Homicide in Hardcover

“Take more potassium this week,” he advised. “It will improve your ability to sleep and awake refreshed.”

“Yes, okay.”

“And eat oatmeal,” he said. “It will boost your sex drive.”

I choked on the water and he patted my back.

“Gotcha,” he said, his eyes sparkling.

“Good one,” I whispered between coughs.

“Anything that helps us remember the moment is a good one indeed,” he murmured, then straightened to his full height, signaling that our conversation was over. Then he snapped his fingers, something I’d never seen him do.

He smiled and spread his hands. “You see, gracious, had I truly been in the moment, I would have remembered what I wished to tell you in the first place.”

My eyes widened at his revelation, but I had no comeback and he didn’t expect one.

“Gavin will be reading Abraham’s last will and testament at four this afternoon in the tearoom. Your presence is required, of course.”

Before I could protest, he brought his palms together as though he were going to pray, then bowed his head briefly. “Namasté,” he said, and walked away.

I needed a minute and took another gulp of water. Guru Bob always left me feeling completely charged but also kind of spacey.

“Sweetie.” Mom stopped me right inside the kitchen door and pulled me over to a deserted corner.

“Mom, whoa. Watch the sweater. What’s up?”

“Is that cashmere?” she asked, rubbing it between her fingers. “Nice.”

I pried my sleeve away from her nervous hands. “What’s wrong, Mom?”

“Why were the police here?”

“They just had a few questions.”

“So they drove all the way to Sonoma? On a Saturday? That’s very strange.” She paced a few feet, then whirled around. “Don’t you think that’s strange?”

“I think it’s good that they’re working the case.” And why was she so nervous? Had the police spooked her?

“What did you tell them? Are you in trouble?”

“Mom, it’s nothing. A misunderstanding, that’s all. Don’t worry.”

“I’m your mother. I get paid to worry.” She folded her arms tightly across her chest and shook her head.

I smiled and rubbed her arms. “Mom, everything’s fine. They just needed to clarify something and now they’re gone. Everything’s groovy.”

“Groovy.” She exhaled heavily. “Right. Good.”

“Jeez, Mom, you’d think they were going to arrest me or something.”

“Don’t say that!” She grabbed a wooden spoon from the utility shelf and held it out. “Knock on wood.”

“Mom, this is crazy.”

“Just do it.”

I rapped the spoon with my knuckles and she tossed the spoon back on the shelf. Then she reached out and rubbed my forehead with her thumb to stimulate my third eye. This was supposed to open my clogged cha

Or something like that. I grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “I love you, Mom.”

I thought she would burst into tears. She grabbed me in her arms and held on tight. “I love you, too, sweetie. I’d just die if something happened to you.”

I hugged her, but had to wonder why she was so nervous about the police being around. Was it because she was hiding her own reasons for sneaking into the Covington that night? Her behavior was making all my suspicious little nerve cha

It was after two before I was able to sneak out the kitchen door and run down to Abraham’s studio without being followed. I figured I had just enough time to search the place and be back for the reading of the will at four o’clock.

The studio was unchanged from the last time I’d seen it. Drawers were still opened with papers jammed in every which way or crumpled and thrown around. The stack of birch book covers was a jumble and there were shells and rocks scattered across the worktable and the floor. I started to pick them up, then realized I didn’t have time to straighten things. I would try to get up here sometime during the week to take care of it, but right now, I needed to search for the missing journals.

It took almost an hour of meticulously searching through every drawer and cupboard and shelf, but I finally found the two journals that covered the work Abraham had done on the Winslow books. Why he’d kept them in plain sight on his desk, I’d never know. It was the last place I thought to look. There was no time to read them right now, so I shoved them into my bag.

I hadn’t found anything that might be the missing item from the Faust. “GW1941.” I’d done a quick check, but there was nothing tucked inside the journals, no slip of paper or directions or anything. I held out hope that Abraham had written down the details of what he’d found and where he’d put it. I’d know more tonight after I read the journals. Right now I had to get out of here and back to the ranch before someone came snooping around.

“Who the hell are you?”

I bolted, knocking my elbow against the solid brass book press. I whipped around, furious and in pain. “If one more person sneaks up on me, I swear I’ll-”

“I saw you steal something.”

I pulled the journals out. “They’re mine. I work with Abraham. Now, who the hell are you?”

But I knew who she was. I recognized her by that headful of curly dark hair. It was Anandalla, the woman who’d left the cocktail napkin note. The woman who’d rushed out of the Buena Vista last night, causing me to run uphill in uncomfortable shoes. I’m not sure I could forgive her for that. She was even more petite than I’d thought. Also unforgivable.

Was she also a cold-blooded killer?

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“None of your business.” She sounded like a snotty kid. But then she scooped up an X-Acto knife and waved it at me. “Answer my question first.”

Snotty and dangerous.

I straightened up, happy to use the height card to intimidate and taunt, not that it seemed to be doing much good. “I’m Brooklyn Wainwright, Abraham Karastovsky’s very good friend and colleague. I work here with him. I belong here. What’s your story?”

She surveyed the room for a full minute, decidedly uncomfortable. Her gaze finally met mine and she said defiantly, “I’m Abraham’s daughter.”

Chapter 11

My mouth dropped open. “You are not.”

She threw down the knife and planted her hands on her hips. “Am, too.”

Okay, this was unexpected. I studied her for a minute, then wondered how I hadn’t seen it before. The hair was a dead giveaway, the same curly dark mop as Abraham’s. She looked about twenty-five years old, probably five feet two, short for someone who claimed Abraham for a father. Her mother had to be really short.

“I’m sorry,” I said helplessly. “I didn’t know Abraham had a daughter.”

She blurted out a harsh laugh. “Yeah, well, neither did he till a week ago.”

“You’re kidding me. Where did you come from? When did he… hmm.”

She shrugged. “I live in Seattle with my mom. She only told me a month ago who my father is.” She grabbed a spool of sewing thread and rolled it between her hands. “She’s, um… My mom’s dying. Of cancer. Guess she figured it was time to come clean.” She put the thread down and rubbed her eyes. “I’m so tired. I’ve been staying with a girlfriend near Ghirardelli Square. She’s kind of a night owl.”

“Did you…” How did I ask this question? “Did you get a chance to meet Abraham?”

“Yeah.” She smiled. It transformed her face and I realized she was even younger than I’d first thought. Late teens or early twenties, maybe.

“He’s a big bear, isn’t he?” she continued, chuckling. “We had a great di

She looked perturbed. “He told me all about you, even showed me your picture.”