The Book Stops Here (24 page)

“The stalker could be anyone in this building,” I added. “Randy’s a good-looking guy, so I thought we might be dealing with a woman, but he’s not convinced.”

“So, to be clear,” George said, “our assignment is to protect Randolph and Brooklyn, not the general population.”

“Brooklyn and Randolph,” Derek corrected, spearing each of
his employees with a meaningful stare, just so there would be no mistaking the fact that I was their primary job. I wished us all luck with that.

“Yes,” Derek continued, “they’re the primary assignments. However, there’s an adjunct problem. While the stalker seems obsessed only with Randolph, the assailant who attacked Brooklyn is capable of hurting anyone who gets in his way.”

“So everyone here is at risk,” Barbara said.

“Yes,” Derek said. “Hypervigilance is called for at all times.”

George gave a brisk nod. “Got it, boss.”

•   •   •

A
fter the producers and Derek’s security force went off to work the studio, I spent the rest of the day—whenever I wasn’t working onstage—holed up in my dressing room, doing more research on
The Secret Garden
.

I went back to all the rare-book sites I had visited during my original research of Vera’s book. The books I’d used for comparison were still available at each site, so I pored over their history and origin again, soaking up whatever skimpy background information they could provide on Frances Hodgson Burnett, the author.

Because I worked on books for a living, I often studied the writers and other book industry professionals, as well. If I was hired to track the provenance of a particular book, it was important to check out the publisher and even the original bookbinder and his bindery. That’s where I often found some interesting connections.

So in the hope of finding a connection,
any
connection, between Lug Nut and Grizzly Jones and this particular copy of
The Secret Garden
, I was willing to dig deeply into the background of Frances Hodgson Burnett. If that entailed going out on a limb or sliding down a rabbit hole to discover some helpful snippet of information, I would do it.

Not that I seriously believed the author of
The Secret Garden
would turn out to be Grizzly’s long-lost grandmother. Or great aunt. Or their mother’s third cousin’s beloved fifth-grade teacher. Or whoever. On the other hand, anything was possible. It didn’t pay to ignore the tiniest clue.

Reading about Frances Hodgson Burnett reminded me that authors were truly an odd bunch. I always enjoyed discovering little ironies in their lives, and in Frances’s case there were some fascinating ones. She had begun writing
The Secret Garden
while plotting out her own garden at the home she was building on Long Island. The young characters in her book began to thrive once they were able to draw from the redemptive power of nature, as one reviewer called it, referring to the plants and flowers within the walled garden of the book.

Frances evidently had thrived in the garden, as well. By every account, she loved gardening, right down to the dirty job of weeding. In one passage, her description of pulling weeds sounded more like a fierce warrior describing a battle than a gardener noting a small infestation of plants.

On another Web site, I found one measly tidbit of a story about Mrs. Burnett visiting New York City and taking in a Broadway play. It didn’t connect to any other aspect of her life in New York, though. Did she have an interest in playwriting? The theater? Big-city nightlife? It seemed to be a throwaway line, but I wanted to know more.

According to friends, Frances had a strong temper, but I couldn’t find out who or what it had been aimed at. She was said to have suffered mentally and physically, but nothing explained why or to what extent.

I smiled when I read that her close friends called her Fluffy. It didn’t jibe with the claim that she had a strong temper, and other than the theory that she occasionally wore wigs and frilly clothing, I could find no satisfactory explanation for the nickname.

On a hunch, I Googled
Frances Hodgson Burnett heirs
, but all that produced was a brief outline of
Little Lord Fauntleroy
. The main character, poor young Cedric, receives a message from his grandfather, the earl, that with the death of his brothers, Cedric is now a lord and
heir
to the earldom and a vast estate.

A horrifying image sprang to mind, of Grizzly and Lug Nut wearing blue velveteen jackets and knee pants with ruffled collars and curls in their hair.

I shuddered in revulsion and shut down the computer. There had to be more information, but I’d reached too many dead ends on the Internet. All of these short biographical bits and sketches were leading me nowhere.

