Ripped From the Pages (13 page)

“Oh,” Trudy said, suddenly remembering. “I was going to call you later today.”

“That’s right. You said something when we first arrived.”

Trudy reached for a smaller piece of paper on the side table. “I have a favor to ask
you, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” I said.

She hesitated as Amelia toddled in at that moment with a tray holding a small pot
of tea and several mugs. Setting it down on the coffee table, Amelia made a show of
rubbing her nose and glaring at Trudy’s box of letters. “So much dust,” she muttered.

I glanced at the tray and noticed there were no cookies being served. This time, though,
Amelia was nice enough to pour the tea into our cups and pass them around. I thanked
her profusely, and she gave me a glower that was meant to make me cower. Instead,
I smiled and winked at her. She huffed and puffed and stomped off to the kitchen.

What were we talking about? I had to think for a minute. “Sorry, Trudy. You had a
favor to ask?”

“Yes.” She waved the piece of paper she’d been holding. “I received a phone call this
morning from the granddaughter of an old friend. She told me the oddest thing. She
read a brief story in her local newspaper about the treasure in the caves. It reminded
her that I live in the area, and she asked if I would like to have a visitor for a
week. Of course I was delighted to say yes.”

“That’ll be fun for you,” Mom said.

“Won’t it? After we finished our phone call, she sent me the sweetest e-mail.” She
waved the piece of paper again, and I assumed it was the e-mail from the girl. “She’s
a darling thing, but I’m concerned that she’ll be bored staying here. I’m not as spry
as I used to be, and I think she might appreciate meeting some people closer to her
own age.”

“Why would she be bored?” I said. “You’re wonderful company.”

“Aren’t you a dear.” Trudy sighed. “But she’s so much younger than me. She’s closer
to your age, Brooklyn, and I was hoping you’d be willing to take her to lunch one
day while she’s here. And if the two of you get along, perhaps some evening you and
Derek can take her out and introduce her to some more friends. I would pay for your
meals, of course.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “I’ll be happy to meet her for lunch.” I didn’t mention
how ridiculously busy I’d been lately because I figured I still had to eat lunch,
right? So why not do a favor for Trudy and by extension, Guru Bob?

“When does she arrive?” Mom asked.

“Next week, on Wednesday.”

I tried to visualize my calendar. Wednesday was our big press conference with all
the reporters. “I’ll come by on Thursday and take her to lunch, if that works for
you.”

“It’s perfect. I’m so grateful.”

“It’s no problem at all,” I said.

“What’s her name, Trudy?” Mom asked.

“Elizabeth Trent.”

“Elizabeth is one of my favorite names,” Mom said fondly. “A classical, solid name
for a woman.”

Her comment was interesting, considering she’d named her girls Brooklyn, Savannah,
China, and London, after the cities in
which we were conceived or born. But I wasn’t about to bust her chops in front of
Trudy. I’d save it for the drive home.

Trudy handed the e-mail to Mom to read, while I glanced around the room, trying to
be nonchalant. I couldn’t see the sculpture anywhere, but there were so many objects
on every available surface, including several small shelves affixed to the walls that
held fancy commemorative teacups and such. I turned in my chair to search again, scanning
the shelves on either side of the fireplace and the mantel. And there it was! The
marble piece I’d been hoping to see.

Now that Trudy had rediscovered the missing twin bookend, she had cleared a miniscule
section in the middle of the mantel, slightly hidden behind a cloisonné vase, to show
off the creamy white bookends. Between them they held a small collection of nicely
bound books.

“Oh, I just noticed your bookends!” I said, my voice rising two octaves. Did that
make me sound a little phony? Probably, but Trudy was too polite to say anything.
“May I see them?”

“Of course,” Trudy said. “Pick them up and hold them. They love being touched.”

I smiled at her words because it was the same way I felt about books. I crossed the
room and stared at the twin pieces.

“Don’t they look wonderful together?”

“They do,” I murmured, and carefully lifted the piece that had been carved into a
kitten. Its lighthearted features and frisky front paws were fully formed and ready
to strut away from the block of marble. But its little back paws and tail were still
encased in marble, their outlines carved in bas-relief.

“This is delightful,” I said.

“I love them so much,” Trudy said, and her eyes glazed in reminiscence. “My father
had no choice but to give me the set because I refused to leave it alone. I always
had them in my room.”

“I don’t blame you.”

Mom set Elizabeth’s letter down on the table. “Your friend’s granddaughter sounds
like a wonderful, thoughtful girl. I hope I’ll have a chance to meet her while she’s
here.”

