Homicide in Hardcover (19 page)

He covered his face with his hands. “Does everyone in the world know? Am I that big a moron?”

“Not everyone in the world,” I said lamely.

“Feel my confidence soar,” he said peevishly.

“You’re hardly a flaming soprano,” I said, then quickly added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

He snorted a laugh, then let out a strangled cry.

I touched his shoulder. “To answer your question, no, not everyone in the world knows. Maybe nobody knows.”

“But you knew.” His head hung down in shame and my heart broke for him.

“Give me credit for something,” I said. “You and I were engaged to be married. Don’t you think I could tell something was off? It was just, I don’t know.” I sucked in a deep breath and blurted, “It was clear to me that I wasn’t the Wainwright you wanted.”

Ian had been best friends with my brother Austin. I’d always thought it was odd that he preferred to hang out as a threesome-Ian, Austin and me-rather than just the two of us.

“Oh God, Austin,” he wailed. “Does he know, too? Does your whole family know?” He slid down the car and came to rest in a stooped, almost fetal position. His shoulders shook and I realized he was crying.

“Ian!” I stooped down to wrap my arms around him. “It’s not that bad, honestly! It’ll be okay. This is San Francisco! Everyone’s gay! It’s like a requirement or something. Really, you have to sign a gay affidavit just to move into some neighborhoods. The best neighborhoods, to be honest, which doesn’t seem fair but there you are. This is a good thing, really. Please stop crying.”

He shuddered in my arms and I held him tightly for a few more moments, then scuttled out of his way when he raised his head to gasp for air.

“Oh, Brooklyn,” he cried as he wiped his eyes. “You’re priceless.”

“You’ll survive this, Ian, I swear. You need to be strong. I can help. We’ll go shopping.”

He let out another cry, grabbed his stomach and fell to his side on the blacktop.

“Ian! What’s wrong with you?” I jumped up and scrambled for my phone. “I’m calling an ambulance.”

“Stop it, you’re killing me,” he said, as he rolled on the ground, laughing.

Laughing?

I nudged his shoulder with my foot. “Ian?”

He shook his head, waved me away. “I need a minute.”

“You’ll need a doctor if I find out you’re laughing at me.”

“I’m not, I swear.” He lay flat on his back with his arms spread out, inhaling and exhaling raggedly. “Got to catch my breath.” He gulped in more air, then looked up. “Why do you smell like Chinese food?”

I glared down at him, my arms folded tightly across my chest. “You are so dead.”

He tried to steady his breathing, bit his cheeks to stop from smiling, then choked out another laugh. “Sorry, I’ll stop. Any minute now.”

I sniffed. “Frankly, I’m not even sure how gay you are if you’re willing to roll around on a dirty blacktop parking lot.”

“Good point,” he said.

I tapped my foot in annoyance. “If this is such a joke, why were you paying for Enrico’s silence?”

He pouted. “You really are a killjoy.”

“I’m just asking.”

He rolled himself up to his knees, then pushed off the ground. Steadying himself against the car with one hand, he smoothed his hair back into place with the other.

“When the Covington hired me three years ago,” he began, “they thought I was engaged to be married. Mrs. Covington likes her upper management to be steady and family oriented.”

I frowned. “In twenty-first-century San Francisco, she discriminates against gay people?”

He sighed. “She’s a conservative old biddy who doesn’t approve of anything outside the norm.”

“But gay
is
the norm here.”

He chuckled. “You’re preaching to the choir, babe.”

“Okay, so get another job.”

“But I love the Covington,” he insisted. “I was born to run this place. And Mrs. Covington loves me. She’s promoted me every six months for the last three years.”

“Then talk to her. Maybe she’ll understand.”

“I was going to, I swear.” He paced back and forth. “But then Enrico found out somehow and threatened to tell her before I could. I was just placating him until I could find the right moment to tell her.”

“Placating to the tune of five thousand dollars a month?”

“I just needed time,” he said, and continued pacing. “I needed to get her in the right mood. Serve up some martinis, then give her the news. As soon as I told her, I was going to call the police on Enrico and get my money back.”

“I don’t suppose you killed him.”

He stopped midstep. “What? No!”

I frowned. “I didn’t think so.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“It would make this whole thing easier to figure out.”

“Can’t help you.”

I pulled my bag onto my shoulder and straightened my jacket. “I’d better get back to work.”