If I wanted to know more about Frances Hodgson Burnett, I was going to have to access a more extensive database than was available on my own computer through Google or Wikipedia or even her book publisher’s Web site with its page devoted specifically to the author and her books.

But would anything I found relate back to Lug Nut and Grizzly Jones’s relentless pursuit of
The Secret Garden
? Was I wasting my time? I wouldn’t know until I did the work. I just knew I wasn’t willing to give up yet. There had to be a connection somewhere.

My mood brightened as I realized exactly where I could do my research. The Covington Library, one of my favorite places in the world. I would run over there as soon as it opened tomorrow morning and work for a few hours before going to the studio. Maybe I could mix a little business with pleasure and convince Ian to have lunch with me. After all, my showbiz career would soon be coming to an end and Ian was good at coming up with new bookbinding gigs. I was even willing to pay for lunch.

Chapter Fourteen

The following morning, Derek drove me across town to the Covington Library. He brought the Bentley to a stop directly in front of the imposing building at the top of Pacific Heights, but kept the engine running. “I’m still not sure this is a good idea,” he said.

“Then park the car and come inside with me,” I said gently, resting my hand on his thigh. “You can take a look around and make sure things are copacetic.”

He scowled for a moment, but quickly shook off the gloom. “All right.” It was early still, so he found a parking spot within a few feet of the front of the main building.

Derek was rarely unsure of himself, but this week had been a strange one for both of us. We had decided over breakfast that he would drop me off at the library, knowing I would be safe inside the building while Derek spent a few necessary hours at his office over on California Street, near the top of Nob Hill.

But when he was faced with actually leaving me and driving away, he was having a difficult time. His protectiveness tugged at a tender little spot near my heart. I knew what a dilemma it was for him, so I slid my arm through his and held on as we walked.

“I’ll be fine,” I assured him. “This place is crawling with security guards.”

“And I’m certain they’re all nice people,” he muttered. “I’m just not sure they’ve run a hundred-yard dash in the past ten years, or jogged down a flight of stairs in pursuit of a vicious thug.”

“I’m not in any danger here,” I insisted. “I plan to hide away in a quiet cubbyhole on the third floor. Nobody will even know I’m there.”

He stopped and stroked my hair. “So beautiful, yet so naive.”

I laughed and smacked his chest. “Oh, shut up.”

We entered through the main doorway of the dignified Italianate-style mansion and I took a moment to breathe in the magic. I’d been coming to the Covington since I was a little girl and had never grown tired of it.

We lowered our voices as we walked through the main library. Not because it was a church or some other holy place, but because the dignity of the room itself and the magnificence of the ancient and rare books displayed behind glass walls conveyed a silent message:
Take time to look, listen, learn, revere.
There were universal secrets within these walls, within these books.

One of my teachers used to say that a civilization that didn’t respect its books was destined to die off.

The guy had probably stolen that quote from someone else, but I believed it completely and felt it anew every time I walked into the Covington.

Derek and I trekked through the east gallery and down the arched hall that led to the new Children’s Book Museum. A door to the left led to the administrative offices.

At the end of another hall, we came to a closed door. Unintimidated, I pushed it open and we entered a big, bustling office that fanned out as wide as the length of the building. Eight large cubicles were spread across the expanse, each one occupied by an
assistant who played gatekeeper to whomever was working inside the executive offices behind those eight doors.

The impressive double doors in the center led into Ian’s office. I’d started calling him the Grand Poobah since he had recently been promoted to president of the museum and still acted as their chief curator. A very notable achievement, although he still had to answer to a distinguished board of trustees as well as to old Mrs. Covington herself, whose bazillionaire father had first established the elegant museum, library, and gardens back in the twenties.

“There’s Wylie,” I said, waving at Ian’s longtime assistant. “How are you?”

“I’m living the dream, Ms. Wainwright,” Wylie said, flashing me an angelic smile that hid a keen wit. Picking up his phone, he whispered something. After a few seconds, he hung up. “You can go right in. He can’t wait to see you.”

