Homicide in Hardcover (20 page)

“Remember the hawk,” I said, and chuckled as I took another bite of bacon and turned to the sports page.

Remember the devil. The words popped into my head unbidden.

“Whoa.” Something clicked and I jumped up. A spasm of pain vibrated across my skull and I sank back into my chair and clutched my head in my hands.

“Oh God.” I had to breathe through the pain. But the words began to spin around. Remember the hawk. The devil. Remember. Remember.

Remember the devil.

“Oh, you dimwit.” I stood more slowly this time, then walked as fast as I could to the studio, straight to the bookshelf where the blue leather cover shone like a beacon.

Wild Flowers in the Wind.

I pulled it from the shelf. The soft leather felt cool in my hands. I splayed the covers and the book fell open to page 213.

Pilosella aurantiaca. Hawkweed, otherwise known as the devil’s paintbrush.

Remember the devil.

Old memories came rushing back as I groped for my desk chair and sat. I was eight years old and I’d chosen the wildflower book from a shelf full of decrepit tomes Abraham kept for the purpose of practicing craft. He’d scoffed at my choice and had begun reading out loud the descriptions of some of the more noxious flowers as I’d gathered tools to start my work. I’d laughed with him, agreeing that it was silly that someone actually considered these ugly-looking plants to be flowers. But I’d still wanted to work with this book because the title was so pretty.

Wild Flowers in the Wind.

Abraham had regaled me with the shortcomings of the dreaded
Pilosella aurantiaca
. Its stiff leaves and petals were covered in short, rigid hairs, its stems and leaves were black, and the flower itself was the color of rust. And it smelled bad.

“No wonder the devil uses it for a paintbrush,” he’d said with a laugh, and succeeded in charming his too-serious, rather needy eight-year-old apprentice.

The poor devil plant hadn’t deserved our derision, I supposed. But it was one of those shared moments between teacher and student I would always treasure.

“Some treasured memory,” I said, mentally flogging myself, wondering why I hadn’t remembered it until this minute.

My mother would’ve told me the truth wasn’t meant to be revealed until this moment, but that dubious bit of wisdom didn’t assuage my remorse.

I shook it off. My feelings didn’t matter. The fact was, I’d just found what I’d been searching for since Abraham was killed.

I ran my fingers over the aged, deckled paper. There, wedged between pages 212 and 213, next to the fuzzy photograph of the devil’s paintbrush, were several pieces of notepaper, thinned and yellowed with age.

My hand shook as I pulled the pages out and unfolded them. It was a three-page letter, written in German.

The date written on the first page was 8 September 1941. The ink was faded but the handwriting looked feminine to me. I checked the last page and saw that the letter was signed “Gretchen.”

This had to be what Abraham meant by GW1941. But who was Gretchen?

Perhaps after reading the letter, I would know. Beyond excited, I found my bag, pulled out the English-German dictionary I’d bought to help translate
Faust
and settled down at the worktable to decipher the correspondence.

The letter was addressed to “Sigrid” and at one point in the text, Gretchen referred to her as “liebe schwester” or “dear sister.”

Forty minutes later, I closed the dictionary and pushed away from the table. My excitement had turned to distress. I powered up my laptop and spent a few minutes online, Googling additional information. Then I walked around the room, lost in thought. After a few minutes, my stunned silence grew to vocal anger and I pounded the worktable a few times.

“Gretchen, you stupid coward.”

Saying the name aloud gave me a jolt. In Goethe’s
Faust
, Gretchen was the virtuous young woman destroyed by Faust, but her real name was Marguerite. As I’d just learned, “Gretchen” was a common German diminutive for Marguerite. A nickname.

Heinrich Winslow’s wife’s name was Marguerite. Also affectionately known as Gretchen. But unlike her fictional namesake, Heinrich Winslow’s wife was all too real and completely responsible for so much destruction.

And no wonder someone was willing to kill to keep these papers hidden.

My translation abilities weren’t perfect, but they were close enough. I hadn’t mistaken the words or the sentiment.

It definitely explained why Abraham had been killed. Not that the explanation was fair or acceptable, but it certainly clarified things.

Such as, who the killer had to be.

I’d always considered myself a good judge of human character, but obviously my judgment was flawed. I’d actually spent time with and
liked
the killer. I rubbed my arms against the chills that skittered across my skin. Maybe I needed my head examined. Or maybe I needed my Vata-Dosha tweaked. Maybe when this whole nasty episode was concluded, I would take my mom up on the chakra cleansing day at the Ayurveda spa. I might spring for the deluxe mani-pedi while I was at it.

I shoved the personal grooming issues out of my head. I needed to call Inspector Lee. But first, I wanted the person who’d destroyed the life of my friend and mentor to suffer, just for a little while.

I owed that much to Abraham.

