Books of a Feather (8 page)

After locking the safe and rearranging the jackets on the rod, I took the books to my workshop.

Since it was Saturday, I only planned to work until Derek was free. We'd talked about walking up to Union Square that afternoon to do some after-holiday shopping. And this evening we were going out to dinner with Crane. I was looking forward to it, especially now that George would be keeping watch over our place. If Derek hadn't thought of it, I would've worried about it all evening and spoiled my appetite. And that would've been tragic.

I should've been able to zone out on my mundane work of
cleaning the
Almanack
, but my mind was buzzing too much about the murder of Jared Mulrooney at the Covington and the attempted break-in last night. There had to be a connection. I finally gave up working, pushed my chair away from the worktable, and went to talk to Derek again.

“Are you busy?”

He glanced up and sat back in his chair. “Just making notes for a meeting with a new client on Monday. But I'm glad you're here because I want to run something by you.”

“What is it?”

“I was thinking of having a small party next Saturday.”

“Here?”

He grinned. “No. Although it would be a good idea to schedule an open house one of these days so our friends can see the new space.”

“I'll start looking at the calendar.”

“Great. But next Saturday's party will be at my office. A meet-and-greet reception for Crane. I'd like my partners to get to know him and see if we can't drum up more business with him in China.”

“What can I do to help?”

“I'll have Corinne send out the invitations and contact the caterers.” He grabbed my hand. “You just need to assure me you'll be my date for the party.”

“Of course I will.” I gave him a toothy smile. “It sounds like fun.”

He pursed his lips, studying me, and I wondered how he could look so cynical and sexy at the same time. “I don't believe you for one moment, darling,” he said. “But I appreciate your willingness to take one for the team.”

I laughed. “I'll admit that first office party was a little rough.” That was putting it mildly. The women in Derek's office had decided
I was public enemy number one because I was dating the boss. It wasn't pretty. But Derek's secretary, Corinne, was a doll and most of his agents and partners were great fun.

“But this year's Christmas party was lovely,” I continued. “And you'll be there, so my life is complete.”

“As is mine.” He tugged my hand and I ended up sitting on his lap.

“That was clever,” I said, wrapping my arms around his neck.

He took full advantage of my position and planted his mouth on mine. I could feel his heart pounding against my own as he moved across my cheek, kissing and nibbling his way over to my earlobe. Then he traveled down to my neck, leaving more kisses along my collarbone.

After a long moment, he rested his forehead against mine. “I thought you were working.”

I smiled. “I was. But I was thinking about something and actually came in here to ask your advice.”

“So you're not here to have your way with me?”

“Oh, always.” I laughed but then sobered. “Seriously, I was trying to figure out how the intruder got inside. Everyone in the building knows better than to open the door for someone they don't know.”

“The woman is clearly a professional if she managed to elude Alex.” He shrugged. “She could've been watching, lying in wait, and followed someone else's guest inside.”

I heaved a sigh. “I'm inclined to call Inspector Lee and tell her I've changed my mind. I'd like the cops to come and conduct interviews with everyone. One of our neighbors could've seen something.”

“I'll call her,” Derek offered.

Instantly, I had second thoughts. “But wait. Am I making too much of this? I mean, she didn't get into the house.”

His eyes narrowed. “But next time she might.”

•   •   •

Two uniformed officers showed up an hour later. After a brief discussion with Derek and me, they went off to the other units to ask questions.

With nothing better to do than worry, I started back to work on the
Almanack
. I'd already swept away all the loose dirt from the pages, so now I was ready to use my dry sponge and see if I could get rid of some of the ground-in dirt and dust that had blackened the corners and edges.

I had one drawer devoted to cleaning products, and that was where I found the vulcanized rubber sponge I'd used a few years ago for a set of books that had been damaged in a fire. The books hadn't burned, thank goodness, but they'd sustained a lot of smoke damage and were covered in soot and dirt. A set of cookbooks from the same fire had been coated in a layer of grease.