“All right.” He reached over, pulled something off my jacket and looked at it. A twisted, dried noodle. Then he looked at me. “You lead a strange and interesting life.”

“You have no idea.”

I took a shortcut through the camellia garden to get back to the Covington entrance. The huge camellia bushes were thick with flowers filling every branch. Their lush perfume hung on the air and gave me a break from my soy sauce stench.

I jogged silently down the mulch-covered lane, darting back and forth to dodge errant branches and overgrown bushes. The garden was world-renowned for showcasing more than a thousand different varieties of the flower, thanks to the present Mrs. Covington’s great-grandmother-in-law who started the garden in the beginning of the last century. At least, that was what the guidebooks said.

But my favorite aspect of the camellia garden was what it hid in its center, a charming Shakespearean herb garden complete with the Shakespearean references of rosemary, tansy, lavender, chamomile and others, all carved in stone.

But I couldn’t concentrate on the beauty of the garden. Instead, my mind wandered to Gabriel. He’d saved my life, so I owed him something, but I wasn’t about to give up the Plutarch simply because some unknown “client” of his wanted it. Yes, so maybe I’d come into possession of the book through illicit means-okay, I took it-but that didn’t mean I’d let it go without getting a few questions answered first. And besides, how did Enrico get his hands on it? Had he stolen it? Probably. But that didn’t make my action any less wrong.

Did the Plutarch have anything to do with Enrico’s death? Impossible. The book had been sitting in plain sight on the table. If that was what the killer was after, he would’ve taken it right then.

As I passed the ornate brass sundial in the center of the well-tilled herb garden, I heard a leaf snap somewhere behind me.

I wasn’t alone.

My heart pounding, I whipped around, ready to face anything. Oh, who was I kidding? I was scared to death and my throat was threatening to close up on me. There was no one in sight, but that didn’t mean anything. Someone was watching me. I ran faster than I’d ever run, all the way to the front door of the library.

I decided I’d work at home the next day. I knew I could finish the book faster if I had fewer interruptions, such as people attempting to kill me everywhere I went.

I found Ian’s secretary, Marissa, in his office, organizing files. She called Ian’s cell to get approval. Since the
Faust
was currently in a hundred different pieces, and fully insured, Ian gave his okay.

I spent another hour in the workroom, packing up the wood press that still held the
Faust
text block in its grip, boxing up all the pieces and all the tools I’d need tomorrow. I borrowed a small hand dolly from Marissa and lugged everything out to my car. By the time I got home, my body was down for the count. But when I opened the door and saw my studio still in shambles, I couldn’t stand it.

I locked the door and parked the dolly next to my desk. As I removed my jacket, I caught a disturbing whiff of soy sauce.

“First things first,” I said. Checking again that my front door locks were set, I headed for the bathroom where I peeled off my broth-soaked clothing and took a long shower. I dressed in sweats and a T-shirt, satisfied that I no longer reeked of Chinese noodle bowl.

Back in the studio, I noticed the red light flashing on the phone and played back the messages. Doris Bondurant had called to offer me a job rebinding a vintage Alice in Wonderland she’d found recently. I understood it would be a test to see whether I passed muster with her. I felt a pang of sadness, knowing Abraham had been responsible for my connecting with her.

There was also a message from Robin, who called to let me know she’d bought me some cute pajamas so I would no longer embarrass her on our sleepovers. The third message was from Carl, Abraham’s lawyer, who wanted to meet and hash out my new financial condition. I made a face. I’d honestly forgotten I had a new financial condition. Not that I wasn’t grateful, you understand. I could always use more money. But it still felt odd to be the lone recipient of Abraham’s entire fortune.

I left Carl a message, putting him off for a week or two. I could only concentrate on one or two major upheavals at a time.

Grabbing a trash can and a broom, I began the cleanup. I threw away the stacks of torn and crushed endpapers, gathered my scattered tools and organized them precisely as they’d been before, picked up every spool of thread and put them back in color order in the narrow shelves I’d had built for that purpose. I rolled up the leather skins and stacks of cloth that weren’t damaged and put them back in their rightful places.

An hour later, I looked around, pleased that things were almost back to normal. I would need to order more marbled paper and a new set of glue brushes, plus two of my bone folders were missing, but that was the only real damage I found.

Except for Robin’s vase, which had been crushed to smithereens.

Despite that minimal damage, I could tell that whoever was behind all this destruction had been in an absolute rage, and that was the most frightening part of this ordeal. I just couldn’t picture anyone I knew being capable of such behavior.

