The Lies That Bind (2 page)

I crossed the gallery and walked down the north hall toward Layla’s office. I was anxious to show her the restoration work I’d done on a rotted-out copy of a nineteenth-century illustrated edition of Charles Dickens’s
Oliver Twist
. She’d given me the decrepit old book to restore, and if I said so myself, I’d done a fabulous job for her.

Layla planned to use the book as the centerpiece for BABA’s two-week-long celebration of the one hundred seventy-fifth anniversary of Dickens’s publication of
Oliver Twist
. She was calling the festival “Twisted.” Layla was always throwing lavish parties to celebrate obscure anniversaries such as this one. Anything to drum up sponsors and visitors to BABA.

I was grateful for the work and figured that as long as Layla was willing to provide me with books to restore, I was willing to believe she had a heart buried somewhere in that size double-D chest of hers.

As I reached the end of the long hall leading to Layla’s office, I could hear voices, loud ones. Her door was closed but the angry shouts penetrated through the thick wood. I was about to knock when the door flew open. I jumped back and missed being hit by an inch.

“You’ll be sorry you crossed me, you bitch,” a furious man declared, then stormed out of Layla’s office. I stood flat against the wall as a handsome, well-dressed Asian man stomped past me, down the hall, across the gallery, and out the front door.

I took a moment to catch my breath, then peeked around the doorway to make sure Layla was all right. She sat at her desk, casually applying red lipstick and looking as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She glanced at me over her mirror. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“That guy sounded like he wanted to wring your neck.”

“Men.” She waved away my concern, swept her cosmetics into her top drawer, then stood and rounded her desk. She was dressed in an impossibly tight, short black skirt and a crisp white blouse unbuttoned to show off her impressive cleavage. In her five-inch black patent leather stilettos, she looked like an overeducated Pussy-cat Doll.

“Give me the book,” she demanded.

I hesitated, feeling a bit like a mother wavering at the thought of handing a beloved child over to a stern East German nanny. Yes, the woman might make sure the child was fed, but she wouldn’t
love
it.

“Brooklyn.” She snapped her fingers.

I don’t know why I faltered. The book belonged to Layla. Aside from that, she was my employer. I exhaled heavily and carefully handed her the wrapped parcel, then had to watch as she ripped the brown paper to shreds to find the
Oliver Twist
.

“Oh, it’s perfect,” she said greedily as she turned the book over and back. “You did a good job.”

“Thank you.”
Good?
I did a
great
job. If I said so myself. She’d given it to me in tattered pieces and I’d turned it into a stunning piece of art.

She stared at the elegant spine, studying my work; then she glanced inside and stared at the endpapers. Turning to the title page, she murmured, “No one will ever suspect this isn’t a first edition.”

I laughed. “Unless they know books.”

She glared at me.“Nobody knows that much about books. If I say it’s a first edition, then that’s what they’ll believe.”

“Probably,” I conceded.

Then she jabbed her finger at the date on the title page. I tried not to wince but I could see the dent she’d made in the thick vellum. “It says right there, printed in 1838. The year he wrote it.”

“Right,” I said slowly. “But that doesn’t mean anything. We both know it’s not a first edition.”

Her left eye began to twitch and she rubbed her temple as she leaned her hip against the edge of her desk. “True. But no one’s going to hear the real story, are they, Brooklyn?”

Her tone was vaguely threatening. Was I missing something?

“Are you saying I should lie about the book?” I asked.

“I’m saying you should keep your mouth shut.”

“But what’s the big deal? The festival is all about this book, and it’s got an interesting history.”

To me, anyway. The story went that, back in 1838, Charles Dickens was doing so well with the serialization of
Oliver Twist
that his publisher went behind his back and published the manuscript, using Dickens’s pseudonym, “Boz.” That first edition included all of the illustrator Cruikshank’s drawings.

Dickens was displeased because he’d intended to use his real name once the book was published. He was also unhappy with one of Cruikshank’s drawings in the book, calling it too sentimental, according to some accounts. He insisted that the publisher pull that edition and revise it to his specifications. It was done within the week.