The rubber sponge acted like an eraser, removing more than ninety percent of the grime and particles off the surface of the smoke-covered pages and the book covers, too. I was hoping it would work as well on the
Almanack
. If not, I would pull out my trusty tub of Absorene, a goopy, pliable substance that I could mold into a lump of soft putty and use like an eraser. The stuff reminded me of Silly Putty, and when massaged onto the surface of the paper, it absorbed dirt and grime. What remained were little crumbs that could be vacuumed up or swept away.

But I started with the sponge. It was always a good idea to test
things first to make sure something wouldn't actually damage the paper. So I turned the booklet over and carefully rubbed the sponge along one small corner of the back page. The result was positive. I was thrilled to see that a tiny amount of dingy brown surface dirt was gone. Obviously, I took my victories where I could.

I turned the book over and began to work on the title page. This time it went much slower because this opening page had taken the brunt of hundreds of years of mistreatment and was much more fragile than the other pages. It didn't help that the book had no actual cover. That was because
Poor Richard's Almanack
had first been published as a booklet—by Benjamin Franklin himself. The publication comprised twelve or more stitched-together pages called “self-wrappers.”

The copy I was working on featured the phases of the moon for each month of the year, along with a number of essays, most of which seemed to be written tongue-in-cheek. There were woodcut illustrations throughout as well, including a diagram of Leonardo da Vinci's famous anatomical man, which was used to signify the different astrological signs.

It contained invaluable instructions and advice, such as the best time to plant a peach tree. And Mr. Franklin had also scattered a number of clever aphorisms throughout the publication, such as “Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.”

“We're ready to go!” my mother bellowed from the far end of the living room. “Come see how we look.”

I set my chunk of rubber down and jogged out to see them. Mom and Dad were decked out head to toe in vintage Grateful Dead wear. Mom was wearing worn, holey jeans and a suede leather vest, complete with fringe, over a long-sleeved rainbow tie-dyed
T-shirt. Dad's outfit was similar except for the fringe. He also wore a beaded leather band around his forehead to keep his hair out of his eyes.

I felt like a proud parent at Halloween. “You guys look so cute.”

“Your costumes are ingenious,” Derek said.

Mom laughed. “These aren't costumes. This is what we used to wear on a regular basis.”

Dad fiddled with his hair. “I haven't worn this headband in dog's years.”

“It still turns me on,” Mom said, and started to dance in front of him, causing her fringe to go wild.

“Oh boy.” I glanced at Derek. “I've got to go back to work.”

“As do I,” he said, his eyes wide with alarm. Lord only knew what they would do next.

Mom and Dad's laughter followed us out of the room.

•   •   •

I spent another hour working on the
Almanack
pages. I had pulled the thin frayed cords loose and now a row of individual pages lay across my worktable. It was hard to believe that Benjamin Franklin himself might've touched these pages, might even have stitched them together with his own thread. It was an incredible discovery and I thought again how lucky it was that Genevieve had caught Billy before his contact was able to steal the book.

I had gone online to find comparable versions of
Poor Richard's Almanack
and calculated that this copy was probably worth twenty to thirty thousand dollars. That was nice to know. But in fact, the historical value of this booklet rendered it virtually priceless.

A ruthless collector might be willing to risk going to jail for the chance to steal it.

•   •   •

That night we met Crane at the Slanted Door, one of the trendiest restaurants in San Francisco, if not the world. It was a large, colorful, noisy room, and great fun for people-watching. Both the Vietnamese food and the service were phenomenal. The view was incomparable as well, since the restaurant was situated in the Ferry Building along the Embarcadero overlooking the bay, the bridge, and the hills of Berkeley beyond the wide stretch of water.

It was wonderful to see Crane again. He and Derek regaled me with stories all through the meal, which consisted of at least six courses of incredibly delicious food. There was wine to accompany each dish and I was able to relax and enjoy the company, the food, the ambience, and the view.