I thought of Abraham’s studio up in Sonoma. Someone had gone through there in a similar fashion. But who? And what had they been looking for?

Whoever it was, they hadn’t found it, and I guessed that was why they’d struck back with violence. But at least they hadn’t destroyed my books. That would’ve been a lot more painful to me.

So whoever it was, they didn’t know me. As strange as it sounded, that was a comforting thought.

I was exhausted and nearly half-asleep when I checked the locks again, then shuffled off to my bedroom. As I reached to pull back the bedspread, something on the pillow caught my eye and I jumped back.

On my pillow was a long-stemmed red rose. It looked fresh, with dew still clinging to its outer petals. An elegant note card was placed next to the rose. Without thinking, I picked up the card and read the one-word sentiment.

“Soon.”

I cried out in shock, threw the rose down and ran from the room. Shaking like crazy, I ran from room to room, checking the locks on every window and the front door. I ran up the narrow stairs that led to the rooftop garden to make sure that door was secure.

It wasn’t. The door had been jimmied open.

I started to panic. Was the killer still inside my loft? Was he hiding up on the roof? I wasn’t about to walk out there.

Summoning every ounce of courage I had, I ran down the stairs, found my cell phone and called the police.

The dispatcher said it would be about a half hour since the intruder wasn’t on-site. How the hell did she know?

And just because I’d checked the entire apartment and knew in my gut there was no one here but me, it didn’t mean I felt safe.

Soon
.

What the hell did that mean? I thought of Gabriel and the last word he’d said to me earlier that day. No, I refused to believe he’d had anything to do with this. I’d known him for only an hour, but I knew in my heart he wasn’t warped enough to break into my place just to leave a rose on my pillow. Maybe to steal the Plutarch, but never-

“Oh, hell, the Plutarch!”

I grabbed my keys and ran to unlock the hall closet. In the old corset factory, this closet had housed a rope-and-pulley shelving system that moved supplies up and down between the floors. Like a dumbwaiter, I guess. Now the dumbwaiter function was disconnected and nobody would ever know about it unless they studied the building blueprints. But the metal floor panel still slid back to reveal a shallow space where I hid important papers and extra money.

And the Plutarch.

I let out the breath I’d been holding. It was still there. That didn’t rule out Gabriel as the intruder, of course, but I knew it wasn’t him.

I paced around, wondering whether Vinnie and Suzie were home. But they’d had enough of my traumas lately. I didn’t want to wear out our neighborly relationship. I’d never minded being alone until this moment.

I knew who I wanted to see. Summoning up a few more ounces of courage, I found the business card and made another phone call.

He answered on the first ring. “This better be good.”

“It’s Brooklyn.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Someone broke into my house.”

“I’ll be right there.”

I stared at the phone, hearing nothing but a dial tone.

Having taken some action, I felt more relaxed. I looked down at my threadbare pink kitty jammies. Robin would be appalled. I needed to change into something normal.

As I rounded the bar toward my bedroom, I heard the floor creak behind me, then something hard and heavy smashed into my head. My thoughts evaporated as I crumpled to the floor.

“That’s it, baby. Come on, open your eyes.”

I drew in a breath and smelled the most delicious scent of leather and forest and springtime rain.

My eyes flickered open, then closed again.

“That’s it, you can do it,” he whispered, his voice warm and rich like whiskey sweetened with caramel-flavored hot chocolate.

I was either dead and gone to heaven or suffering serious brain damage, because I vaguely recalled waking up to that same voice in my ear once before.

I mentally surveyed my situation and surroundings. I wasn’t dead. That was a good thing. I was on my couch. The cushions felt like clouds under me. My head felt as if a train had collided with my skull. A cold cloth covered my forehead.

I opened my eyes. Derek held my hand and stroked my cheek. I was safe.

“Thirsty,” I managed to whisper.

“I’ll get you some water.”

I opened my eyes, saw him cross the living room to the kitchen, then return a moment later with a glass of water.

“I brought you a painkiller. I found the prescription bottle on top of your refrigerator.”

“Thank you.” I still had some Vicodin left over from the evil dentist I’d seen last month.

He carefully lifted my head and held the glass for me to drink. “There you go.”

“Thanks,” I said again, then focused beyond him. The coffee table was at a right angle to the couch and the overstuffed red chair was pulled into the space. He sat there, about two inches away from me. “Did you rearrange my furniture?”