A true first edition of
Oliver Twist
, written under the pseudonym of Boz, with Cruikshank’s unauthorized drawings, was beyond rare.

Layla’s book had Charles Dickens listed as the author on the title page, and the Cruikshank illustration was missing. So while the book was valuable, it didn’t count as an official first edition.

“I don’t want you going around telling people about this book, do you hear me?” Layla pushed away from the desk, drew herself up to her full height, and glared down at me. She was only an inch or so taller than I, but it was a good attempt at intimidation. “For the purposes of the festival, this book is a first edition, got it? I want to rack up some high bids on this baby.”

I looked at her sideways. “So you want me to lie.”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

“It just seems like the real story would be more interesting to people.”

“Jesus, do you ever give up?” she asked. “Nobody cares about your stupid book theories, and if you like working here, you’ll say what I tell you to say.
Capice?
”

I sucked my cheeks in, something I tended to do whenever I wanted to chew somebody’s ass but needed to hold my tongue instead. After a long moment, I gritted my teeth and said, “Got it.”

Casually slapping the exquisite nineteenth-century volume against her hand, she said, “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

“You know what?” I turned toward the door. “I’ve got to go get my classroom set up.”

She pointed her finger at me as though it were a gun and she’d just pulled the trigger. “Good idea.”

I rushed out of her office and made it back to the central gallery before the urge to strangle her took over.

Naomi caught one look at my face and snorted. “Glad I’m not the only one she’s picking on today.”

“Yeah, lucky me.” As I headed toward my classroom, I couldn’t decide what annoyed me more: the fact that Layla hadn’t given me enough props for my work, or the idea that I should lie about the whole first edition issue. The lack of props won out. I’d done a spectacular job of restoring the book but she was just too screwed up and snotty to say so, more than that pitiful “good job” comment she’d grudgingly given me. I would have to think twice if she offered me any more restoration work.

But Layla was forgotten as a sudden bone-deep chill settled over me, as if someone had just walked on my grave. My mother used to say that, but I never knew what it meant until this moment.

“Well, if it isn’t the black widow herself,” a woman said in a familiar high, whiny tone that was purported to cause dogs’ ears to bleed. “Wherever she goes, somebody dies.”

Minka LaBoeuf.

My worst nightmare. To think I’d been so happy to be here only a few minutes ago.

I turned and glared at her. “So maybe you ought to leave, just to be on the safe side.”

“Very funny,” she said, tossing back her overly processed, stringy black hair. “I should think they’d be afraid to let you in here with your record.”

I ignored that comment, just as I ignored the cheap, fuzzy black angora sweater she wore that was causing tiny black hairs to stick in unattractive clumps on her face and neck. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m an instructor now,” she said, jutting her pointy chin out smugly. “I ran into Layla at the book fair in Edinburgh and she offered me the position.”

“What?” I might’ve shrieked the word. I couldn’t help it. Minka was the world’s worst bookbinder. She destroyed books. She was like the bubonic plague to books. Why in the world would anyone hire her to teach bookbinding? “You’ve got to be kidding.”

But she was no longer looking at me. I turned at the sound of scuffling footsteps behind me and saw Ned, the printing press guy, frowning at us. And when Ned frowned, what little forehead he had completely disappeared. He wasn’t completely unattractive, if you liked that haunted, confused look in a guy. Minka did, apparently.

“Hi, Ned,” Minka said, her eyelashes flitting rapidly.

“Huh,” he said as he scratched his pasty white muscle-free arm.

Was Minka actually flirting with Ned? I’d been teaching classes here for years and I’d seen Ned maybe four times. Each time, he’d said exactly one word to me. That word was
Huh
. Seriously, that was his only vocabulary.

Ned could work magic with the ancient printing press BABA used, but that’s where his social skills ended. He was probably a sweet guy, but he worried me. Today he wore a T-shirt that read “Can’t Sleep. Clowns Will Eat Me.” That might’ve been funny, but I was pretty sure Ned believed it.