Halfway through the third course, a really good-looking Asian man approached our table. He wore a gorgeous dark gray suit and I thought he might be the maître d'—until the guy slapped Crane's shoulder and said, “Fancy meeting you here, bro.”

Crane looked up and did a double take. “Bai.” He jumped out of his chair and gave his brother a hug. Bai made a face but tolerated Crane's affectionate gesture, although he barely lifted his arms to return the embrace. It was a bratty-younger-brother thing to do and Crane didn't appear to take it personally.

Crane turned to Derek and me. “Derek, you remember Bai.”

“Of course.” He stood and shook the younger man's hand. “How are you, Bai?”

“I'm great,” he said. “Why wouldn't I be? My life couldn't be better.”

I was taken aback by the underlying defensiveness in his tone, but Crane didn't seem to notice. “Brooklyn, allow me to introduce you to my brother, Bai. May I suggest that the two of you have something in common, since he is also a wonderful artist?”

“It's nice to meet you, Bai.”

“Hey, you, too,” he said, shaking my hand. His gaze moved up and down my torso so subtly that Derek and Crane didn't notice. “So you're an artist?”

“I'm a book artist and I also restore old books.”

“Good for you.” He made a show of glancing around the restaurant, looking for someone, anyone. Then he turned to his brother. “I saw you from across the room and wanted to say hello, but I've got to get going.”

“All right,” Crane said. “Let's talk later.”

“Yeah, whatever. Nice meeting you, Brooklyn. Good to see you, Derek.” Then he took off across the room and disappeared out the door.

I felt my cheeks heat up at the thought that I'd mistaken Crane's brother for the maître d'. But in my defense, we were sitting in an Asian restaurant and everyone who worked here was Asian and beautiful and dressed impeccably.

Crane and Derek sat back down. Crane appeared slightly rattled. Derek was trying to mask his annoyance with a bland smile. I knew the look and I couldn't blame him. Bai had barely uttered five sentences, yet he had come across as arrogant and condescending. But maybe I was being overly sensitive on Crane's behalf.

“That was interesting,” I said lightly.

“He does that,” Crane said. “Like a mini tornado, he swirls in and shakes everything up and then disappears into the wind.”

“He looks good, though,” Derek said. “Seems calmer.”

“Yes,” Crane murmured. “I hope it lasts.”

We continued with dinner, but for some reason, I wasn't as relaxed as I'd been before we were interrupted by Bai. I didn't like the way he had treated Crane, I was perplexed by the tone he'd taken with Derek, and I definitely didn't care for his appraisal of me. Bai had only been in our presence for a minute or so, but Crane's mini-tornado description of his brother was apt. I found myself shaken by his slapdash arrival and cavalier attitude.

After a sip of wine and another sliver of Derek's lemongrass-grilled rib eye, I did my best to forget about Bai and enjoy dinner. Now and then, though, my mind kept slipping back to a picture of poor George sitting cold and alone in his car while he kept watch on our place from across the street. But what if the thief didn't come to the front door? What if she snuck into the garage and took the elevator or the back stairs up to our apartment? Every entry was locked securely, but that didn't seem to provide enough of a barrier to this particular intruder.

“Darling,” Derek said, “are you feeling ill?”

“No, I'm fine. Just a little preoccupied.”

He reached for my hand and squeezed it. “Would you feel better if I called George and asked him to go upstairs to make sure everything is copacetic?”

“Would you mind?”

“Not at all.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and walked outside to make the call.

I glanced at Crane. “I'm sorry to be such a drag. It's been a wonderful evening.”

“You're not a drag at all,” Crane said. “I did notice you've seemed a bit thoughtful this evening.”

I smiled. “That's a nice way to put it. Unfortunately, we had an incident at home last night, so I'm just a little—”

Derek walked back to the table. “George didn't answer his phone. I've called the police. I'm sorry, Crane, but given everything that's happened lately, I think we'd better go home.”