I searched my bag for the right business card, then stared at the name of Abraham’s killer for several long moments. Could I do this? Could I call this person, this killer, and actually sound calm and assured as I made my accusations?

I needed a minute.

I was scared, really scared. I wasn’t sure I could do it. I looked at my worktable. Pieces of Faust were scattered about, waiting for me to put them back together. Maybe if I worked for a while, buried myself in the book, I could trick myself into casually picking up the phone and making the call.

For courage, I opened a small bag of candy corn, then blocked out everything but the
Faust
restoration. The individual repaired pages were dry, so I pressed the text block together and stitched the signatures back together. I applied a coat of PVA glue to consolidate the text block. While that dried, I affixed the cleaned and polished black leather cover to the new boards.

This was what I’d needed. Busywork. Doing what I did best. Here, I knew exactly what to do. No questions, no mysteries.

When the glue was not quite dry, I used a hammer to pound the sewn ends and thus create a rounded edge to the spine of the text block. I put the block back into the press and added another thin layer of glue to hold the newly rounded shape. Then I added decorative black and gold silk endbands at the head and foot of the spine.

The glue would have to dry, which meant I could take a break. I glanced at the clock, then stared at the phone. It was now or never.

I sat at my desk, clutching the business card. I composed myself, then made the call. It went to voice mail, so I left a clear message. “I have what you’re looking for and I’m willing to hand it over for the small sum of two hundred thousand dollars.”

I felt like Dr. Evil. I should’ve demanded more, but since I was bluffing anyway, did it really matter? I checked my watch.

“It’s two o’clock, Tuesday afternoon,” I continued on voice mail. “If I don’t hear from you by six o’clock tonight, I’ll call the police.”

I hung up and immediately called Inspector Lee. Yes, I’d lied to the killer about waiting until six to call the police. My bad.

Inspector Lee wasn’t in. I didn’t feel comfortable talking to Inspector Jaglow, so I asked the operator to transfer me to Lee’s voice mail. I left another detailed message, telling her what I’d found and the name of the person I was convinced had killed Abraham Karastovsky and Enrico Baldacchio.

I hung up the phone, feeling a tiny bit guilty. Maybe I shouldn’t have teased the killer with my threat of blackmail, but I’d worked my way back to full anger. That bastard had killed my friend, killed Enrico, plundered and pillaged Abraham’s studio, broken into my home and ransacked my studio, destroyed Robin’s beautiful vase and knocked me unconscious. I had the right to demand some frontier justice, such as it was.

I made two more quick phone calls and had to leave messages both times. Where was everybody today? The first call was to Derek, explaining what I’d discovered and asking him to come by whenever he could. The other call was to my dad, telling him I was absolutely certain that Mom would be released later today.

Then I folded Gretchen’s letter, wedged it back into the wildflower book, and shoved the book back into place on the shelf.

Now there was nothing to do but wait for the phone to ring. I nibbled on noodles but I wasn’t really hungry. On any other day, that would’ve been cause for alarm, but today I was hyperaware of the source of my anxiety.

So I got back to work, first testing the glue on the spine. It was dry. Time to put it all back together.

Adjusting the Armageddon painting back into its pastedown/flyleaf position, and using Mylar and waste sheets to shield the pages from any excess glue, I rolled the text block onto the glued, refurbished cover boards and sealed the book.

I cleaned and polished the rubies until they sparkled with new life, then glued them back into place on the front cover.

It was gorgeous if I did say so myself. Next, I covered the jeweled front cover with a layer of protective foam, then wrapped the entire book in thin cloth and slid it between the plates of the book press for thirty seconds to seal the deal.

I would take pictures of the finished binding tomorrow. I hoped that someday I’d have the time to replicate the intricate design with its gilded royal crest and fleur-de-lis finishes. But in the meantime, the photos I took would be uploaded to my Web site with a detailed description of the work I’d done to complete the restoration.

The book itself gleamed in the fading light, a rare and beautiful work of art, but what it represented was tarnished and ugly. So much for its legendary curse. The curse didn’t exist-unless you considered arrogance, greed, fear and stupidity a curse.

The light in the studio had grown dim as I’d worked, so I turned on some lights. It was only four o’clock but the fog was rolling in. The phone hadn’t rung and my head was beginning to pound again.

I felt the painful lump on the back of my head, a dull reminder of the attack last night. I needed some aspirin and my stomach was growling. I’d left the bowl of noodles virtually untouched. My world was truly cracked.

Checking that the protective foam and cloth were still wrapped tightly, I secured the
Faust
between two pieces of smooth plywood and put a ten-pound weight on top. I would keep it wrapped and pressed overnight until the glue was completely dry and the aged black leather was securely fastened to the boards.

The restoration was complete.

I celebrated by sticking a piece of leftover pizza in the microwave, then popping two aspirins while I waited for the pizza to heat up.

