It was hard to keep my eyes open and my mind on the road because I was exhausted. I’d spent Sunday evening skimming Abraham’s journals but had found absolutely nothing enlightening or instructive anywhere. Well, except for the fact that he didn’t like the Winslows. There were notations on almost every page indicating their ignorance of art and process.
I’d winced as I read a few passages. Abraham had become obsessed with the Winslows, possibly to the detriment of his work. There was almost nothing written about the Faust. Not one reference to the secret panel he’d found behind the endpapers covering the front board. No slip of aged paper clipped to any of the pages with a stickie attached that said “This is the secret document you’ve been looking for.” Nothing.
Needless to say, I hadn’t slept well. The shocking confrontation with Annie, then the news of the inheritance, then that weird moment on the road Saturday night when I thought some SUV driver was going to kill me, all weighed heavily on me. Then at some point during the night, I realized I’d lost track of Derek Stone up in Dharma. Maybe he’d joined Mary Ellen’s Church of the True Blood of Ogun. I would miss him but he’d obviously found his true calling.
By midmorning, I was shaking. I couldn’t concentrate on the Faust. When I wasn’t wondering about Derek, I was thinking about Abraham. And Annie. And six million dollars. And some missing link that might reveal Abraham’s killer. Abraham’s dying words continued to haunt my thoughts and I wondered whether the devil he’d been referring to was a part of the book’s text.
It made me crazy that all these distractions were interrupting my work since I had only this week to complete the restoration. To concentrate, I grabbed a 3 Musketeers bar from my bag, unwrapped it and took a big bite. It helped, as always, and I hunkered down to work.
I’d already unsealed the black leather cover from the boards and separated the text block. I’d dissolved the glue and carefully pulled the threads out, separating the signatures in order to clean and repair those that needed attention.
I spent some time examining the pages with the worst wear, then tried to read the text for some clue to the genius that was Goethe. Unfortunately, I didn’t know enough German to understand all the words, and it didn’t help that the text itself was written in an Old English-style font.
The book was written in the form of a play, with the characters’ names written out before their speeches. As I studied the page, one short exchange jumped out at me.
MEPHISTOPHELES: Ich bin’s.
FAUST: Herein!
The words alarmed me. Even my rudimentary knowledge of German was enough to know that with one word, the arrogant Faust had doomed himself to an eternity in hell.
It is I, the devil says.
Enter, says Faust.
“Yes, do come in,” I muttered. “Take my soul in exchange for immortality and destroy everything I’ve ever loved.”
That was the devil’s plan all along, wasn’t it?
Remember the devil.
Did Abraham’s last words have anything to do with Goethe’s masterpiece? I kept forgetting to pick up a paperback copy, but in my defense, I’d had some distractions to deal with. I made a note to do it after my meeting with Enrico this afternoon.
For now, I concentrated on the foxing I’d seen on a number of the pages. Foxing referred to the small, reddish brown spots of mildew or dirt that appeared over time on the pages of old books. There were different techniques for removing the spots. Most of them involved solutions of bleach or peroxide or other chemicals that could ultimately damage the fibers in the paper. I couldn’t take that chance with the Faust, so I had decided to experiment with something I’d seen on one of my online loops.
I pulled a slice of white bread from the cheapest loaf I’d found at the market, then tore off the crusts and squished the slices together to make a ball.
The theory was that the bleached flour would help whiten the spots without damaging the paper itself. The e-mail poster had warned that the results wouldn’t be perfect but there would be some improvement.
After gently rubbing in a circular pattern, I was amazed to see the white ball of bread turning darker and crumbly. It was actually pulling the dirt out of the paper. The spots didn’t completely disappear, but they were much lighter than before.
“That was amazing,” I marveled as I tossed the used bread in the wastebasket and pulled out another slice. All this bread reminded me that I’d been going on two lattes and chocolate since I’d left home this morning. I was starving. I supposed I could munch on the white bread, but that seemed pathetic somehow. Maybe I’d grab a sandwich at the Covington tearoom.
I pushed the stool away from the table, stood and stretched. Without warning, my neck muscles cramped up.
“Loafing on the job as usual,” Minka said as she walked in. She wore leopard-skin leggings, a tight black turtleneck sweater and sparkly red heels. I don’t make this stuff up.
“Didn’t I warn you to stay out of my workroom?” I asked, dismissing any pretense of politeness as I rubbed away the kink in my neck caused by her proximity.
“What bug crawled up your ass?” she said, her nasal voice fraying my nerves.
“I’m busy, Minka.” I made a show of grabbing the white cloth and covering the book, afraid her cooties might infect it. Childish, but it worked for me.
She snorted. “If I’d just inherited a shitload of chaching, I’d be in a hell of a better mood than you are.”
My mouth fell open. How had she heard about Abraham’s will? I hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. It was as if the woman had extrasensory psychosis.
She studied her half-inch-long fingernails, then nibbled at a hangnail. “I had a little talk with the police yesterday.”
“What a coincidence. So did I.”
Her brows knit together. “You did?”
“Yeah. Except in my case, I told the truth.”
“I don’t lie,” she said, offended.
“Yes, you do,” I said. “You lied about Abraham and me, remember? About us fighting the night he died? That was a lie.”
She cocked her head. “Really? My bad.”
It was probably unkind to despise someone so stupid, but I did. My bad.
She glanced at me through blue-mascara-caked eyelashes. “I bet the police would be interested to hear about all that money you got.”
I took a breath and counted to five. It wouldn’t do for another murder to occur at the Covington within a week of the first one.
“I’m sure they would,” I said. “That’s why I’m calling them this afternoon to tell them.”
She blinked. “Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“Whatever.” But her lip curled. I’d stolen her thunder.
“I should apologize, though,” I said. “I didn’t realize you hadn’t mentioned to the police that Abraham fired you from your job.”
Her eyes grew wide. “That had nothing to do with-”
“With murdering him?”
“You shut up.”
“They think that’s a great motive for murder.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“Now, that’s the pot calling the kettle late for dinner.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” I waved my hand at the table. “Go away, Minka. I’m busy here.”
She folded her arms tightly under her breasts and glowered at me. “You think you’re so smart.”
I thought about that. “I guess I do.”
“We’ll see who’s smarter when you’re standing in the unemployment line.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Maybe.”
“Fair enough.” I moved closer. “But if you say one more word about me to the police, I’ll make you sorry you ever crawled out from under that rock and started screwing with my life.”
“Is that a threat?” she mocked.
“Yeah, it is.”
“God, you’re such a bitch.”