Homicide in Hardcover

Naturally, Guru Bob had presented a cosmically correct reason for making sound investments since the more money one had, the less negativity one suffered. Maybe that theory didn’t translate out in the real world, but in Dharma, people were pretty darn happy and grateful most of the time. At least, that was the goal. But just in case they forgot, Guru Bob was always there to remind them to be joyful, damn it.

So, Abraham was loaded. Who knew? And I was in a quandary. What was I supposed to do with Abraham’s stuff now that A

I could sign his house over to her. I didn’t need a house in Dharma. There was no mortgage to worry about and A

It was too much for me to think about right now, too. As I hit the bridge, then drove through the Fast Track lane at the bridge toll plaza, I made up my mind to call a family meeting next week. My sibs and parents would probably agree that A

My brother Jackson, always the pragmatic one, would insist that A

The poor girl would need a chunk of Abraham’s money just to support the hair products she’d require for the rest of her life. And I think Abraham would be pleased to know she was roaming around in that big house of his.

I dashed away the tears. I couldn’t afford to lose it right now, not when this portion of 101 twisted and narrowed as I drove through the Presidio toward the Marina district. And not while a gas-guzzling SUV was zooming too fast toward me. It stayed right on my tail, flashing its brights to effectively blind me.

I had a moment to wonder whether this was just your everyday jackass or someone so angry that they’d actually threaten me on the open road, before they gu

I let out a breath. Just your everyday jackass, after all. But I was seriously tired of being frightened to death at every turn. And now that A

I’d been home ten minutes when someone knocked at the door, and then I heard my neighbor Vi

Oh no. I’d forgotten to feed the cats this morning. Were they dead?

I hurried to the front door, only to discover I’d left it unlocked. Vi

“Come in,” I said. Had I truly been so distracted I hadn’t locked my door? How dumb was that?

Vi

“Oh, how pretty.” I took the plant and bowed before I could stop myself. “But I didn’t… ”

Was I really going to confess to neglecting her beloved felines? Um, no.

“You didn’t need to do this,” I said feebly. “The cats were great. No problem at all.”

“It meant so much that you cared for them,” she said. “They are our children. Suzie worried all weekend.”

The door opened and Suzie sauntered in. “Yo, hey, Brooks.”

“Hey, Suzie.”

She thrust out her knuckles and I bumped mine against hers. She was such a guy. She wore tight jeans and a black T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off to reveal a tattoo on her upper arm of a snake wound around a woman’s curvy leg. Her bleached hair was chopped and spiked and she had a dozen tiny steel hoops hanging from each ear. Vi

Suzie jerked her thumb toward the plant. “Thing needs some CPR. It was trapped in the car for five hours. Just water it. It’ll come back.”

Vi

“I’ll take good care of it,” I promised.

“Come on, babe,” Suzie said, grabbing Vi

“Anytime,” I said. I carefully locked the door behind them, then stared at the lily and sighed. It would be dead within forty-eight hours. I might not be great with pets, but I was even worse with plants. No matter what I did or how much care I gave it, it would die. Really, I was only safe around books. Books I could take care of. Living things, not so much.

I left my house at seven thirty Monday morning, determined to get an early start at the Covington.

It was hard to keep my eyes open and my mind on the road because I was exhausted. I’d spent Sunday evening skimming Abraham’s journals but had found absolutely nothing enlightening or instructive anywhere. Well, except for the fact that he didn’t like the Winslows. There were notations on almost every page indicating their ignorance of art and process.

I’d winced as I read a few passages. Abraham had become obsessed with the Winslows, possibly to the detriment of his work. There was almost nothing written about the Faust. Not one reference to the secret panel he’d found behind the endpapers covering the front board. No slip of aged paper clipped to any of the pages with a stickie attached that said “This is the secret document you’ve been looking for.” Nothing.

Needless to say, I hadn’t slept well. The shocking confrontation with A

By midmorning, I was shaking. I couldn’t concentrate on the Faust. When I wasn’t wondering about Derek, I was thinking about Abraham. And A

It made me crazy that all these distractions were interrupting my work since I had only this week to complete the restoration. To concentrate, I grabbed a 3 Musketeers bar from my bag, unwrapped it and took a big bite. It helped, as always, and I hunkered down to work.

I’d already unsealed the black leather cover from the boards and separated the text block. I’d dissolved the glue and carefully pulled the threads out, separating the signatures in order to clean and repair those that needed attention.

I spent some time examining the pages with the worst wear, then tried to read the text for some clue to the genius that was Goethe. Unfortunately, I didn’t know enough German to understand all the words, and it didn’t help that the text itself was written in an Old English-style font.

The book was written in the form of a play, with the characters’ names written out before their speeches. As I studied the page, one short exchange jumped out at me.

MEPHISTOPHELES: Ich bin’s.

FAUST: Herein!

The words alarmed me. Even my rudimentary knowledge of German was enough to know that with one word, the arrogant Faust had doomed himself to an eternity in hell.