Ten minutes later, the pizza was history and I was feeling more like myself, no longer suffering hunger pangs and now wondering whether it was too early for a glass of wine. Unfortunately, there was some pesky business to deal with involving a killer and the police, so sobriety was called for until further notice.

I was washing my dishes when the phone rang. I dried my hands and grabbed it on the third ring.

Conrad Winslow lost no time getting to the point of his call. “What the hell are you trying to pull?”

“Hi, Mr. Winslow.”

“You’re trying to blackmail me?”

“Abraham Karastovsky is dead and now I know why.”

“And blackmail is your way to handle it?”

“No, that was just a little joke,” I said, rubbing my head where I’d been coshed last night.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

My doorbell rang. I figured I had the killer on the phone, so I didn’t have a second thought about whipping the door open.

Sylvia Winslow stood there, looking fresh and elegant in a peach suit and matching heels.

“Hello, Sylvia,” I said. “This is a coincidence.”

“Hang up the phone,” she said, lifting her hand to reveal a small but lethal gun pointed directly at me.

“Uh, good-bye,” I said into the phone, and put it down on the desk. She followed me inside and nudged the door shut with her hip.

She glanced around. “You’ve cleaned the place up.”

“Yeah,” I said as I carefully backed away from her. “Some slob made a real mess of things.”

“You’re pretty funny for someone facing the wrong end of a gun.” She waved it for emphasis. “Give me the letter.”

“I don’t have it.”

“We both know you’re lying.”

“Why do you think I have it?” I backed up another step, closing in on my worktable where I knew I’d left at least one knife and several bone folders I could use as a weapon. Not that a flimsy bone folder would be much of a match against a gun. And I had no illusions that she wouldn’t use it, since she’d already killed at least two people.

“Because you left a clear message on my husband’s voice mail,” she said. “Must we play this game?”

“You screen your husband’s voice mail?”

“Yes, I do. Otherwise, nothing would be done on time or correctly.”

“Why did you kill Enrico?”

She sighed. “Why do you care? The man was a pig.”

“I’m just wondering what he did to you.”

“He stole from me.”

“You could’ve called the police.”

Her laugh was laced with contempt. “That was Conrad’s solution. Men.”

“Yeah, men are funny.”

“Brooklyn dear, just give me the letter.” She smiled tightly. “I might decide not to kill you if you cooperate.”

“Oh, right.” My heel grazed the leg of the stool. “I hand you the letter and you go your merry way. Why do I not believe you?”

“No, I don’t suppose you should.” She waved the gun in a blasé manner. “But can you blame me? I don’t like being blackmailed.”

“And I didn’t like seeing my beloved friend die in my arms.”

“Ah, your beloved friend, the blackmailer. You saw how far that got him and yet, here you are, trying the same thing.” She shook her head in disappointment. “Just give me the letter now and let’s be done with this nonsense.”

Staring at the gun, I could feel my knees shaking. I could barely swallow, my mouth was so dry. I backed up slowly. She wouldn’t kill me without getting her hands on the letter first, would she?

“Why should I give you the letter when you’re just going to kill me anyway? Besides, do you think I’d be dumb enough to keep it here in my house?”

“You’ll give it to me,” she said.

“But I don’t have it.”

“You’re lying. It’s what you all do. Lies and blackmail. Do you really think I’d allow my family to be blackmailed by the likes of you and that big ape, Abraham? How dare you try to ruin the good name of my family with your little scheme?”

“Actually, I didn’t intend to blackmail your family,” I said as I sidestepped the stool and eased my way back against the worktable. “I just wanted to make you squirm awhile until the police arrested you.”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” she said with a hiss. Her cheeks were turning an angry shade of red. “You didn’t call the police. You’re a grasping, greedy bitch, trying to make money off the pain of others.”

“I take it Abraham tried the same thing.” I was stalling, leading her on, waiting for a miracle. To keep her talking was all I could think to do.

“He tried-and failed miserably.”

In Gretchen’s letter to her sister Sigrid, she’d bemoaned the fact that Heinrich was putting his own family in jeopardy with his grandiose schemes to save mankind. “Jews, Sigrid, can you make sense of it?” Gretchen had written. “He risks our lives to help Jews!”

Gretchen had gone to Heinrich, insisting that he stop. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be responsible for her actions. In the letter, Gretchen had suggested that the gardener’s shed held everything she’d need to complete a certain unpleasant but necessary task.

I’d Googled the details of Heinrich Winslow’s death and discovered that he’d died of arsenic poisoning. The date of his death was three days after the date of Gretchen’s letter. The poison was traced to a box of weed killer. Wikipedia claimed that Heinrich’s grieving wife and children went to live with her sister Sigrid in Denmark after his death.

Somehow, Gretchen’s letter had found its way into the secret pocket inside
Faust
. In my heart, I liked to think her sister Sigrid wanted the truth to be revealed someday.