The Paper Caper, page 18
“I realize it’s not a good time, but I would appreciate your help. Would you mind answering some questions for me?”
Joseph gave Derek a look that indicated that he was finally understanding Derek’s concerns. “I’d like Derek to stay.”
“Fine,” the inspector said easily.
Unfortunately, that was my cue to leave. I stood. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’m going to take off now.”
Derek checked his watch. “You need to get ready for work.”
“Yes.”
“All right.” He looked at Inspector Lee. “Excuse me for just a moment?”
“Of course.”
He glanced at Joseph. “I’ll be right back.”
I gave Joseph a quick hug and whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said softly.
Derek and I walked into the foyer, staying behind the crime scene tape all the way to the front door. We stepped outside and he said, “I’m going to stay awhile longer.”
“I know. Joseph needs you.” I pulled my car keys out of my purse and adjusted the tote bag on my shoulder. “But there’s something I have to tell you before I go.”
“What is it?”
“While I was listening to the two women upstairs, Ingrid basically said the same thing that Joseph did about Hobson convincing him to marry Ella.”
“That’s interesting,” Derek said slowly. “What else did they say?”
“Ingrid thinks that Tom and Joseph are related. She’s worried that Joseph will sign over half his estate to Tom and leave Ella with nothing.”
“That would never happen,” Derek insisted. “Joseph would never do that.”
“Maybe not, but Ingrid sounded convinced. Which makes me even more concerned about their intentions when it comes to Joseph.”
Derek clenched his jaw. “I won’t allow any harm to come to him.”
“I know you won’t. I just wanted to let you know that they’re awfully sneaky and we should watch them carefully.”
“And by ‘we,’ you mean ‘me and my agents.’ ”
I smiled. “Of course.” I gripped my keys. “You’d better go back inside. I’ll tell you the rest later.”
“Yes.” He skimmed his hands up and down my arms. “We’ll talk more.”
“I’ll be at the Covington this afternoon from noon until four. Maybe longer, if Inspector Lee shows up.”
“I’ll call you.”
I looked into his eyes and could see how troubled he was. I touched his cheek. “Please do.”
He kissed me. “Be careful, my love.”
“I will, and I hope you will, too.”
He nodded. “Absolutely.”
I started to walk away, then turned. “And please take notes. You know how I hate to leave just as we’re about to get the whole scoop.”
He smiled then. “I’ll get it for you.”
I blew him a kiss and headed for my car.
Chapter 13
There was never yet an uninteresting life. Such a thing is an impossibility. Inside of the dullest exterior there is a drama, a comedy, and a tragedy.
—Mark Twain, “The Refuge of the Derelicts,” 1905
I hated leaving Derek at Joseph’s house. I knew he was a good friend of Joseph’s and would be able to get him through the police interview. And Derek was a professional. He dealt with these sorts of horrible things all the time, but still, I felt bad leaving him. All the way home, I mentally wrung my hands worrying about it, and thinking that I could’ve called Ian and canceled the bookbinding workshop. But I hadn’t. I didn’t want to let Ian down.
So it looked like I would spend the rest of my day in a state of supreme guilt. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Once I got home, I barely had time to feed Charlie and eat a quick sandwich before it was time to drive to the Covington and start my workshop. As I pulled into the parking lot, I realized that my guilt was beginning to recede. Which of course made me feel even guiltier.
“Idiot,” I muttered as I walked into the Covington. The first thing I noticed was the crowd of people sitting in the bleachers and standing around my worktable, checking out the bookbinding tools. Ian stood nearby guarding my tools, and when I walked up, he flashed me a silly grin.
I pulled him aside. “What’s with all these people?”
“They’re here to see you,” he said, still grinning. “Turns out, you’re a hot ticket. Word gets around.”
“That’s crazy.” I loved hearing him say it, but I couldn’t believe it, especially because the only work I had done yesterday was brushing off the pages to get rid of any tiny bits of dirt or microscopic bugs. Yes, I had meticulously brushed off all 441 pages of The Prince and the Pauper and everyone watched me do it. And now they were back to watch more?
“Need I remind you, these are book people?” Ian said. “Book people would be happy to watch you fold paper for three hours.”
“It may come down to that,” I muttered.
“I hope not.” He chuckled. “Now get to work.”
I glanced at the crowd, then back at Ian. “Can you please ask them to step back a few feet from the worktable?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got them all sitting in the bleachers.”
“Thanks, pal.” I gave his arm a light punch for good measure. “Oh, and we have to talk later. Joseph Cabot’s butler, Hobson, was murdered this morning.”
“What?”
“Shhh!”
He lowered his voice. “What happened?”
“That’s what we have to talk about.” I quickly explained in thirty words or less about the manila envelope that Hobson opened and how he died almost instantly.
“Brooklyn, that’s terrible.”
“And by the way,” I continued, “the return address on the envelope was the Covington Library.”
His eyes grew as big as saucers. “What the—”
“Shhh!” I grabbed his arm. “We’ll talk later.”
