Homicide in Hardcover

I got up from my chair and tested the workroom’s double-screw book press to see if it was in workable condition. I would use it to hold the book, spine end up, to resew the signatures and do the gluing and possibly regild the spine titles and “make it look pretty,” per the clients’ orders. The screws on the press needed oiling, but otherwise, it was a decent piece of hardware. This type of press, with its two independent screws, was ideal for books that had suffered water and mildew damage because they were often bloated and uneven along the sides.

I studied the fanciful text as I worked. The book was written entirely in German, of course. I could make out a number of basic words, having spent two weeks skiing in Garmisch-Partenkirchen during college. Unfortunately, I didn’t see any references to swilling cheap German lager or extreme snowboarding, which I would’ve been able to translate impeccably. I made a note to buy a German dictionary and a paperback version of Faust and read Goethe’s version of the man who sold his soul to the devil.

The devil.

My hands froze on the page as Abraham’s last words came rushing back into my head. Remember the devil. I felt a wave of dismay that I still didn’t have a clue what they meant.

“Knock, knock.”

“Oh!” I looked up and saw Conrad Winslow standing at the door. “Mr. Winslow. You caught me off guard. Come in.”

He was alone, thank goodness. I didn’t think I could take another round of dodge-the-poison-dart vibes with darling Meredith.

“I’m sorry, my dear.” He looked a little embarrassed as he walked in.

“That’s okay, I get lost in my work sometimes.”

“You must love what you do.”

“I do,” I said. “How can I help you?” It sounded obsequious to my ears, but as Ian had pointed out earlier, Mr. Winslow was the boss and kowtowing was the word of the day.

He stared at the Faust for a long moment. “It’s something, isn’t it?”

I smiled. “Yes, it is.”

With a shy smile, he said, “I’ve never been much of a book reader. Sports page and financial section are more my speed. So how did I end up with all these books?” He chuckled. “That is irony.”

“It just figures, doesn’t it?” I turned a page and ran the brush along the seam. “But it’s a beautiful collection and the Faust is fantastic.”

“Yah, well.” He looked around the room, then back at the book, not meeting my gaze. Then he stepped a few inches back from the table. “You’ve heard it’s cursed.”

I scribbled a note to myself about the foxing on the next page. “Yes, of course. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

He stared hard at me. “You don’t mind working on something that might kill you?”

My smile faded. “Mr. Winslow, that’s just a legend. A book can’t-”

“No legend,” he said firmly. “The thing is cursed. My grandfather was given the book and died of poisoning a few days later. It was passed on to my great-uncle, who barely had it a week before he died, crushed under a trolley. Two cousins met a similar fate. It is no legend.”

“But that’s-”

“They found one cousin swinging from a rope. He was not suicidal.” Mr. Winslow pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and swiped his brow. “Now Karastovsky’s dead because of it. I want to pull it from the exhibition before someone else suffers.”

“But you can’t,” I insisted, closing the book and stroking the rich, jewel-encrusted leather cover. “Look at this. It’s priceless, exquisite. It’s the centerpiece of your collection for good reason. It’s an extremely important work of art, both historically and aesthetically. You can’t pull it. It would be a crime to-”

“It’s just a book,” he said sharply. His German accent grew thicker and he jabbed his finger in the air for emphasis. “Do you want to die over a stupid book?”

I edged back. “Abraham may be dead but this book didn’t kill him.”

Easy for me to say.

He stared at me, looked at the book, then up at the ceiling, frowning all the while.

“Hell, you’re right,” he finally said.

I was?

He weighed his words before speaking. “Karastovsky called me the afternoon of the opening, said he needed to meet with me that night. Had something to show me. I told him I couldn’t make it.” He shrugged. “I didn’t like him, so I put him off.”

“You didn’t like Abraham?”

“No. A personality conflict, I suppose. And I overheard a shouting match between him and McCullough that sealed my opinion.”

Abraham and Ian had argued?

“What was the argument about?” I asked.

He frowned. “You don’t want to hear about that.”

“If it has anything to do with the books, I do.”

He wiped the edge of his hairline and let out a breath. “Karastovsky had taken one of my grandfather’s Bibles and put a new binding on it, a pale pink leather, and Sylvia was thrilled with it. But McCullough went ballistic. He told Karastovsky he hadn’t hired him to-” He stopped, gave me an apologetic look. “You’ll pardon the expression, ‘fuck up’ a priceless collection by throwing designer leather on everything.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yah, he was angry.”

“But Abraham was doing the Bible for your wife, right? It wasn’t part of the exhibition.”

“It was supposed to be,” he confessed. “It belonged to my grandmother.”

“I see.”

“Yah,” he said. “So that’s why we were all very happy when Ian told us you would be taking over the work. You have ethics and respect for books.”

“Thanks.” I took the compliment with a smile, but now it was my turn to be uncomfortable. This problem came back to the basic argument between Abraham and me. He’d never worked with conservation methods, didn’t really understand them or care about them. The conservation field was relatively new and he didn’t accept it, didn’t trust it.

When I’d told Abraham I was going for an advanced degree in the same field he’d worked his whole life, he’d sneered. I didn’t need a diploma to know how to bring a book back to life. But I’d gone ahead and obtained double master’s degrees in library science and fine art with an emphasis on conservation and restoration, along with a boatload of other certifications. Abraham, on the other hand, had learned the old-fashioned way, at his father’s knee in the family bookbindery in Toronto.

“Thank you for trusting me with your book,” I said. “But honestly, in spite of what you heard during that argument, Abraham was a consummate professional.”

“I still like you better,” he said, and winked at me. I knew he wasn’t really flirting, but it was a borderline “ew” moment, seeing as how he was Meredith’s father.

“Thanks,” I said weakly.

“Well now, I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he said genially.

“Not at all.”

He pulled out a business card. “I want you to call me if you have any problems.”

“Thanks. I will.”

He nodded. “I think you’ve got the right attitude about this whole ‘curse’ business, so I’ll get out of your way and let you get back to work.”

“I enjoyed talking to you,” I said, surprised to realize I meant it.

“Then you’ll do me another favor?”

I paused, wondering what bomb he might drop this time, but then nodded. “Of course.”

“Don’t put a pink cover on the damn thing,” he said with a wink. “It might make the ladies happy, but the book lovers will swallow their dentures.”

I laughed with relief. “No pink covers, I promise.”

“And one more thing.”

“Sure.”

“Be careful, my dear.”

The next time I looked up, it was five o’clock. I’d worked for four hours straight. I dropped the dry brush on the table and rolled and stretched my fingers to ease the cramping, then raised my arms up and rolled my shoulders to work out the tightness. It was already dark outside and I knew I was probably one of the last ones left in the building. I packed up my tools and found a security guard who took the Faust for safekeeping.