Pages of Sin (11 page)

Marjorie took a step closer and peered at the photo. “I wondered where I put those.”

Elaine moved to Byron’s other side and studied the snapshot. With an impish grin, she glanced at the other two and said, “What a little angel she was back then.”

Byron put his arms around both women. “Just like all you girls were at that age.”

“Oh, stop.” Marjorie gave his chest a playful slap. “We were all little devils, don’t you dare deny it.”

He laughed and squeezed them tighter. “I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

 

 

Three hours later, Mom, Dad and I sat around the kitchen table, shaking our heads in befuddlement.

“So they all knew about little Lizzie,” I said, still baffled by the reactions we’d received from revealing the incriminating documents and photo. “I guess the only real secret one of them had been hiding was Wanda’s illness.”

“And the fact that she was the true creative force in that family,” Mom added.

Dad mulled that over for a few long seconds. “So the person who was forced to exist behind those high, stone walls ended up living the richest, fullest life of them all.”

“There’s a lesson to be learned,” Mom murmured.

Guru Bob had made certain that everyone in attendance learned that lesson during Wanda’s memorial service. His words were beautiful and meaningful, and judging by the number of sniffles heard and tissues scrunched, most people had gotten the message. I know I had. I could only hope that Wanda’s husband and sisters had received it, too. It was hard to tell. The last we saw of them, they were sitting in a corner of the town hall drinking champagne, toasting to the glory of Wanda, and plotting their next bestseller.

Earlier, before we left Guru Bob’s house, we’d managed to cajole them into piecing together the rest of the story. Byron had been fooling around with Marjorie while dating Elaine. When Marjorie ended up pregnant, she’d gone to Texas to have the baby, then gave it up for adoption. It wasn’t that she’d hidden her pregnancy from the rest of her family; she just didn’t want to deal with the gossipy reactions of the local citizenry. She had also wanted to protect her sisters from suffering through the same gossip. After all, if people knew Marjorie had given birth to Byron’s child, what would they think of Elaine, who had been dating Byron, or Wanda, who eventually married him?

Once Elaine left for Africa and Marjorie left for Texas, Byron naturally took up with Wanda. It seemed he had been in love with all the sisters at various times while growing up next door to them. Once the other two were away, he decided that Wanda was the prettiest of them all, so he married her. Then Marjorie came back to town and he was conflicted again. Then Elaine returned. Poor Byron couldn’t seem to stay away from any of them. And vice versa.

Nobody outside the sisters’ family had ever understood the love the sisters all felt for Byron. Evidently, it had taken root during their childhood when they all lived next door to one another. The girls’ parents had had a tempestuous relationship and Byron had been their refuge while growing up.

When Elaine returned from Africa and confronted Wanda and Byron, they also confessed to her that Marjorie had had a baby. Elaine was overwhelmed by this brand new betrayal, but as soon as she saw the baby, she fell in love and forgave them all their foibles, as long as she was given permission to visit little Elizabeth whenever she wanted to. Since Marjorie had insisted on an open adoption, this was never a problem.

It was Elizabeth who originally had provided the inspiration for Elaine’s
Happy Llama
stories. And even though Elaine didn’t have the talent to write them herself, she often came up with clever story lines she thought little Lizzie would enjoy. She considered Lizzie her muse. When she related some of the stories to Wanda, her sister wrote them down for her. That’s when the two of them first realized her talent. But Wanda wasn’t about to go out into the world as an author, so Elaine put her name on the books. She insisted the stories were hers anyway, so it worked out just fine for her.

Marjorie had been dictating her ideas to Wanda for years, too. And she’d worked out a similar arrangement to her sister Elaine’s. They had simply never bothered to inform one another of their little deceits.

The three sisters and Byron had been close friends until the day Elaine uttered her famous damning words to Byron and another estrangement began. But now that she was back home where she belonged and everything had been talked out, he couldn’t be happier.

Luckily for Elaine, Wanda had never taken offense from Elaine’s words as Byron had. Wanda had agreed to continue writing the
Happy Llama
books for Elaine, proving once again that Wanda was the most honorable person in the family.