“Yeah.”

“Odd.”

“I take liberties where I can.”

He helped me lie back down until I jolted from something icy on the pillow.

“It’s a bag of frozen peas,” he said. “Lie down.”

“I have peas?”

“Surprisingly, yes. I found them in your freezer behind several dozen packages of pizza and ice cream.”

“Don’t judge.”

“Lie back. The peas will help with the swelling.”

“Good news.” The thought of my head swelling up was not appealing. I carefully laid my head down on the frozen package. It was cold, but after a few seconds it began to numb the pain.

“Better?” he asked.

“Seems to help.” Trying not to move my head, I squirmed around to adjust the cushions and yank the hem of my pajama top down until I was more comfortable. Figures I was still wearing my provocative pink kitty jammies. “How’d you get in?”

“Good question,” he said, sitting back and filling the big red chair nicely. “Your door was wide-open.”

“I was afraid of that,” I whispered. “Did you call the police?”

“They’re already here.”

“Good. Maybe my neighbors saw someone.”

“I take it you saw no one.”

“No, of course not.”

“The door to your front coat closet was open.”

“I checked all the closets.” But that closet was stuffed with coats, so I supposed someone could’ve hidden themselves behind them.

I struggled to sit but gave up as soon as my head started to pound. “Did you find my baseball bat? They might get prints off it.”

“Still playing at crime-busters, I see.” But he said it mildly, without a hint of sarcasm.

“I guess,” I said wearily.

“I’d better make my report, then.”

“What report?”

He held up his hand. “First off, the blood you found on the book belonged to Abraham.”

“Oh.”

“The fingerprints found in Abraham’s studio were his.”

“No one else’s?”

“No. And the only prints found at Baldacchio’s house were his own.”

“Oh.” My shoulders relaxed. “I guess that’s something.” And the fact that he’d shared that information caused my heart to beat somewhat erratically. Or maybe it was the frozen peas.

“Indeed, it is.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and took hold of my hand. Warmth spread up my arm as he said, “Now, why didn’t you call me last night when your place was ransacked?”

I frowned, and the small move caused shards of pain to skitter across my skull. “Feels like so long ago.”

“It was less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“Right.” So much had happened since then. I’d almost been killed in a noodle house. I’d almost been killed in my
own
house. And what about the mysterious Gabriel? Good guy? Bad guy? Good Samaritan? Clever opportunist? Had he left me a red rose or was that the killer’s calling card? My head was spinning. “I should’ve called you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No need to rub it in. I admit you’re right.”

“Ah, music to my ears.” He twisted his lips in that annoyingly attractive way I’d grown used to, which usually meant he was trying not to laugh at me. “We’re in this together, remember.”

“We are?” I didn’t see him wearing a bag of peas on his head.

“Of course,” he said. “It’s all connected, don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely.” Maybe it was the crack on the head or maybe it was the way his blue dress shirt fit his muscular torso, but I completely agreed with him. “It’s all connected to Abraham’s murder.”

“So we’re agreed.”

“Yes.”

“And where does the wilted red rose on your pillow fit in with the story?”

My eyes widened. “That’s why I called you. I found it on my pillow and it freaked me out.”

“I don’t blame you. It’s rather Gothic, isn’t it?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Before I conclude that our killer left it as a warning of some kind, I suppose I should ask if there’s someone in your life who might’ve left it as a romantic gesture.”

I thought of Gabriel. If he’d wanted to break in and steal the Plutarch, he would’ve done so without playing the rose-on-the-pillow game.

Derek coughed. “Was that a yes?”

“Oh, sorry,” I said, coming back to the room. “No, there’s absolutely no one I know who would leave a rose on my pillow.”

“All right.”

“That’s why I called you,” I explained. “I was scared.”

“And when the studio was ransacked last night, who did you call?” he asked, not ready to let go of that point.

I waved my hand lamely. “Last night I ran to my neighbors’ place; then Robin showed up and we drank a lot of wine and I spent the night at her house.”

“I see.” Was it possible he was genuinely hurt?

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t call you because it didn’t cross my mind that you might be…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

He could. “Interested? Concerned? Insane with fear for your safety?”

I bit back a smile. “Insane? Really?”

“You needn’t sound so pleased about it.” He placed his hand over his heart, but his blue eyes shimmered with mirth. “I’m suffering clear to my soul.”

