Then the service was over and Derek and I were abruptly separated by the thick stream of people exiting the hall. After a brief moment of panic, I allowed myself to be carried along in their wake. Knowing my people, I had high expectations that we would wind up at some massive buffet of food and liquid refreshment.
Sure enough, the crowd headed straight for the dining hall, where tables had been laid with every sort of finger food imaginable, from tiny cheeseburgers to miniature pigs in blankets to more gourmet fare such as toasted squares topped with caviar and salmon. Everything had an accompanying sauce or dip or spread, naturally. Guru Bob did enjoy a good spread.
A wide table at one end of the room held every kind of dessert imaginable. Chocolate éclairs, pies, cakes, puddings and flan and mousse, lemon bars and cookies everywhere.
At the other end of the hall were several long tables where five or six men poured glasses of wine. There was a huge keg at one end, and barrels stuffed with soft drinks and water bottles.
I figured it would be better to eat a little before I headed for the wine, given my slight overindulgence the night before. But as I bit into my petite chicken salad sandwich, I felt my stomach twist.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
Holy spoilage, Batman. What in the world was Minka LaBoeuf doing in Dharma?
I turned and saw her. She stood barely two feet away from me, clutching a glass of red wine with one hand and Enrico Baldacchio’s arm with the other. She wore another one of her dominatrix ensembles, a black leather skirt and matching vest over a white lace blouse with poufy sleeves, accessorized by leopard-patterned gloves and matching pillbox hat with a black tuft of mesh that covered most of her face.
She’d already spilled wine on her white shirt. Such a waste of good wine.
“Minka,” I said, trying not to choke on the word.
“Brooklyn,” she said, stretching the mesh veil back so she could actually see me. “You remember Enrico, don’t you?”
Of course I remembered Enrico. He was an unpleasant little man with a tendency to sweat. And he’d been present at the Covington Library the night of Abraham’s murder.
Abraham had told me they’d tried to work together again but it had ended badly. Before that, they’d barely spoken in years, beginning back when they wound up on opposite sides of a lawsuit involving a counterfeit Marlowe folio sold to the Palace of the Legion of Honor years ago.
“Hello, Enrico,” I said. “It’s been a long time.” Not long enough, I thought, but didn’t say aloud because I’m basically a nice person.
“Che piacere è vederti, il mio caro.” He grabbed my hand and kissed it.
Minka cut in. “He’s saying something like, ‘How are you, my dear? Such a pleasure.’ Blah, blah, blah.”
“Yeah, I get it,” I said, then cringed at the trail of slime Enrico left on my hand. I furtively wiped it off with my appetizer napkin.
“Che posto bello!” he cried, sweeping his arm around. “Una montagna bella! Una montagna bella! Un giorno bello-ma che tragedia!”
“Uh, right. It’s a real tragedy.” I thought that was what he said. But what was up with the Italian? With a name like Baldacchio he had to be Italian, of course, but I remembered him coming from New Jersey.
“Quite a service,” Minka said, but I could see her tongue in her cheek so I knew she was lying. She viewed the crowd for a moment, then said, “Where the hell are we?”
I detested her with all of my being, but this was my town, my home, and my mother would be appalled if I treated any visitor badly, so I sucked it up and said stiffly, “Sonoma County. Really glad you could make it.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
I turned to Enrico. “What are you working on now, Enrico?”
“Ah, signorina.” He shrugged dramatically and fiddled with the cuffs of his dark brown shirt.
Minka slipped her arm through his. “We’re working with an important collector whose name cannot be revealed.”
My bullshit meter must’ve been showing on my face because she continued. “It’s true. He made us sign a confidentiality agreement.”
Who was she trying to impress? And why was she speaking for Enrico? I remembered him speaking English.
“Enrico,” I persisted, “I was so glad to see you at the Covington the other night. It gave me hope that you and Abraham had become friends again. Is that true? Did you bury the hatchet, so to speak?”
“Hatchet?” His eyes widened. “No hatchet! I did not do it.”
“Enrico,” Minka said through gritted teeth as she tightened her hold on his arm. “That’s an American joke. It means, you’ve made friends with Abraham.” She glared at me. “Stop baiting him.”
“I’m not,” I protested, then said to Enrico, “I’m sorry. I meant, I’m so glad to hear you and Abraham were able to be friends again.”
Minka nodded. “And his death is even more tragic because Baldacchio and Karastovsky”-she struck a dramatic pose-“the two greatest bookbinders in all the world, had once again joined together on a very important project.”
Enrico pulled a silk scarf from his pocket and dabbed his dry eyes. “Sì. È una tragedia.”
Minka’s head bobbed in agreement. “The book world has suffered a double blow.”
“Totally,” Enrico said, blowing the Italian for a moment. He nodded rapidly, like a bobblehead. “Sì, sì, si, signorina.”
So not only was he faking the accent, but he was lying about his renewed friendship with Abraham, who’d told me himself that Enrico was a deceitful thief.
“That must’ve been such a comfort,” I said. “To know that you became friends again before he died. Otherwise, you might’ve had to live the rest of your life feeling guilty for never repairing the friendship.”
“Guilty?” he cried. “Non sia stupido! I do nothing! Karastovsky! He try to ruin me! Guilty? Siete pazzeschi! ”
He continued sputtering in outrage. I might’ve touched a nerve. But did he just call me stupid? I hated that.
“Oh, great,” Minka said. “Now I’ll have to listen to this crap all the way home. Thanks a lot.”
“Sorry,” I said flimsily.
“I need more alcohol.” She stomped off, leaving me with one angry Italian. I needed alcohol, too.
“Enrico, I apologize.” I grabbed his oily hand. “I’m so sorry. I did not mean to accuse you of anything.”
I was starting to talk with an Italian accent.
“That’s right. You donna know what you-a talking about, missy.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” I took a deep breath and wrapped my arm through his. “Enrico, we’ve both lost a good friend, and today is no time to talk about business.”
He seemed mollified for the moment. “You right.”
I squeezed his arm. “Would you like more wine?”
“No, no.” He seemed to enjoy my cozying up because he stroked my hand. “You take over Karastovsky’s work at the Covington?”
“Yes, I did.”
He looked left and right, then whispered, “I could-a tell you a thing or two about Karastovsky and those Winslows.”
I looked around, too. “Really?”
“Sì. They think Baldacchio’s a fool but I show them. They promise me a business deal, and I make sure they donna screw me. Baldacchio, he has the last-a laugh.”
“How in the world did you do that?”
“A little insurance.” He rubbed his shoulder against mine. “Maybe I show you sometime.”
“That would be lovely,” I said softly. “Maybe we could meet next week and catch up on old times. Are you busy Monday?”
He was taken aback for a moment, then slowly grinned. “Quello è molto buono. You’re a smart-a cookie.”
His Italian came and went like the tide. I patted his arm. “I’m glad you think so. Shall I come to your studio? Say, around two o’clock Monday?”