Books of a Feather, page 23
part #10 of Bibliophile Mystery Series
She could’ve been describing Derek, I thought. And halfway through her description I realized there was something else going on here. “You’re in love with him.”
Her eyes widened and she waved her hands in protest. “No, no, no. Let’s not jump right to the L word. I’m still working my way through all this unfamiliar territory.”
“Okay.” I jumped up and gave her a fierce hug. “But something tells me you’re already there.”
• • •
Back home an hour later, the phone buzzed several times, meaning there was someone at the door downstairs. Wary, I picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me, Janice, um, Inspector Lee. Can I come up?”
“Absolutely,” I said, and buzzed her into the lobby. Her visit was completely unexpected, even though I had left a message for her the day before, letting her know that her mother’s book was ready.
I heard the freight elevator groaning its way to the top floor, and a few minutes later, Inspector Lee—Janice—knocked on the door.
“Hi,” I said, ushering her into the house. “Do you want a glass of wine?”
“No, I’ve still got to drive home.”
I walked into the kitchen. “How about a cupcake?”
She stopped in her tracks. “You have cupcakes?”
I pushed the platter toward her. “Alex baked them. She is the cupcake goddess. You need to try one.”
“You’re right. I do.” She stared at the platter Alex had lent me to hold the six beautiful cupcakes she had insisted I take home.
“There’s red velvet and chocolate mint. Here’s a plate and a fork. Sit down while I get your book.”
“These are gorgeous,” she said, following my orders to sit and eat.
A minute later, I returned with the book to find her mouth full of chocolate. “Good, huh?”
She had to wait to finish the bite. “Holy sugar rush. Those are amazing.”
I sat across from her and took a sip of my wine. “She is the best neighbor ever.”
Lee laughed. After she had polished off the cupcake, I took her fork and plate and set them in the sink.
“You don’t have to wait on me, Brooklyn.”
I looked at her for a long moment. “Can I call you Janice?”
She almost flinched, she was so surprised by the question. “Of course. Don’t you call me that anyway?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever called you by your first name. Maybe once, but it didn’t stick.”
“Yeah, well, we do tend to meet under unusual circumstances.”
I nodded. “Crime scenes, you mean.”
“Yeah.” She shrugged. “Not real conducive to developing friendships.”
“Well, next time we have a party, you’re invited. So that means we’re friends.”
She gave me a lopsided grin. “Okay, it’s a deal.”
I slid the package across the counter. “Here’s the book. If you want me to change anything, just say so.”
“Cool.” She unwrapped the thick white paper I’d used to protect it and pulled out the book box. “Wow, that’s beautiful.”
“I told you about the papers Derek brought back from Hong Kong. I wanted something with an Asian feel to it. Because of the nature of the book. I hope you like it.”
“I’m blown away,” she said, studying the box from every angle. “It’s really gorgeous. This plaque looks perfect.”
“I thought so, too. Well, open it.”
“I’m almost afraid,” she muttered, but unlatched the hook and lifted the top. “Oh wow.” She carefully brought the book out and set it on the table. After a moment, she opened the cover and glanced through the pages. “You’re right. The crayon mess doesn’t look half as bad as I remember. And I can’t tell which pages I tore out.”
“Good. Hopefully, your mother won’t be able to tell, either.”
“Man, I knew you were good at this stuff, but this is really exceptional.” She lifted the book and placed it gently back inside the box. “I appreciate this, Brooklyn. I think my mom is going to love it.”
“That’s all that matters.” I couldn’t help beaming as I took the box and wrapped it up again in the white paper. Inspector Lee—Janice—had no clue how much her words meant to me and how happy I was that we were finally friends.
• • •
The next morning I woke up bright and early. I glanced around, slightly disoriented, and then realized why. Derek wasn’t home and I’d slept straight through the night anyway.
Charlie leaned against me and purred, so I stroked her soft fur. “Good morning, Charlie.”
After a few minutes with Charlie, I climbed out of bed, giving myself a mental “Attaboy.” So much for all my worries and whining that I’d be so lonely without Derek that I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Of course, I woke up on Derek’s side of the bed as if I were draped across his gorgeous chest . . . but that didn’t mean anything.
“Crazy girl,” I muttered on my way to turning on the coffeepot. I glanced with fondness at the tray of the four beautiful cupcakes that were left after Janice—it felt so weird to call her that—and I had one each last night. It was great to have good neighbors, especially ones who baked.
I was glad to be getting an early start on my work today. My main goal was to finish Songbirds in Trees and move on to the next project. If my plan was successful, I would be able to clean up the book and make any other small repairs necessary. By the end of the day, I wanted to be able to drive over to the Bird-watchers Society and return their missing treasure to them. I had a feeling they would be happy to see the beautiful book back where it belonged, in its display case. Even if they had no idea what had happened to the poor book in the first place.
I had to admit, though, that the thought of facing the unpleasant Marva Pesca was not a cheery one.
