enough to pretend to show up at Enrico’s house after she’d killed him, but it could’ve happened.

But if Minka were the killer, she also would’ve been the one who ransacked my loft and studio. Regrettably, Minka had been in jail last night, so she was an unlikely suspect. Or was she? I made a mental note to check with Inspector Lee on Minka’s whereabouts last night.

My hands trembled on the steering wheel. I still had plenty of unresolved issues when it came to my nemesis.

When the signal changed, it felt good to gun the engine and roar up the steep hill.

“Yoo-hoo?”

I looked up from my pasting job and saw Sylvia Winslow standing tentatively at the door.

“I know I’m interrupting,” she said.

“Not at all,” I insisted with a smile. “Come on in.”

She stepped inside and closed the door, looking lovely in an elegant navy pin-striped pantsuit, her red hair tucked behind her ears to show off her diamond studs. Robin could’ve nailed the suit’s designer and the size of those diamonds in a heartbeat. All I knew was that everything she wore was expensive and gorgeous.

“I just wanted to stop in and see how you’re doing,” she said. “Your work is so interesting.”

“Come look.”

“Oh my.” She placed her clutch purse on the side table and stared at the vertical press that held the repaired signatures I was gluing. Her gaze slowly swept across the wide work surface, resting on the black leather cover for the
Faust
that was stretched and held in place at each corner by weights.

“It’s all in pieces, isn’t it? I never expected…” She wrung her hands. “Well, you obviously know what you’re doing. I won’t disturb you.”

“Please don’t worry.” I stuck my glue brush into the jar of water and wiped my hands. “You’ve caught me at the perfect moment. The glue has to dry before I can do much else.”

She wandered around the table to get a better look at the weighted leather cover, then looked at me, bewildered.

I explained the process of straightening the leather, showed her how the glue was drying on the signatures and how I’d fasten the refurbished leather cover to the new boards.

“It’s fascinating,” she said, but her lips were pinched with worry.

“What’s wrong, Mrs. Winslow?”

“Oh dear,” she said. “I hate to even bring up the subject. But I understand Enrico Baldacchio was found dead yesterday.”

“Yes. It’s horrible.”

Her hand was trembling when she took mine. “I hate to speak ill, Brooklyn, but he was not a nice man. I didn’t trust him in the least. But of course, he didn’t deserve to die.”

“No, of course not.”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she whispered. “I wonder if it’s our fault.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our book is cursed,” she said, forlorn. “I’ll never forgive myself if we somehow-”

“No.” I pushed my high chair away from the table. “I’m sorry, but a book does not go around killing people. You can’t blame yourself for any of this.”

She waved her hand in the air, flustered. “Oh, of course it’s not really cursed. But so many awful things are happening. I don’t like all this controversy hanging over our exhibit.”

“Well, it’ll certainly drive up ticket sales,” I said philosophically.

She hid a smile with her hand. “That’s very bad of you.”

“I know,” I said, biting back my own smile. “I apologize.”

“No, you’ve made me feel better.” She wandered along the side counter and ended up in front of the heavy brass horizontal press. She planted both hands on the wide wheel and barely budged it a half inch. “My goodness, that’s impressive.”

“Yes,” I said, smiling. “Nobody can keep their hands off the book press.”

“I can see why.” She straightened her jacket and moved closer to the worktable. “Well, I didn’t come here solely to waste your time. I actually had a question about books.”

“I hope I can help.”

“It’s a bit distasteful.” She laughed uncomfortably.

“I can probably handle it.”

“It’s about silver fish,” she said, wringing her hands.

I laughed. “I hate those little buggers.”

“God, so do I. One of the maids found several on our bookshelves. I’m absolutely revolted at the thought of vermin in my house.”

“I don’t blame you,” I said. “And they do love books. Or rather, they love the paper and the wheat paste and the starch in the bindings.”

“I knew you’d know about this. You’re so clever. Tell me what I do. I’m determined not to bombard our home with chemicals, but how else can I get rid of them?”

“If I were you, I’d have your housekeeper empty the shelves and wipe the wood down with cinnamon oil.”

“Cinnamon oil? Are you sure?”

“Some people love it and recommend it. I’ve never had to try it, but I know bugs don’t like it.”

“It sounds perfect.”

I pressed my finger to the glued spine to test its dryness. Not quite. “I’ve heard of people using a drop of tea tree oil on the book paper, but it smells like antiseptic, so I’d try the cinnamon oil first.”

I mentioned some places she could buy the oil and she clapped her hands in glee. “I knew you’d have the answer. I’ll leave you in peace now. I’ve got to meet-”

“Mother?”

We both turned as the door opened and Meredith poked her head in.

“Here I am,” Sylvia said gaily.

Meredith looked at me with distaste, then turned to Sylvia. “What are you doing in here, Mother?”

Sylvia winked at me. “Just checking up on things.”

“We’re going to be late,” Meredith said peevishly.

“We’ll be fine.” Sylvia sighed, picked up her clutch and patted my arm as she passed. “Thank you, dear. We’ll see you at the opening this Saturday.”

Meredith threw me a poisonous look and stormed off behind her mother. Instantly, all the pleasant feelings from Sylvia’s visit dissolved. I was really growing tired of Meredith Winslow and her bad-tempered behavior toward me.

I’d been half kidding when I’d envisioned her in that orange jumpsuit, but now I seriously had to wonder if she had taken her hissy fits to another level by killing Abraham. I remembered Ian saying she wanted to put a hit out on Enrico. Was she capable of murder? Had she ransacked my studio?

I needed to walk off my anger and clear my head. Since I couldn’t do much with the book until the glue dried, I decided to take a lunch break. I told the front desk where I was going and headed to my favorite hole-in-the-wall noodle house, the Holy Ramen Empire.

As I cautiously walked down the steep slope of Pacific toward Fillmore, that feeling that someone was watching me returned. I continually glanced around, but didn’t see anyone I knew.

Safely inside the restaurant, I ordered the Singapore noodle bowl with shrimp and a small pot of tea, then set my tray down at a small table by the front window and dug into the noodle bowl with gusto. I opened my paperback copy of
Faust
and read while I ate.

It was… interesting. I knew it was a classic, considered by many to be the finest German work of fiction in history, but I couldn’t help thinking that if he tried to sell it today, old Goethe might find himself out of luck. Still, I was surprised to find so much humor in the dialogue. Naturally, the devil got all the best lines.

I skimmed the translator’s introduction and his words began to jump out at me. Alchemy, magic, necromancy. Temptation. The devil.

I rubbed my arms to ward off another bout of shivers, then glanced up as a man walked into the restaurant wearing worn jeans and ratty high-top sneakers. Despite the fact that his faded navy hoodie stretched so far over his head I couldn’t see his face, he seemed familiar to me. I’d seen him somewhere before. In my neighborhood, maybe? Or earlier in Noe Valley? Had he been following me? I realized I was holding my breath and forced myself to relax.

Hoodie Guy checked out the menu on the wall above the cash register, then turned around and stared at the people in the room. He might’ve made eye contact with me. I couldn’t tell. There was a black hole where the hoodie covered his face and eyes.

I tried to brush him off as yet another San Francisco burnout, but it wasn’t easy. After all I’d been through lately, this weirdo was freaking me out. I stared at the noodle bowl and realized I’d lost my appetite.

Now I was really angry.

I kept my eye on Hoodie Guy, aware that too much ugly stuff had happened over the past week. I reminded myself that once I was through with the Winslow project, I would be able to put the finishing touches on two books I was eager to enter in the Edinburgh Book Fair competition.