Homicide in Hardcover

“Whole other world,” Conrad agreed.

Ian walked in and gri

“Hi, Ian,” Meredith said, batting her eyelashes.

“Hi, Meredith.” He gave her a slight smile. “Allow me to make the official introductions.” He formally introduced us, then said, “Brooklyn is one of the finest rare book experts in the country. She’ll be completing the work on the Faust for the official opening next week.”

“It’s great to meet you all,” I said, flustered by Ian’s praise as I stood to shake hands with everyone. I was at least half a foot taller than Meredith, but she still gave the impression of looking down on me. Screw it, I’d been looked down on by better bitches than this one. Besides, her handshake had all the clout of a dead trout.

Mrs. Winslow shook my hand and said, “It’s lovely to officially meet you, Brooklyn. You come so highly regarded, I know you’ll do us proud.”

I smiled. “Thanks, Mrs. Winslow. I hope you’ll be pleased.”

“Oh, honey,” she said with just a hint of a soft Southern accent as she patted the top of my hand affectionately. “I don’t have a worry in the world. And you call me Sylvia.”

I smiled for real. “Thanks, Sylvia.”

“We’re just so grateful to have you working for us, under the circumstances.”

“Yah, it’s great to meet you, young lady,” Mr. Winslow said genially, edging around his wife to grab my hand and pump it briskly. “Conrad Winslow, at your service.”

He was solidly built, about six feet tall, with reddish hair going gray at the temples. His navy suit probably cost three thousand dollars, but his white shirt was coming untucked and his tie was askew. And his eyes were slightly red. I had the fleeting thought that he’d probably had a drink with breakfast.

I was shocked to realize I liked him. I liked his wife, too. These were the people that less than a day ago I’d considered most likely to fry for killing Abraham.

Of course, my altered opinion didn’t stretch to little Meredith. She was a stone-cold ice maiden.

How had two fairly normal people spawned someone like her?

“It’s just so fascinating, what you do,” Sylvia said, moving closer to the table. “Can you explain some of your processes?”

“Sure,” I said, and turned back to the table in time to see Meredith reach for the book.

“No,” I said, moving the book away.

“What?” She looked astonished. “It’s our property.”

“I’m sorry,” I said immediately. “Of course it’s your property. I meant no insult. It just needs to be handled carefully; that’s all. I can show you.”

“Forget it.”

“Meredith, please,” Sylvia said. “I’m sure Brooklyn didn’t-”

“Fine, take her side.” She crossed her arms and slumped against the side counter. “It’s just a stupid book.”

“That’s more than enough, Meredith,” Sylvia said through clenched teeth, then turned to me. “Brooklyn is such an interesting name. Are you named for the borough? Do people call you Brook?”

“Well,” I began, “most people call me-”

“Sylvia, don’t badger the girl,” Mr. Winslow said with a hearty laugh. “Let her get back to work.”

Sylvia laughed and patted my arm. “I don’t mean to pester you.” She glanced at her daughter. “Meredith, please don’t slouch.”

“You’re not pestering me at all,” I insisted with a smile. “It’s a pleasure to talk to you.” I glanced at Ian to make sure he noticed all the happy kowtowing going on. “Please come by anytime.”

“It’s nice to see a young person with such focus.” She gave her daughter a pointed look.

Oh boy.

Meredith clenched her teeth. “We should let the working girl get back to work.”

“Good idea,” Ian said quickly.

Conrad rocked on his heels. “You do a good job and there might be a little bonus in it for you.”

I smiled at him. “That’s not necessary, Mr. Winslow. I’m just doing my job and I love my work.”

“Nothing wrong with being well paid for a job well-done, is there?” He winked. “I’ve found that money greases a lot of wheels.”

He laughed and I chuckled at his cheery candor. I didn’t mean it to be a private moment between us, but that was how he seemed to take it. And so did Meredith. Her eyes narrowed on me like a death ray. Not to be a wimp, but she seriously creeped me out.

I hadn’t noticed the other night, but up close, Meredith Winslow, despite her petite stature, had an almost predatory thing going on. Like a cat, but not a nice kitty. The tabloid press had often called her frivolous, a dumb blonde, but I had the distinct impression there was a lot more going on under those expertly highlighted tresses than most people gave her credit for.

Dumb wasn’t the word I’d use for Meredith Winslow.

Scary came a lot closer.

Chapter 8

I supposed Meredith Winslow and I would never go shopping together, but Mr. and Mrs. Winslow were a couple of pips, as my dad would say. Nice, charming and nothing like what I’d expected, especially after overhearing that argument the other night.

As I began work on the Faust, first prying away the pastedowns from the cover boards, I recalled what I’d overheard of the Winslows’ conversation the night of the murder.

They hadn’t actually mentioned Abraham’s name, so maybe they’d been talking about someone else. But they’d definitely said something about a problem with a book. It had to be co

Could they have meant Ian? I hoped not. The Covington Library had employed an entire crew to work on the Winslow collection. I could ask Ian for the names of everyone on staff, then talk to each of them. But why? Was this me, playing detective? Was this where Derek Stone would step in and call me an idiot for trying to flush out a killer?

“I’m not an idiot,” I grumbled, then realized I was gripping the knife handle so hard it was digging into my palm. I quickly relaxed my grip before I drew blood and broke one of the top ten rules of bookbinding. Don’t bleed on the books.

Maybe I could satisfy my curiosity by calling the police. Just to touch base, find out how the investigation was going. Unfortunately, I still had a few secrets of my own I wasn’t ready to give up, so how could I wangle information out of them if I wasn’t willing to spill my guts in return?

I couldn’t tell them about the Winslows’ conversation I’d overheard the night of the murder because I didn’t even know who they’d been talking about.

And there was my mother showing up at the Covington that same night and acting very strangely. I wasn’t about to mention that to the cops.

There was something missing from inside the Faust. But until I knew what it was, what could I tell the police?

There was the splotch of blood found on the cover of the book, wiped clean by none other than Derek Stone.

“A suspicious move on his part,” I added aloud, then made a note to follow up with Derek about whose blood it was.

I also hadn’t mentioned to the police that I’d found Anandalla’s cocktail napkin note in Abraham’s ransacked studio. But I didn’t know who she was or whether she had anything to do with anything. She could be Abraham’s accountant or his manicurist or someone equally i

Let’s face it, all I had were theories and maybes and possibilities. No wonder my head was spi

The gilded eagle on the cover of the Faust stared up at me with its one good eye. Was it thinking I should get my butt back to work and earn my inflated salary?

“My salary is not inflated, and you’re not even a real bird,” I protested. But I picked up my brush and got back to work anyway. I worked page by page, using the stiff, dry brush to remove microscopic grains of dirt and film and making notes of any damage as I went.

The book hadn’t been stored well, but it wasn’t the worst I’d ever seen. I’d have to detach the signatures-the pages-from the spine and clean and resew them back together more securely. The front and back boards had come loose at the hinges and would need reinforcement. There was some mild insect damage on the tops of a number of pages. And I’d have to clean and reset the gems on the front cover.