“Thanks, Wylie.”

Derek knocked, then cracked open the door.

Ian stood and met us halfway across the office. “Hey, you two.”

“Hello, mate,” Derek said. The two men shook hands, then gave each other one of those manly hugs with lots of back slaps.

“Hi, Ian,” I said, and hugged him, too. “Can you join me for an early lunch today? My treat. We can go to the Rose Room.”

The Rose Room was the Covington’s charming tea shop situated outside the main building near the terraced rose garden on the northwest side of the library. The quaint Victorian-style restaurant was a big draw on sunny days because you could sit and stare out at the Golden Gate Bridge and the rugged Marin County coastline.

“I can’t,” Ian groused. “I’ve got a damn lunch meeting scheduled. Can we do it tomorrow?”

“Yes, but I have to leave for the studio by one o’clock.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.”

Derek checked his watch and I took the cue. “I’m in good hands.”

“Yes, I see. So I’ll be going. Great to see you, Ian.”

“You, too. And don’t worry. I’ll make sure she stays out of trouble.”

Derek shot me a stern look, then nodded at Ian. “I trust you’ve ordered in extra security.”

I laughed lightly and kissed him good-bye. The fact that he was willing to leave meant that he trusted I would be safe here.

A few minutes later, after settling on a time for our lunch the next day, I left Ian and headed back to the large foyer at the entrance to get the elevator for the third floor.

Passing through the main room of the library again, I gazed up at the elegant coffered ceiling three stories above me. I loved this upward-facing view, with its stunning art deco light fixtures and intricate wrought-iron balconies that wrapped around the outer perimeter of the second and third floors.

Glass-fronted dark oak bookshelves lined the narrow walkways. Every few yards, an open door led off to an even narrower hall that ended up in a cozy reading room or in a tiny nook big enough for an individual study carrel, one chair, and a lamp. This was where my computer and I were headed and I was excited to get to work, plug into the Covington’s international database, and do some deep Internet surfing.

As I pushed the elevator button, I had a flashing thought that the only thing I was in danger of here was running into Minka LaBoeuf, my archrival, worst enemy, and the world’s most disastrous bookbinder. Ian had a kindhearted but misguided tendency to hire her for contract book jobs when he couldn’t get anyone else to do the work.

I shuddered from the instant chill I got whenever Minka’s visage passed through my consciousness. I shook my head
vigorously to dislodge all thoughts of her before stepping inside the elevator.

The only good that came from being reminded of Minka was that I wasn’t focused on Grizzly and Lug Nut for the moment. It was the lesser of two evils, I supposed, but not by much.

Once on the third floor, I turned right and found the long, narrow hallway. This place was a rabbit warren of passageways and alcoves and dead ends. It was all part of its charm, and yet I was often tempted to bring bread crumbs with me to find my way out.

I finally found a comfortably isolated carrel and arranged my computer and notes and got to work.

Two hours later, my cell phone buzzed. Knowing my tendency to get drawn into my work, I had cleverly set the alarm to alert me when it was time to go.

Derek would be swinging by to pick me up in thirty minutes. That would give me just enough time to finish up and find my way back to Ian’s office.

Based on what I’d read, I wanted to ask him a few questions.

•   •   •

“W
e have a number of collectors of her children’s books,” Ian said when I asked him about Frances Hodgson Burnett. I had caught him getting ready to leave for his lunch meeting so I walked out of the building with him.

“But no experts on the author herself?”

“No. That is, no one who’s expert enough to give you the kind of intimate background knowledge you’re looking for.”

I had expected as much, but I was still disappointed. “In that case, I’ll just download her biography onto my phone reader.”

“You can read off that little screen?”

“I can skim,” I hedged, hating to admit that I didn’t like to read books on a screen. As a bookbinder, I was partial to holding the book in my hand. I liked the feel of paper and leather and cloth. But I wasn’t about to judge anyone else’s choices when it
came to reading. Any contraption that got people to read was a good thing.