Nevertheless, after coffee and a breakfast of granola, bananas, strawberries, and a cupcake, followed by a quick phone call from Derek, I cleaned up the kitchen and headed out to my workshop to get the ball rolling.
I approached my book press with some trepidation. I was pretty sure I’d gotten all the dampness out of the book, and the card stock would help absorb the rest of it. But what if the pages were still wrinkled? What if they were now stuck to the card stock? What if the press had screwed up somehow? It happened once in a while; the press would tug at one end and the book would end up bent or catawampus. Or one page would get tweaked and end up torn or otherwise damaged.
I’d given the book two days to straighten itself up. All I could do now was examine it and hope that my idea had worked out. I slowly unscrewed the wheel and pulled the book out from under the heavy wooden press. I’d also used two thin five-pound brass-plated book weights to ensure that even pressure was applied to the entire book.
I unwrapped the book and stared at it. And let go of the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I turned the book over a few times and held it up to study the spine. It looked good. Straight and even. I carefully opened the book and skipped through the pages, removing the sheets of card stock as I went. Nothing was stuck, everything was flat. It was beautiful. I was overjoyed.
“This one’s for you, Jared,” I said aloud. “You oddball bird-watcher, you.”
With a quiet laugh, I thought of Socrates McCall and Marva Pesca and the others I’d met last week at Jared’s memorial celebration. There was an entire roomful of oddball bird-watchers, come to think of it. I hoped they would all be very happy with their pretty new book.
But could one of those strange birdfellows be a cold-blooded killer? I set that thought aside for now, with a mental note to remind Derek that we needed to revisit that group.
With the pages repaired, I took the time to examine the book more closely. I remembered thinking it was a sweet little book the night Jared gave it to me at the Covington, although looking at it now, I saw it was slightly bigger than I’d originally estimated. Just to be certain, and to be completely obsessive about it, I pulled out my measuring tape to double-check. It was just over eight inches tall, five inches wide, and an inch and a quarter thick. Still sweet, but not quite as little as I’d originally thought.
Setting the tape measure aside, I examined the book further. The brown morocco leather was rich and lustrous. The book itself was well made and now even more structurally sound, thanks to two days in the book press. I opened the book to check all those items I always made a habit of inspecting. Copyright date, country of publication, author name, any dedications, possible author signatures, odd watermarks in the paper. And of course, illustrations, lithographs, woodcuts, or other artwork that might add to the value of the book. In this case, the artwork was all there was, the book’s raison d’être. And the illustrations were glorious.
Audubon truly was a talented artist, I thought, as I paged through the small book. I had gotten close enough to the big Audubon book to wonder how an artist could actually capture the emotion an animal was feeling in that frozen moment.
Did I dare say the paintings in this book were even more amazing? The colors were more vibrant, the animals more alive, if that was possible. The branches of the trees were made with more delicate brushstrokes than I’d noticed in the paintings of the larger book. I pulled out my powerful magnifying glass to study them more closely.
A snowy owl looked so real I could’ve counted the individual feathers in its wings. So soft I was tempted to stroke the downy fluff beneath its outer plumage.
A gorgeous yellow-tailed bird studied a purple flower bud with such deliberate concentration he might’ve been preparing to write a thesis on its exquisite form. It was uncanny. Even a small worm crawling toward the tip of the thin branch had enough detail to almost make me think it was alive.
A family of brightly colored parrots appeared so realistic I wouldn’t have been shocked to hear them start squawking and talking. They perched on slender green bamboo leaves that shimmered in the background.
Maybe it was the fact that Mr. Audubon was creating on a smaller canvas that made these illustrations seem so much more delicate. Maybe he had to use different brushes or give more attention to finer details than with the larger paintings.
It took a few more minutes, but I managed to pull myself out of the book. It would be easy to spend hours studying the illustrations. No wonder Audubon had won international acclaim.
Since reading all about him at the Covington exhibit, I knew Audubon had been a prodigious writer as well as an artist. His journals were studied alongside his illustrations.
He wrote about his travels, his journeys with the Shawnee and Osage Indian tribes, frightening earthquakes, floods, and wars. He went bankrupt and was thrown in jail. He had successes and setbacks; he discovered two hundred of his drawings were eaten by rats. He traveled back and forth from Europe to the United States even though he was prone to seasickness and his ship was once attacked by pirates.
The large Audubon book on display at the Covington had an extended introduction and biography included in the front of the book. Each plate identified the bird or animal shown. Occasionally, it included the Latin name. So for instance, the purple gallinule was also identified as Gallinula martinica, more commonly known as the purple swamp hen.
But this small illustrated book had no writing in it. No introduction by Audubon, no foreword written by another artist or ornithologist, not even a short biography. And no names identifying the birds themselves. It was all artwork, and it was wonderful, but where were the attributions?
I had the strongest urge to go to the Covington to do more research. I also wanted to compare this smaller edition’s painting style with the large elephant folio on display. Even though Jared hadn’t asked me to appraise the book, I wanted to know more about it before I returned it to the National Bird-watchers Society headquarters.