“I think we need a little mood changer,” Mom said suddenly. She popped up from the table and riffled through one of the kitchen drawers.

Dad and I exchanged a wary glance and he took hold of the wine bottle. “You might need a bit more of this.”

I smiled and held out my glass as he poured.

And minutes later, my mother, accompanying herself on the sacred Marrakeshi bongo drums, proceeded to perform the wildest, most excellent cleansing and purification ritual ever.

Hello, my name is Brooklyn Wainwright, and I am a book addict.

It was Friday morning and I was on my way to the Covington Library to sniff out my personal version of crack cocaine: Books. Old, rare, and beautiful.

I didn’t need a twelve-step program; I just needed more bookbinding work to keep me off the streets. That was why I’d driven over to Pacific Heights to see my good friend Ian McCullough, head curator of the Covington Library in San Francisco. He’d called earlier to let me know he had a job for me.

I found a lucky parking spot less than half a block away.
Lucky
was the perfect way to describe how I was feeling that day. As I walked up the broad concrete steps of the imposing Italianate mansion, I took a moment to appreciate this beautiful building, its setting here at the highest point of my favorite city, and this glorious, early fall day.

A few months ago, after coming within striking distance of yet another callous criminal bent on killing me and a few close friends, I had made a vow to be grateful for every wonderful thing in my life. My family, my friends, my gorgeous, exciting lover, the career I enjoyed so much, my books, pizza; I was grateful for them all. Life was good.

So now I stopped to breathe the crisp clear air, smile at the colorful sight of newly planted pansies lining the sidewalks, and savor the stunning view of San Francisco Bay in the distance.

The moment passed and I strolled up the last few steps. Pushing open the heavy iron doors, I walked through the elegant foyer of the Covington with its broad checkerboard marble floor, coffered ceiling, and sweeping staircases. Those stairs led to the second and third floors, where dozens of rooms held priceless artwork and countless collections of the greatest books ever written throughout history. In almost every alcove and nook, a visitor would find a comfortable chair with a good light for reading. It was the most welcoming place for a book lover I’d ever known and I loved it as much now as I did the first time I came here when I was eight years old.

I bypassed the main exhibit hall and headed straight for Ian’s office down the wide corridor that led to the inner sanctum. I was anxious to get hold of the book he was so excited about and envisioned myself rushing home, tearing it apart, and putting it back together again. With utmost love and care, of course.

Yes, life was good indeed.

That thought was snuffed out as a sudden, cold sense of dread permeated the very air around me. I shuddered in dismay. In any perfect apple, a worm might be found.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

Shudders rippled through me at the shrill voice of Minka LaBoeuf, my arch-enemy.

My stomach bubbled and roiled in revulsion and I instantly regretted the Spanish omelet I’d eaten for breakfast. I turned to face her and was sorry I had. Chartreuse-and-fuchsia-striped leggings appeared to have been sprayed onto Minka’s ample lower body. As God is my witness, the leggings were topped by a matching tube top—a tube top!—and pixie band—a pixie band!—in her hair. She looked like a demented barber pole.

I couldn’t make this stuff up.

“I was invited to come here today,” I said, shielding my eyes from the glare. “I know you can’t say the same, so you should leave. Be sure to let the door hit your ass on the way out.”

Baring her teeth, she snarled and said, “You’re such a bitch!”

I smiled with concern. “Really? Is that the best you’ve got? Pitiful.”

She moved in close, so close I could smell her new perfume—Eau de Goat—and hissed at me. “If you don’t stop trying to take away my jobs, I’ll make sure you’ll never work in this town again.”

You’ll never work in this town again?
Had she really said that? Of course she had. Minka was the queen of the tattered cliché.

“Threats, Minka?” I backed away from her, knowing she had an unruly left hook. “Ian won’t like hearing that you threatened me.”

She sniffed imperiously. “Ian is a jerk.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him you said so.”

“You’re a jerk, too.”