“I like your shirt,” Minka simpered.

“Huh,” he said, then turned and walked away, disappearing down the hall.

“Nice talking to you, Ned,” I said, but I wasn’t sure he heard me.

Minka’s snarl returned, signaling she was ready to go another round with me. But it was not to be.

“Minka, darling,” Layla cried as she rushed forward and gave Minka a big hug. “I thought I heard your voice.”

Not surprising, since yapping puppies in the next county could have heard Minka’s voice.

“I’m so pleased you could join our faculty,” Layla gushed, winding her arm through Minka’s. Then she turned to me and her green eyes gleamed with amusement. “Don’t tell me you two know each other. Isn’t that perfect? Brooklyn, you’ll be able to show Minka around. I know you’ll make her feel comfortable and welcome here.”

Minka smirked in victory. Over her shoulder, I saw Naomi roll her eyes. Good to know it wasn’t just me who thought that would have been a really bad idea.

I gave Minka a look that made it clear that hell would freeze over before I would show her anything but the back door. My former good mood plummeted even further as I realized I’d have to spend the next three weeks trying to avoid both Layla’s caustic bitchiness and Minka’s toxic stupidity.

I thought of Minka’s first words a minute ago, about people dying whenever I was in the vicinity. I hoped her words wouldn’t come back to haunt us all, but with so many volatile personalities to deal with, I had to wonder how long it would be before one of us turned up dead.

I just hoped it wouldn’t be me.

Avoiding Minka’s gaze, I turned to Layla and tried to smile. “I’ll have to take a rain check on that tour. Right now, I need to set up my classroom. See you all later.”

I walked with purpose across the gallery and down the south hall to my classroom. I hoped I’d be able to avoid Minka for the next three weeks but she was like a noxious cloud. Really. If I got within a few hundred feet of her, I tended to suffer flulike symptoms. I supposed I’d be forced to hide out in my classroom from now on, like a sniveling coward.

I stopped at the glass display case outside my room and found the posted schedule of classes for the month. Sure enough, Karalee Pines’s name was crossed out and Minka’s name was written in. She would be teaching a three-hour limp-binding class two nights a week for the next month. My own comprehensive bookbinding class was four nights a week for three weeks. The possibility of seeing her six times in the next month made my head hurt.

Safe in my classroom, I unpacked my tools, then placed the stacks of decorative cloth I’d brought on the side table. I’d found some beautiful printed paper at the Edinburgh Book Fair, from a vendor who specialized in handmade Japanese prints. These would be used by my students for book covers and endpapers.

Looking around, I took a quick inventory of the book presses and punching jigs. The jigs were clever, handmade contraptions made with two pieces of wood screwed together to form a V-shaped cradle. A thin space at the apex of the vee allowed for the pointed end of a sharp punching awl to make sewing holes in folded signatures.

There were six standard cast-iron table presses, plus stacks of twenty or thirty iron weights of different sizes and shapes. The students would have to share the equipment, but that was rarely a problem since everyone worked at their own pace.

The door opened and Karalee walked in and closed the door. She was BABA’s book arts manager and, along with Mark Mayberry, aka Marky May, the print arts manager, was part of the small permanent staff at BABA. They designed and ran the two main curriculums offered here.

“Hi, Karalee,” I said with a tight smile. I didn’t know her all that well, but we’d always had a good business friendship. Until tonight, anyway.

“Brooklyn, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know Layla hired Minka until this morning. I was supposed to teach that limp-binding class, but Layla said she promised it to Minka. I swear, if I had any real authority, I would tell her to take this job and shove it.”

“You can’t do that, Karalee,” I said. “It’s okay.”

“Well, if I’d known sooner, I would’ve tried to change her mind.” She shrugged helplessly. “I’ve worked with Minka before and she’s a mess.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” But I was grateful to know I wasn’t the only one who thought so. I cleaned a bunch of glue brushes in the sink and organized them in glass jars as we talked.

She tapped her nails on the worktable, plainly uncomfortable. “I’m just worried we’ll lose students because of her.”