I checked the time. It was only one o’clock. And since Derek wouldn’t be home until later that evening, I decided to go for it.
An hour later, I was standing in the main hall of the Covington. I only had to wait a few minutes before I was able to use the interactive computer set up next to the large Audubon display, on which you could call up a photograph of any page. Along with the paintings, you’d find Audubon’s notes on the animal and cross-reference to when and where he had drawn the pictures. I was just about to pull the smaller Songbirds book from my satchel when I heard a voice behind me.
“Well, look who’s here.”
I whipped around and came face-to-face with Crane’s brother. “Bai, what a surprise. What are you doing here?”
He looked uncomfortable despite the grin. “Didn’t Crane tell you this is my new hangout?”
“He mentioned that you were doing some work here. And if you’ve got to have a hangout, what could be better than the Covington?”
He frowned. “I’m not sure my brother would approve of that theory.”
“Oh, sure, he would,” I said genially. “It keeps us off the streets, right?”
My remark startled a laugh out of him. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“And since I make my living with books, this is my natural habitat, so to speak.”
“At least you have a reason to be here,” he grumbled. “He wouldn’t say the same for me.”
“I can’t believe that,” I said with a smile, trying to keep the conversation casual. But I was dying to ask him why he was in such a crabby mood. “Crane says you’re one of the best artists in China, and since this building is filled with wonderful artwork as well as books, I can’t imagine him disapproving.”
He looked taken aback but recovered quickly. “Thank you.” He gave a slight bow. “You are as wise as you are beautiful.”
I raised my eyebrows. “And you are full of it, but thank you just the same.”
That surprised another laugh out of him, but he instantly sobered. “I know you feel close to Crane because of your relationship with Derek, but please accept this friendly warning.”
Wary, I took a step back. “What is it?”
“Crane is not the paragon you think he is. You shouldn’t believe everything he tells you about me.”
I tried to appear clueless. “What do you mean? He told us about your incredible talent, but other than that, he’s only mentioned that your mother is anxious to have you return to China.”
“Yes, she is,” he said darkly. “But only because Crane frightens her. I have always been a buffer between the two of them.”
I started to question him, but he jerked abruptly. Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he murmured, “Sorry. I’ve got it on vibrate, so it’s always a shock when it goes off.”
“I know what you mean.”
Wearing a fierce scowl, he walked away, whispering into his phone.
As I watched him go, I had to admit that I was still confused by him. He couldn’t be serious about Crane, could he? True, I didn’t know Crane very well, but Derek did, and I trusted his opinion beyond anyone else’s. This had to be another case of Bai trying to undermine his brother and maybe even turn me against him.
So nothing had changed. Bai was still poised to fight Crane every step of the way. I wondered if he understood his own brother’s feelings at all, or if he was similar to a few other cosseted younger siblings I’d known, whose worlds seemed to revolve around themselves. They rarely took the time to consider anyone else’s feelings and were surprised when you pointed out the obvious to them.
Now that I knew Crane a little better, I had serious doubts that he would criticize Bai for hanging out at the Covington. At least, under normal circumstances. But in this case, Crane was clearly afraid that his brother would wreak havoc if he found out that Sheng’s artwork had been mingled with the Audubon paintings.
As Bai disappeared down the hall, I happened to glance up. A woman dressed entirely in black stood alone near the wrought-iron railing of the third-floor balcony. She caught and held my gaze for two seconds, then whipped around and vanished down one of the narrow aisles of books.
I didn’t recognize her, so I shrugged and returned to the interactive computer screen. Reaching for the Songbirds book, I enjoyed myself for a while, comparing and contrasting the illustrations in the two disparate Audubon books, looking up particular birds and judging which was prettier or more interesting. Not that I was any judge, but I was having fun.
After a while, I realized that a line had begun to form behind me. I sighed and slid the smaller volume of Songbirds in Trees back into my satchel.
“Sorry,” I murmured to the next person in line as I moved away from the exhibit. I wasn’t really sorry, though. I’d been having a blast. Call me a nerd, but I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to be able to play with books and artwork all day. I had to be one of the most fortunate people in the world. Or at least one of the top ten.
• • •
I spent another hour meandering through the other Covington galleries before I finally walked back to my car. As I drove home, I thought about stopping off at the Bird-watchers Society headquarters and leaving the book with them. But to be honest, I wasn’t ready to part with it. Since they didn’t know I had it anyway, it wouldn’t be a problem if I were to hold on to it for another day or two. Besides, I wanted to show it to Derek. He’d be able to appreciate the beautiful drawings as well as the elegant book itself.
I stopped at the market on the way home to pick up some essentials. I was parked at the end of the row, and as I fumbled with a full bag of groceries and my car keys, I noticed a blacked-out BMW sedan revving its engine and pulling out of its parking space one aisle over. It headed toward the store, going way too fast for safety.
“Jerk,” I muttered, and dropped my keys. There was something sinister about automobiles with blacked-out windows. I didn’t like it and wondered why it wasn’t against the law.