Feeling disappointed, I shook my head. “Have you been sick or something? Your comebacks are so lame, it’s pathetic.” I didn’t stick around to hear her answer, but turned and hurried off. I didn’t look back either—possibly a tactical error where Minka was concerned since she was the master of the sneak attack. But honestly, I couldn’t take another violent shock to my nervous system.

“You’ll be sorry!” she shrieked.

I rubbed my arms against the chill but kept moving. Minka had the kind of aura that stirred up all the frigid, stagnant Chi that existed in any space. Once I turned the corner and was out of her eyesight, I breathed easier. It was warmer now. The spell was broken.

I knew that sounded a little insane, but I’d been stalked and harassed and yes, punched in the face by Minka LaBoeuf. I wasn’t about to question the possibility that she could cast spells with those evil eyes of hers.

Strolling briskly down the wide hall, I entered the suite of business offices and greeted Wylie, Ian’s current assistant.

“He’s waiting for you, Ms. Wainwright. Go right in.”

“Thanks, Wylie.”

I knocked, then opened Ian’s door.

“Hey, you,” Ian said, jumping up from his chair and rushing to greet me with a hug. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been itching to get your opinion on what to do about this book.”

Shaking off the last of my Minka-induced negativity, I smiled and hugged him back. “I can’t wait to see it.”

“I’ll warn you beforehand that the outside of the book is less than impressive. Well, actually, it’s in horrible shape, but I know you can make it shine. The inside is exquisite.” He led the way across the room to his lovingly restored Chippendale conference table. We sat and I watched him slowly unwrap several layers of white tissue paper to reveal a rather nondescript book.

The book was big, probably twelve inches tall by nine inches wide, but it was less than one inch thick. The leather cover was green, or it had been at one time; now it was faded to a dull gray. The front cover was badly frayed along the inner edges and outer hinge, where it would probably break apart at the least jarring movement.

And it was disturbingly familiar. I frowned and chewed my lip as I reached for it.

“I know it’s ugly,” Ian reiterated, misreading my reaction. “But the paper is still in excellent condition, and just wait until you see the illustrations.”

“Okay.” I picked it up cautiously, not only because it was old and falling apart, but because I was afraid of what I would find when I opened it. I stared at the spine.
Beauty and the Beast,
it read, though the letters had lost most of their gilding.

I opened the book, bypassed the flyleaf, and turned to the front illustration across from the title page. It was colorful and sweet and classically Victorian. A tea party for two. Beauty wore a regal red cape and her golden blond hair flowed in waves down her back. She sat at a table pouring tea for the Beast, who was depicted as a huge brown bear. His appearance was hairy and scary, yet he seemed dignified and well-mannered. The tea set was blue. I could’ve described it blindfolded.

I paged back to the inside flyleaf and stared at the inscription written there. My throat tightened and the pressure building in my chest began to ache.

“It’s very rare,” Ian said in a rush. “First edition. Look at the interior pages. They’re fantastic. I just need you to fashion a new cover and do some clean up, and we’ll have a masterpiece to display in the children’s gallery.”

I ran my fingers over the dried ink and reread the sentimental inscription. The scrawled penmanship had a beauty all its own.

“Earth to Brooklyn,” he snapped. “What’s going on? Can you do the work or not?”

I shook myself out of my melancholy and glanced up at Ian. “I’m not sure I can.”

“What do you mean, you’re not sure? You could do this restoration in your sleep.”

“Oh yeah, I can do the work.” I turned the book over to see if the damage extended to the back joint, but it was still smooth and unfrayed. “But . . . I don’t think I can do the work.”

He scowled, shoved his chair back from the table and stood over me. “You’re speaking in riddles. What’s wrong with the damn book?”

“Nothing’s wrong with the book,” I said, and met his gaze directly. “Except that it was stolen.”

“No, it wasn’t.” He stared at my expression, then shook his head vigorously. “No way. What the hell are you talking about? I bought it from Joseph Taylor, the most reputable bookseller in the city. It was a clean deal.”