“Oh, please.” I laughed softly. “That’s probably heartburn.”

His eyebrows went up. “Smart mouth. As soon as you’ve recovered sufficiently, remind me to punish you.”

I laughed again. “I’d like to see you try.”

“You’re in no condition to bait me.”

“I hate that you’re right.” The surge of energy brought on by our friendly bantering was dwindling. My brain was losing the battle of wits and my eyelids were giving up on their fight with gravity. “Well, thank you for being here tonight. I’m sorry I didn’t call you last night.”

“You’re forgiven,” he murmured, moving closer to the edge of his chair as he traced lines along my fingers and the palm of my hand.

The sensation of his touch went straight to my solar plexus. I watched him watching me and knew he knew exactly what he was doing to me. If I were in better shape, he wouldn’t stand a chance. For tonight, though, I had to cop out.

“I think you might’ve saved my life.” I hated being so weak. I was used to saving my own life, thanks. Or better yet, not having to save or be saved in the first place.

He patted my hand. “It’s all part of the job.”

“Yes, of course. The job.” Right. He had a job to do. So much for our little flirtation. What had I been thinking?

He continued some kind of massaging thing up and down my arm that was starting to affect my ability to concentrate. And the Vicodin was definitely kicking in.

“I told you from the start I’d be watching you like a hawk,” he said. “Did it slip your mind?”

“Everything’s slipping my mind,” I admitted. “Except I do recall that you said you’d be watching me because you thought I’d murdered Abraham.”

“Only for a moment,” he insisted.

“More like a week,” I nitpicked.

His lips curved. Then he nudged some ayurvedic energy point on my inner arm and I lost track of the conversation.

“… and then there was the fact that you were behaving rather suspiciously,” he was saying. “What else was I to think?”

I yawned. “Sorry.”

He tilted his head at me. “You need to sleep.”

“Yes.”

“You probably won’t remember much tomorrow.”

“I’ll remember you’re the hawk.” Had I said that out loud? How silly.

“Yes, remember the hawk.” He moved off the chair and knelt on the carpet next to the couch. “Before you drop off to sleep, there’s one thing I must do.”

“Yes?”

“Highly inappropriate behavior on my part,” he said, putting his hand on my cheek. “But it seems it can’t be helped.”

“Well, if it can’t be helped…”

But his lips were already brushing mine. His tongue outlined my bottom lip and electricity shot straight through me. My eyes glazed over as he moved his mouth along my chin, nibbling, planting light kisses, grazing my jaw, my ear, my forehead, with his lips as though he were memorizing the shape of my face. A nip here, a tiny lick there. It was torture. It was heaven.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and I tensed, then tried to sit up, but Derek stopped me.

“It’s all right,” he murmured.

“Commander,” an officer said. “We’d like your opinion out here.”

“Yes, of course.” He ran his finger along my jaw, then stood. “You’ll sleep now.”

“Could you… would you stay for a while?”

“I had no plans to leave.”

I awoke slowly, opened my eyes and was completely disoriented. I recognized the red chair, but why was it cockeyed? My table was out of whack, too. Plus, I hurt everywhere and wanted to cry.

But wait, I smelled bacon. Maybe life was worth living after all.

I pulled back the fuzzy blanket and sat up. And immediately lay down again. My head was about to explode.

“Oh, that’s not good.” The night before came back in a rush. The attack. Derek. The police. The kiss.

Oh yes. The kiss.

I let out a breath and tried to sit up again. So far, so good. I waited a few seconds, then pushed myself up to stand. I had to hold on to the arm of the couch for a minute, but I took halting steps and finally made it across the room.

I checked the kitchen and found bacon strips wrapped in paper towels and aluminum foil, sitting inside the warm oven. Coffee was made. A yellow sticky note was stuck to the refrigerator that read “Stay home and recuperate.” It was signed “The Hawk.”

I smiled as I poured a cup of coffee, then padded to the bathroom, where I took two pain relievers and stepped into the shower.

The hot water revived me enough to dress myself. The Hawk-Derek-was right. I’d already planned to work at home today, finish the
Faust
restoration and maybe get a head start on some other projects that I was behind on.

I dressed for comfort in jeans, a T-shirt and a warm sweater. Wool socks and my Birkenstocks completed the ensemble.

As I munched on bacon and read the paper, I couldn’t help smiling. The Hawk kissed like a dream. Remember the hawk, he’d said. I wasn’t likely to forget him any time soon.