“You bet your boots we’ll talk,” he said through gritted teeth, and dashed off toward the stairs.
“Welcome, everyone!” I said to the crowd. “Thank you so much for being here.”
I pulled out my copy of The Prince and the Pauper and held it out for everyone to see. “I’ll pass this around for everyone to take a look.” Because there were more people here today, I added, “And I know you’ll all be careful with the book, but I still like to remind everyone that it’s old and fragile, so please treat it with care.”
I knew I wouldn’t have to watch every single person handle the book to make sure they treated it respectfully. That’s because my regulars in the crowd would do the job for me.
“I always begin by sweeping off the pages with my stiff brush. I started that job yesterday and I was able to finish all 441 pages before I got here today.”
Someone in the audience said, “Yay!”
“Thank you.” I laughed. “Who said that?”
A woman on the top row raised her hand. “Me.”
“Marianne?” I frowned. “What are you doing here?”
“I can’t stay away. This is so much fun.”
“Well, thank you for being here.” I gave her a grateful smile, then raised an eyebrow. “But seriously, you’re a glutton for punishment, girl.”
There were some laughs and then I got down to work. “I explained yesterday that the pages of this book are in surprisingly good condition, so we’re mainly going to concentrate on creating a new cover and adding endpapers and a new headband—the small, woven piece that sits protectively at the top of the spine. We’ll add some gilding to the cover and we’ll rebuild the inner spine so the book will be able to last another hundred and fifty years or more.”
They applauded. It took me off guard. “Thank you, but you guys really don’t have to applaud. I’m just glad you’re interested in this kind of work.”
“It’s so fascinating,” one woman said. “I appreciate that you can explain it to us in commonsense, down-to-earth language.”
“Well, that’s mostly how I speak all the time,” I said with a grin. I opened my portable tool kit, took out my X-Acto knife, and held it up. “So let’s get started.”
At that very moment I felt the brush of soft fur around my ankles. If I didn’t have a cat of my own, I would’ve freaked out, but instead, I just smiled. Looking down, I said, “Hello, Pixie. Are you here for more bookbinding lessons?”
She wound her long, thick tail around my left ankle and I bent down to stroke her back. “God, she’s huge.”
“And gorgeous,” someone in the audience said.
“Yes,” I agreed. I stood up straight and let Pixie ramble freely around the area.
The book was finally returned to me. “Did everyone get a chance to look at it?”
“Yes,” a bunch of people said.
“Good.” I held it up. “Because the cover and the endpapers are going to be replaced with shiny new ones, my work doesn’t have to be too precise at this point. I just have to remove the entire cover from the textblock.”
“What’s a textblock?” someone asked.
“Basically, in layman’s terms, it’s the paper the book is printed on, sewn together in what’s called signature pages.”
I opened the book to the endpapers. “I’ll use the knife to slice along the hinge, essentially separating the cover from the textblock and spine.”
I demonstrated. It was quick work.
There were a few gasps and someone said, “Eek!”
“It’s okay. Don’t panic. I’m a professional.”
That brought a few laughs and everyone seemed to settle down. I knew how they felt, though. Watching someone cut a book apart could be traumatic for a booklover.
“It’s going to be beautiful again very soon.”
Within a minute, I held up the heavy textblock in one hand. “This is the textblock.”
Then I held up the book cover—consisting of the front, back, and spine—still all connected by the hinges.
And they applauded again.
Marianne shouted, “Yay!”
I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to such enthusiastic reactions to what was a low-key demonstration, but I was gratified that they were enjoying themselves.
Lucinda came running over and grabbed Pixie. “I’m sorry if she disturbed your lecture.”
“She didn’t,” I assured her. “She’s a welcome addition anytime.”
Lucinda looked relieved. “Thanks, Brooklyn.” Then she turned and walked quickly back to her office.
I smiled at the group. “Okay, the first thing I’ll do at this point is check that the textblock is standing straight and not askew, which can happen to a book after a hundred and forty years. Then I’ll check that the threads are still strong enough to last another century. Finally, I’ll have to scrape off all the old glue from the spine. First, because with a book this old, it’s probably animal glue, which tends to stiffen and shrink with age. And second, because it’s clumpy and old and we want to make it new and smooth.”
I walked around and showed them the stiff old clusters of glue stuck to the spine.
“We’ll get rid of it by brushing on a solution of methylcellulose, which will soften and loosen the old glue so that, when it dries, I’ll be able to easily scrape it off.”
I help up a large wooden press. “This is called a finishing press and I’ll use it to hold the textblock vertically so that I can work on the spine.”
I released the screws and opened up the space enough to fit the book, spine side up, within the blocks, then I tightened the screws until the book was stable. “You can see how important this tool is when you’re doing repairs on the old spine or when you’re building the new spine.”
I poured a small amount of methylcellulose into a glass jar and began the busywork of brushing it onto the spine, then waiting for it to dry. During the time it took for the solution to dry completely, I answered questions about this book and about my work in general.
