“Why is she taking pictures of our stuff?”
I should’ve been used to people sneaking up on me by now, but no. I almost dropped my camera.
Meredith Winslow stood just inside the room, wearing a petulant frown and a perky yellow wool mini-dress. Meredith’s mother and father stood close behind her, making a perfect family portrait. American Gothic with snotty offspring.
I had an insane urge to shout, “Say cheese!” and snap their photo, but I resisted. Instead, I pasted a smile on my face and said, “Come on in. I’m just doing some preliminary work before I start the restoration.”
Meredith didn’t move but continued to glare at me with her bottom lip stuck out in a pout. She looked exactly as I’d seen her in hundreds of tabloid photos taken over the years. I wondered why she was looking at me as if I’d stolen her favorite puppy or something.
“Come on, Merry, you’re holding up the show,” Conrad Winslow said jovially as he grabbed hold of his daughter’s arm and steered her into the room. I hadn’t noticed the other night, but he spoke with a slight German accent.
“Daddy,” Meredith protested, and tugged her arm away. Her cheeks turned pink. She seemed embarrassed by her dad and obviously pissed off about being dragged in here to meet me.
“I’m Brooklyn,” I said as I casually spread the white cloth over the Faust. I still felt a little protective about the book.
“We’ve heard all about you, Brooklyn,” Mrs. Winslow said. Her smile was so genuine, I almost relaxed.
“I can explain some of the work I’ll be doing if you’d like.”
“We’d love it,” Mrs. Winslow said.
I pulled the book closer and took off the cloth, and they all jostled for position around me.
“It’s so fascinating,” Mrs. Winslow said.
“Whole other world,” Conrad agreed.
Ian walked in and grinned. “There you are.”
“Hi, Ian,” Meredith said, batting her eyelashes.
“Hi, Meredith.” He gave her a slight smile. “Allow me to make the official introductions.” He formally introduced us, then said, “Brooklyn is one of the finest rare book experts in the country. She’ll be completing the work on the Faust for the official opening next week.”
“It’s great to meet you all,” I said, flustered by Ian’s praise as I stood to shake hands with everyone. I was at least half a foot taller than Meredith, but she still gave the impression of looking down on me. Screw it, I’d been looked down on by better bitches than this one. Besides, her handshake had all the clout of a dead trout.
Mrs. Winslow shook my hand and said, “It’s lovely to officially meet you, Brooklyn. You come so highly regarded, I know you’ll do us proud.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Mrs. Winslow. I hope you’ll be pleased.”
“Oh, honey,” she said with just a hint of a soft Southern accent as she patted the top of my hand affectionately. “I don’t have a worry in the world. And you call me Sylvia.”
I smiled for real. “Thanks, Sylvia.”
“We’re just so grateful to have you working for us, under the circumstances.”
“Yah, it’s great to meet you, young lady,” Mr. Winslow said genially, edging around his wife to grab my hand and pump it briskly. “Conrad Winslow, at your service.”
He was solidly built, about six feet tall, with reddish hair going gray at the temples. His navy suit probably cost three thousand dollars, but his white shirt was coming untucked and his tie was askew. And his eyes were slightly red. I had the fleeting thought that he’d probably had a drink with breakfast.
I was shocked to realize I liked him. I liked his wife, too. These were the people that less than a day ago I’d considered most likely to fry for killing Abraham.
Of course, my altered opinion didn’t stretch to little Meredith. She was a stone-cold ice maiden.
How had two fairly normal people spawned someone like her?
“It’s just so fascinating, what you do,” Sylvia said, moving closer to the table. “Can you explain some of your processes?”
“Sure,” I said, and turned back to the table in time to see Meredith reach for the book.
“No,” I said, moving the book away.
“What?” She looked astonished. “It’s our property.”
“I’m sorry,” I said immediately. “Of course it’s your property. I meant no insult. It just needs to be handled carefully; that’s all. I can show you.”
“Forget it.”
“Meredith, please,” Sylvia said. “I’m sure Brooklyn didn’t-”
“Fine, take her side.” She crossed her arms and slumped against the side counter. “It’s just a stupid book.”
“That’s more than enough, Meredith,” Sylvia said through clenched teeth, then turned to me. “Brooklyn is such an interesting name. Are you named for the borough? Do people call you Brook?”
“Well,” I began, “most people call me-”
“Sylvia, don’t badger the girl,” Mr. Winslow said with a hearty laugh. “Let her get back to work.”
Sylvia laughed and patted my arm. “I don’t mean to pester you.” She glanced at her daughter. “Meredith, please don’t slouch.”
“You’re not pestering me at all,” I insisted with a smile. “It’s a pleasure to talk to you.” I glanced at Ian to make sure he noticed all the happy kowtowing going on. “Please come by anytime.”
“It’s nice to see a young person with such focus.” She gave her daughter a pointed look.
Oh boy.
Meredith clenched her teeth. “We should let the working girl get back to work.”
“Good idea,” Ian said quickly.
Conrad rocked on his heels. “You do a good job and there might be a little bonus in it for you.”
I smiled at him. “That’s not necessary, Mr. Winslow. I’m just doing my job and I love my work.”
“Nothing wrong with being well paid for a job well-done, is there?” He winked. “I’ve found that money greases a lot of wheels.”
He laughed and I chuckled at his cheery candor. I didn’t mean it to be a private moment between us, but that was how he seemed to take it. And so did Meredith. Her eyes narrowed on me like a death ray. Not to be a wimp, but she seriously creeped me out.
I hadn’t noticed the other night, but up close, Meredith Winslow, despite her petite stature, had an almost predatory thing going on. Like a cat, but not a nice kitty. The tabloid press had often called her frivolous, a dumb blonde, but I had the distinct impression there was a lot more going on under those expertly highlighted tresses than most people gave her credit for.
Dumb wasn’t the word I’d use for Meredith Winslow.
Scary came a lot closer.
Chapter 8
I supposed Meredith Winslow and I would never go shopping together, but Mr. and Mrs. Winslow were a couple of pips, as my dad would say. Nice, charming and nothing like what I’d expected, especially after overhearing that argument the other night.
As I began work on the Faust, first prying away the pastedowns from the cover boards, I recalled what I’d overheard of the Winslows’ conversation the night of the murder.
They hadn’t actually mentioned Abraham’s name, so maybe they’d been talking about someone else. But they’d definitely said something about a problem with a book. It had to be connected to their book collection and probably the exhibition.
Could they have meant Ian? I hoped not. The Covington Library had employed an entire crew to work on the Winslow collection. I could ask Ian for the names of everyone on staff, then talk to each of them. But why? Was this me, playing detective? Was this where Derek Stone would step in and call me an idiot for trying to flush out a killer?