While Mom chatted with Trudy, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and surreptitiously
snapped a photo of the marble kitten to show Derek later. I doubted the sculptures
had been created by Rodin, simply because the subject matter was so lighthearted,
but I had no doubt that they were worth a lot more than Trudy thought they were. Glancing
around, I’d bet there were a lot of things in this room that were worth more than
she thought. It was just hard to tell because of the overwhelming amount of stuff
on display.

My shoulders stiffened all of a sudden, and I glanced up to see Amelia watching me
from the kitchen doorway. Her eyes were narrowed and suspicious. Was she going to
snitch on me and tell Trudy I’d snapped a picture? I smiled and waved, but inside,
I felt the temperature plummeting. Rubbing my arms, I wondered what was wrong with
that woman.

A sudden image flashed through my mind of Henri the angry Frenchman threatening Guru
Bob the other day. He had mentioned Guru Bob’s family in his threats, and that meant
Trudy. Did Henri know her? They lived within a few miles of each other. It would be
easy enough to find out where she lived. Would Henri consider hurting her or stealing
from her?

While I was still feeling the biting chill of Amelia’s stare, another thought occurred
to me. Did Henri know Amelia? What were the chances of those two ever meeting? Was
that what Henri had inferred when he mentioned getting closer to Guru Bob’s family?
Would he use Trudy’s companion to gain access to Trudy’s expensive art objects? What
did we know about Amelia, after all?

My mind was spinning, and I forced myself to brush the thoughts away. Just because
Amelia was unpleasant didn’t mean she hung out with all the other people I considered
equally hostile.
It wasn’t as if they met weekly at the local Cranky People’s Club, right? At least,
I hoped not. Besides, Amelia seemed completely devoted to Trudy.

I glanced around, trying to be subtle as I checked to see if the windows were wired
or if a security company decal was visible anywhere. Did Trudy have an alarm system?
I couldn’t tell and this wasn’t the time to ask her, but as soon as I got to my car,
I planned to call Gabriel to find out.

“Trudy’s house isn’t part of the Dharma security grid,” Gabriel told me.

Security grid?
I wasn’t exactly sure what he was talking about. “So she doesn’t have any kind of
alarm system set up?”

“Not that I know of. Is there a problem?”

“I’m worried about her,” I said. “She has some valuable things in her house, but mostly
I’m nervous about her safety after hearing what that hothead Henri said the other
day.”

“He did threaten Robson’s family,” Gabriel conceded, “but at the time I thought he
was just blowing off steam. Maybe not, though.”

“If he’s pushed to the limit and makes good on his threats, he’ll come after Trudy.
Robson doesn’t have any other relatives around here that I know of.”

“I’ll talk to him. After everything that’s gone down lately, he’ll want Trudy’s home
to be secured.”

“Thank you,” I said, relieved.

“You got it, babe.”

A moment later, we hung up and I started the car. I glanced at Mom, sitting in the
passenger seat. “I have a question. What’s with Amelia?”

Mom sighed. “I know she’s odd, but she’s very devoted to Trudy.”

“Do you know the story? How did they meet?”

“They met in the hospital when she was laid up with a broken leg.”

“Okay, so Trudy needed help getting around on crutches, so she hired her. That’s understandable,
I guess.”

“No, sweetie,” Mom said. “Amelia was the one with the broken leg. Trudy offered her
a place to stay until she was back on her feet.”

“Really?” That was a surprise. “So Trudy was the good Samaritan, not the other way
around.”

“If you know Trudy, it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

I nodded. “Trudy is a wonderful, generous person.”

“She still volunteers at the hospital. Amelia drops her off and waits for her in the
car.”

I laughed in surprise. “She just sits outside? She won’t go inside and volunteer,
too?”

“No.”

“She’s a piece of work,” I said, shaking my head.

“I know it might not be obvious, but Amelia has been very good for Trudy.”

“I don’t see how. She’s just so . . . mean.”

“She’s fiercely protective.”

“You say tomato . . .” I sighed, turning onto the highway. “Have you known Amelia
a long time? I don’t remember seeing her around town before she moved in with Trudy.”

“Amelia was never a member of the Fellowship, if that’s what you mean. But then, neither
was Trudy. I don’t actually know how long Amelia’s lived in the area, but I can’t
remember a time when she wasn’t around. She used to run a house-cleaning business
with Harmony Byers.”

“Harmony Byers? Crystal and Melody’s mother?”

“Yes.” She saw the look on my face and added, “Harmony’s a lot more sedate than her
two girls.”

“Thank God for that.” It was a good thing we were stopped at a light, or my shock
might’ve caused me to run the car into a
side ditch. I’d gone to school with Crystal Byers. She and her sister, Melody, were
two scary little peas in a pod, to say the least. The
very
least.