When the methylcellulose was dry, I tested it by pulling a small corner of it away from the spine. It had taken on the consistency of rubber cement so I knew it was ready. I used a thin lifting knife with a sharp edge to peel away the methylcellulose along with much of the old glue and some of the tattered bits of thread.
“See how it picks up all the clumps?” I said. “Isn’t that great?”
“It’s like a miracle,” someone said, with so much reverence that I almost laughed.
These book people were sweet.
I happened to check my watch and was shocked to see that three hours had passed by. I knew I’d taken a lot of time answering questions, but at this rate, I wouldn’t be able to finish the book in the next three days.
But that was okay, I realized. Whenever I was able to finish the book, Ian would be happy to take it and add it to his new Mark Twain display.
“So that’s it for today,” I said to the group. “Thanks for being here.”
There was more applause and then some people gathered around with additional questions for me. A couple of folks in the audience were anxious to take one of my classes at BABA and I happily handed out brochures from the Book Arts center along with my business card.
It helped to have my head cheerleader, Marianne, singing my praises. I promised her a cut of the proceeds and she laughed. But I would have to think of some way to thank her.
My audience had left and I was packing up my tools when someone spoke to me. “They told me I’d find you here.”
I looked up and saw Tom Cantwell standing nearby.
“Tom. Hello.” I couldn’t hide my surprise. Not only because I hadn’t expected to see him standing here, but mostly because it was still a shock to realize how much he resembled Joseph.
“After I talked to the detective, I had to get out of the house. So I was out for a walk and thought I’d check out this place.”
“You walked all the way here?”
“I walk everywhere.”
“But this week is kind of different,” I said.
He shrugged. “Because of the contest, yeah.”
“That,” I said with a laugh, “and because I’ll bet you have a car and driver at your disposal.”
He chuckled. “I do. And to tell the truth, the driver did give me and my buddies a ride over to Fillmore Street. But then I made ’em all get out and walk up Pacific Avenue to the top of the hill. I don’t want us to get too used to this temporary lush life.”
“I’ve walked up that hill,” I said. “And I know it’s grueling.”
The hill from Fillmore up to the Covington was long and very steep. I had walked it myself a few times, but if I’d had a driver standing by, I would’ve happily passed on the walk. Exercise was one thing, but these San Francisco hills were a whole different animal.
He brushed away my concerns. “We took a few breaks to pick up cans and bottles.”
Now that he’d brought it up, I felt duty-bound to give advice. “I hope you’re careful out there. This city is filled with tourists who don’t always pay attention to the traffic laws.” And didn’t I sound like my father? I mentally shook my head.
“Funny you should mention it,” Tom said. “We’re usually pretty good at avoiding the cars, but just a few minutes ago I almost got hit.”
“What?” I asked, alarmed. “What happened?”
“Now, don’t get all worried. My buddy Wyatt yanked me out of the way.” He spread his arms out. “And look at me. I’m fine.”
He did look fine. He was wearing another beautiful new sweater, this one navy blue. And he was wearing Bermuda shorts again, even though the air was cool. I had a feeling he liked to wear shorts because he was always out walking and carrying around cans and bottles. That had to work up a sweat.
“Did you report it to the police?”
He shrugged. “Nah. The cops don’t want to hear from us.”
“But things are different now,” I said. “You should call the cops.”
“Look, it happens. We try to be careful and stay out the way, but some people just like to make trouble.”
“Some people are jerks,” I muttered. “Were you standing out in the street?”
He frowned. “No. I was on the sidewalk. But this car was coming up too fast and must’ve lost control. Wyatt thought they might jump the curb and nail me.” He chuckled. “He was exaggerating, but still, I was glad he got me out of the way.”
Jump the curb? Was he kidding?
My nerves were jumping now. “Uh, I’m glad, too. Wyatt sounds like a good friend.”
“He’s got my back and I’ve got his.”
“It’s nice to have someone like that who’ll watch out for you.”
“Yeah. Especially in this town. It can get rough out there without your posse.”
“Did Wyatt happen to notice what kind of car it was?” I tried to sound casual, but what Tom had described didn’t sound normal at all. And since I lived with a security expert, I was used to being suspicious of everything.
“Doesn’t matter,” Tom said easily.
I tried to smile. “Humor me.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t see it myself, but Wyatt said it was a 911 Carrera Cabriolet. That’s a Porsche, a nice one. And speedy, too. He said it was a real pretty midnight blue.”
“Sounds deluxe,” I managed to say.
“Yeah. Wyatt knows a lot more about cars than I do.” He chuckled. “He was impressed that I almost got hit by such a cool car.”
“Cool car or not,” I said with a scowl, “people who drive those high-performance cars think they own the road.”
And again, I was sounding like my father. I glanced down at my tool case and realized that I had packed it already. I let out a breath and tried to relax. “Well, you want a quickie tour of the library?”
