Homicide in Hardcover

“Che piacere è vederti, il mio caro.” He grabbed my hand and kissed it.

Minka cut in. “He’s saying something like, ‘How are you, my dear? Such a pleasure.’ Blah, blah, blah.”

“Yeah, I get it,” I said, then cringed at the trail of slime Enrico left on my hand. I furtively wiped it off with my appetizer napkin.

“Che posto bello!” he cried, sweeping his arm around. “Una montagna bella! Una montagna bella! Un giorno bello-ma che tragedia!”

“Uh, right. It’s a real tragedy.” I thought that was what he said. But what was up with the Italian? With a name like Baldacchio he had to be Italian, of course, but I remembered him coming from New Jersey.

“Quite a service,” Minka said, but I could see her tongue in her cheek so I knew she was lying. She viewed the crowd for a moment, then said, “Where the hell are we?”

I detested her with all of my being, but this was my town, my home, and my mother would be appalled if I treated any visitor badly, so I sucked it up and said stiffly, “Sonoma County. Really glad you could make it.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

I turned to Enrico. “What are you working on now, Enrico?”

“Ah, signorina.” He shrugged dramatically and fiddled with the cuffs of his dark brown shirt.

Minka slipped her arm through his. “We’re working with an important collector whose name ca

My bullshit meter must’ve been showing on my face because she continued. “It’s true. He made us sign a confidentiality agreement.”

Who was she trying to impress? And why was she speaking for Enrico? I remembered him speaking English.

“Enrico,” I persisted, “I was so glad to see you at the Covington the other night. It gave me hope that you and Abraham had become friends again. Is that true? Did you bury the hatchet, so to speak?”

“Hatchet?” His eyes widened. “No hatchet! I did not do it.”

“Enrico,” Minka said through gritted teeth as she tightened her hold on his arm. “That’s an American joke. It means, you’ve made friends with Abraham.” She glared at me. “Stop baiting him.”

“I’m not,” I protested, then said to Enrico, “I’m sorry. I meant, I’m so glad to hear you and Abraham were able to be friends again.”

Minka nodded. “And his death is even more tragic because Baldacchio and Karastovsky”-she struck a dramatic pose-“the two greatest bookbinders in all the world, had once again joined together on a very important project.”

Enrico pulled a silk scarf from his pocket and dabbed his dry eyes. “Sì. È una tragedia.”

Minka’s head bobbed in agreement. “The book world has suffered a double blow.”

“Totally,” Enrico said, blowing the Italian for a moment. He nodded rapidly, like a bobblehead. “Sì, sì, si, signorina.”

So not only was he faking the accent, but he was lying about his renewed friendship with Abraham, who’d told me himself that Enrico was a deceitful thief.

“That must’ve been such a comfort,” I said. “To know that you became friends again before he died. Otherwise, you might’ve had to live the rest of your life feeling guilty for never repairing the friendship.”

“Guilty?” he cried. “Non sia stupido! I do nothing! Karastovsky! He try to ruin me! Guilty? Siete pazzeschi! ”

He continued sputtering in outrage. I might’ve touched a nerve. But did he just call me stupid? I hated that.

“Oh, great,” Minka said. “Now I’ll have to listen to this crap all the way home. Thanks a lot.”

“Sorry,” I said flimsily.

“I need more alcohol.” She stomped off, leaving me with one angry Italian. I needed alcohol, too.

“Enrico, I apologize.” I grabbed his oily hand. “I’m so sorry. I did not mean to accuse you of anything.”

I was starting to talk with an Italian accent.

“That’s right. You do

“I’m sure you’re right.” I took a deep breath and wrapped my arm through his. “Enrico, we’ve both lost a good friend, and today is no time to talk about business.”

He seemed mollified for the moment. “You right.”

I squeezed his arm. “Would you like more wine?”

“No, no.” He seemed to enjoy my cozying up because he stroked my hand. “You take over Karastovsky’s work at the Covington?”

“Yes, I did.”

He looked left and right, then whispered, “I could-a tell you a thing or two about Karastovsky and those Winslows.”

I looked around, too. “Really?”

“Sì. They think Baldacchio’s a fool but I show them. They promise me a business deal, and I make sure they do

“How in the world did you do that?”

“A little insurance.” He rubbed his shoulder against mine. “Maybe I show you sometime.”

“That would be lovely,” I said softly. “Maybe we could meet next week and catch up on old times. Are you busy Monday?”

He was taken aback for a moment, then slowly gri

His Italian came and went like the tide. I patted his arm. “I’m glad you think so. Shall I come to your studio? Say, around two o’clock Monday?”

“Perfetto. I show you my latest treasure.” He moved even closer and I could see the comb marks in his overly gelled hair. “And maybe I show you a little something extra you will find extremely interessante.”

“Interesting?”

“And provocative. Tell no one. We do some business together, eh?”

“I can’t wait.”

“You’re a good girl,” he said, unexpectedly avuncular; then he frowned and shook his finger at me. “But do yourself the favor and stay away from the Faust.”

“The Faust?”

“The curse. I could-a lost my eye. Quel libro maledetto.”

“Your eye? What?”

The memory seemed to cause him pain because his eye began to twitch. He rubbed his forehead, then threw up his hands dramatically. “Eh! We talk Monday. You come see me and we talk.” He handed me his business card and strolled away. I saw Minka corral him by the dessert table and force him out the door.

Holy crap. What had I gone and done now? Ah well, I’d find out Monday.

“Hello, Brooklyn.”

I whipped around. “Mrs. Winslow.”

She looked lovely in a black Chanel suit and carried a clutch purse. She patted my arm consolingly. “I thought we should pay our respects.”

“Thank you,” I said, and breathed in relief. Her sincere kindness was a refreshing change from Enrico’s and Minka’s lies and calculations. “How are you?”

“Oh, my dear, I’m fine.” She smiled sadly. “But I know what it feels like to lose a good friend, so I wanted to wish you well.”

“That’s very kind.”

“If you’re willing to hear some advice from an old gal like me, I’d recommend that you take extra good care of yourself at a time like this.”

I smiled. “You’re hardly an old gal and I appreciate the advice.”

“I’m going to have to buy a case of that pinot,” Conrad Winslow said as he joined us. “Damn fine wine.”

We shared some small talk, and then they left. I was struck again by how genuinely nice the Winslows were, and how inexplicable it was that they’d managed to produce such a self-centered creature like Meredith.

I’d worked up a real appetite, so I grabbed two more tiny sandwiches, egg salad this time, then headed for the wine bar, praying the hangover gods would be gentle.

Robin sidled up to me. “You look pretty good for someone I had to pour into the cab last night.”

“I’m young,” I said. “I bounce back.”

“Obviously.” Robin turned to the bartender, a local boy who worked part-time in the Dharma vineyards. “Hi, Billy. I’ll have what she’s having.”

We waited until she had her drink in her hand, then began to stroll the periphery of the room.

“Who was that old guy you were talking to?”

“Enrico Baldacchio,” I said. “We just had a very interesting conversation.” I took a sip of wine, swirled it around my mouth and swallowed. I held the glass up to the light. “This is exceptional, isn’t it? Great color.”