“Is Amelia an Ogunite?” I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer. The Byers family
belonged to the Church of the True Blood of Ogun, a local religious group whose zealous
members lived a few miles away in an area known as the Hollow. Their religion taught
them to honor the creative spirit of the earth, but some of their adherents took that
credo to a whole new level when it came to living off the land. To put it bluntly,
they were gun-toting survivalists likely to shoot first and ask questions later. They
were also brazen evangelists who insisted on spreading the message of Ogun to anyone
standing within earshot.

If Amelia was an Ogunite, it might explain why she was so hostile to me. I’d run afoul
of some church members in the not-too-distant past.

“I think Amelia might’ve dabbled in church philosophy a bit,” Mom said. “Or maybe
she just pretended to do it for Harmony’s sake. But it didn’t take, and I have a feeling
that was why the partnership broke up.”

“Lucky for Amelia,” I muttered. I waited for traffic to clear before turning onto
the Lane. “I can’t imagine anyone being happy to work with the Byers for any length
of time.”

“Who can say? It might’ve been her broken leg that made it impossible for her to clean
houses. When Trudy met Amelia in the hospital, I understand she was a pitiful sight.
Trudy brought her home, fixed her up, and gave her a job.”

“Trudy is a good person,” I said again, because especially in this case, it bore repeating.

“Much better than any of us.” Mom and I exchanged smiles. The truth was, Mom was also
one of the most caring people in the whole world.

“I’ll be interested to meet Trudy’s friend Elizabeth,” I said,
then remembered Mom’s conversation with Trudy. “And speaking of Elizabeth, I hear
you like that name. I believe the words you used to describe it were
classical
and
solid
.”

Mom’s smile was smug. “If you believed me, then so did Trudy.”

I frowned as I came to the Stop sign at Vivaldi Way. “So you were just handing her
a line?”

“Of course not. We were having a civilized chat. Elizabeth
is
a lovely name. It’s just not to my taste. But I was determined to say whatever it
took to keep the conversation going so that you could do what you had to do.”

I rarely gave my mother marks for subtlety, but once in a while she surprised me.
“Good work, Mom.”

She flashed me a sly smile. “Just doing my job.”

*   *   *

T
hat night, Derek and I enjoyed a quiet dinner outside on the deck with grilled steaks,
baked potatoes, and a salad, my favorite meal. Sweet Maggie lounged contentedly at
our feet under the table, but we kept Charlie inside the house because I was afraid
she’d be the perfect snack for the red hawks that flew over the hills.

I told Derek how Mom and I had dropped in on Trudy, and I described the kitten sculpture
I’d seen. “It looks so lifelike, I expected it to start prancing around like Charlie
would, frisky and adorable. And it’s beautifully sculpted. It may not be a Rodin,
but I imagine it’s worth a lot of money.”

“I’m sorry to say I didn’t even notice it the first time we were there,” he said.
“I’d like to see it.”

“I didn’t see it that first time, either, probably because her house is jammed with
so many baubles and goodies.” I gazed at
him for a second, then smacked my forehead. “I can’t believe I forgot I took a picture.”

He chuckled as I jumped up, grabbed my phone, and scanned the photograph. “Here it
is. The lighting’s not that great, but I think you can get the general idea.”

He studied the photograph and slid his fingers across the screen to enlarge it several
times. “I’d like to see it in person, but your photo-taking skill is not bad.”

“Thank you, considering I took it while Amelia was glaring at me from her kitchen
hideout.”

He glanced up at me. “Why?”

“She’s just weird.” I set the phone aside and continued eating dinner. “By the way,
I talked to Gabriel about installing a security system at Trudy’s house. I’m concerned
about Henri’s threats.”

“She doesn’t have an alarm on her house?”

“No, and after looking around again today, I’ll bet some of her so-called tchotchkes
are more valuable than she realizes. Many of them are old family heirlooms, so she
might not have any idea what they originally cost.”

He chewed a mouthful of steak as he considered that. “I was thinking that very thing
when we were there the other day. But I didn’t know her home wasn’t hooked into the
Dharma grid.”

I paused with my fork in midair. “What exactly is the Dharma grid?”

“Robson asked Gabriel to set up a wide-area security system to protect anyone in the
commune who felt that their property might be vulnerable. It also covers Robson’s
home, of course, and the winery, the school, the art museum, and a number of the shops
and restaurants on the Lane.”

I frowned. “Is this a result of that ugly incident that happened last year?”

He hesitated, but then confessed, “Yes.”

“So it’s all my fault.”

“No, it’s not.” Derek grabbed hold of my forearm and gently squeezed for reassurance.
“It’s the fault of those friendly neighbors who turned out to be murdering psychopaths.”

“I suppose.” I set my fork down. “But I’m the one who brought them into our world.”

“I refuse to let you beat yourself up over this,” he said firmly. “It was time to
raise the level of security around here anyway. The times are changing.”

“You can say that again,” I muttered. “Gabriel’s probably got drones flying by, watching
all of us.”

“Yes, he does, love.” He pointed to the sky. “Be sure to smile.”

“Very funny.” But the joke did improve my attitude. So did a sip of the full-bodied
cabernet we were drinking. After savoring it for a moment, I returned to my baked
potato. But then I remembered something else. “Trudy was going through some old letters
of her mother’s, and I took one of them with me. I want to try to track down the papermaker,
but it would be fun if you could translate the contents.”

“I can try,” he said between bites. “Couldn’t Trudy translate it for you?”

“No. She thinks it’s some hybrid of schoolgirl medieval French and Latin or something.
It was a letter from her aunt to her mother, and they probably wanted to keep the
contents a secret.”

He smiled. “I’m intrigued. Let me give it a whirl after dinner.”

Once we were finished with dinner and dessert—homemade gelato from my sister Savannah’s
restaurant—I washed the dishes, and Derek put them away. Then I found Trudy’s letter
and showed it to him.

“The paper’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I said.

“Yes. Unusually thick. It almost has a satin finish, which seems odd to me because
it’s so old.”

I nodded. “Some old vellum appears satiny to the look and to the touch.”

He turned it over a few times, studying it.

“As I said, I’m mainly interested in the paper, but I really hope you can read this
language. It would be fun to give Trudy the translation.”

He sat down at the kitchen table and pulled the letter out of the envelope. After
one glance at the paper, he held it up to the light instead of reading it. “That’s
a curious watermark.”

“I thought so, too. That’s how I’m hoping to trace the source of the paper.” The watermark
on the letter was hard to discern at first because of the writing that covered the
page. But I was able to distinguish it on the back side. It was a row of stylized
turtles at various intervals, and every few inches, the word
Charente
appeared.

I had learned to make watermarks while taking classes in papermaking years ago. There
were several ways to do it, but the most common was to take thin wire and bend it
into the shape you wanted, affix the wire to a drum—these were called dandy rolls
and looked like large rolling pins—and roll the drum over the paper. Where the wire
hit the paper, it created a slight indentation. You might not be able to see it unless
you held it up to the light.

The process was more complicated than that, especially when it came to mass production,
but that was the easiest way to explain it.

“Charente,”
Derek murmured.

“Yes,” I said. “It sounds French, doesn’t it? I figured it’s the name of the paper
company that made the stationery. But the design is unusual and artistic enough that
it could also be the name of the papermaker himself. Or herself.”

Derek glanced up. “It’s also the name of a river in southwestern France.”

“Is it? Well, maybe that’s where they made the paper.”

He nodded absently as he studied the page. “Perhaps.”

“I want to get a better look at that mark.” I jogged back to the bedroom where I had
stashed my set of portable bookbinding tools. Pulling out my magnifying glass, I returned
to the kitchen and sat down to study the paper more closely.

“I don’t recognize the language,” Derek said. “There are a few French prefixes here
and there, but they’re mixed up with Hebrew symbols and it’s all nonsensical. At least
to me.”

“I’m bummed.” There were so few languages he couldn’t translate at least partially.
“Should I ask Gabriel?”

“Certainly, but I’m not sure he’ll have any better luck with it.”

I scrutinized the handwriting more closely. “I guess I could ask my bibliophile chat
group.”

“Good idea,” he said. “And describe the watermark to them, too. They always come up
with interesting theories.”

“That’s why I thought of them.” I pushed my chair back and stood.

“There is one more thing,” he said, looking up at me.

“What’s that?”

“The letter wasn’t written by a schoolgirl. That is an adult’s handwriting.”

*   *   *

A
s Derek watched the late news in the family room surrounded by Maggie and Charlie,
I sat alone at the desk in the Quinlans’ office with my computer logged onto my online
bibliophile chat group. They were in the middle of a chat about foxing, a favorite
topic of bookbinders because those pesky brown spots were a perennial problem with
old books.

The chat group was full of eclectic and brilliant minds, so after first apologizing
for interrupting their conversation, I described
the watermark and the quality of the paper and asked if anyone was familiar with it.

“It’s most likely French,” I added. “And probably made in the nineteen forties or
fifties.”

I was immediately bombarded with comments, mostly from people thanking me for changing
the subject. Nobody liked talking about the heartbreak of foxing, but we couldn’t
help ourselves.

A few of my online friends were intrigued and promised they’d look into it and get
back to me.

To thank them, I mentioned that I’d found a beautiful French edition of
Journey to the Center of the Earth
and regaled them with the childish blood oath I’d discovered on the flyleaf. The
chatter picked up, and the conversation veered off into horror stories of books damaged
by children.