“I love it,” I said, and hated that someone had marred my wonderful home.
Robin put the bottle in the recycling bin. “Inspector Lee has great hair, doesn’t she?”
“Very pretty,” Vinnie said. “But she is too thin.”
I took a big gulp of wine. “I was just thinking the other day that she needs a makeover.”
“Yeah,” Robin said, “but tonight probably wasn’t the best time to bring up the idea.”
“You could do me,” Vinnie said, draining her glass. “I would very much enjoy a makeover.”
Suzie stared at Vinnie, appalled, then looked at Robin and me. “I’d better get her home.”
Robin insisted that I spend the night at her house and I didn’t argue. I hated leaving my place unoccupied, but Suzie and Vinnie promised they would keep their eyes and ears open and alert our other neighbors to do the same.
I called my parents’ house that night, but there was no answer. My father didn’t own a cell phone, so I had no way of reaching him if he wasn’t home. I called my sister China and my brothers, but they hadn’t heard anything yet. I made them promise they’d call me as soon as they heard from Dad.
The next day I woke up to the smell of coffee and dragged myself out of bed. After examining my face and finding the bruise had turned to pale yellow, I stumbled to the kitchen, where Robin sat reading the newspaper.
She took one look at my worn plaid pajamas and said, “We could go shopping today.”
“I don’t need anything.”
She snorted. “Yeah, you do. Appropriate sleepwear, if nothing else.”
I poured myself a mug of coffee, stirred in a little half-and-half, and took a sip before responding. Then I took another sip and decided there was no suitable response.
“I’d better get moving,” I said finally. “I need to finish the Covington job.”
“I’ll pick up something cute for you while I’m out.”
“Sweet, but not necessary.”
I showered and dressed in jeans, sweater, jacket and comfortable yet stylish flats. No more heels this week. My mangled feet and aching calves couldn’t take it. I used some of Robin’s makeup to cover the bruise on my face and thought I did a pretty good job.
Robin lived on the edge of Noe Valley, one of the nicer, upscale neighborhoods in the City, a land of attractive three-story flats, charming shops and baby strollers. Whenever we ate out in her neighborhood, Robin would warn me to watch my ankles. Those new mothers with their strollers played hardball.
After thanking Robin for safe haven and breakfast, I walked down the block to Twenty-fourth Street, where the Phoenix Bookstore had two paperback copies of Goethe’s Faust in stock. One of them contained a convenient German translation on the pages facing the English text. I bought that one, determined to read it from start to finish for any possible clue to Abraham’s last words. I also found a German-English dictionary and bought it for good measure.
I strolled back to my car, enjoying the cool, sunny weather. For the first time in a few days, I didn’t get the eerie feeling that someone was watching me. But I did have a compelling urge to go home, see if my place was okay and clean up and reorganize things. The burglar had made a huge mess, but the fingerprint guys hadn’t helped the situation. Fine black powder covered every surface.
After weighing the pros and cons, I figured I’d better put in a full day at the Covington and get back on track with the Winslow project. I pulled out of the parking space and headed north on Castro, then crossed Market Street. The lush, thick palm trees lining the center island at this spot along Market were always an impressive sight, but I was too uptight to appreciate them today. I checked my rearview mirror all the way across Market, up Divisadero toward Pacific Heights. As I came to a stop at Jackson Street, a homeless woman with leathery skin and tangled hair crossed in front me, shouting and cursing at no one in particular. The disturbed, ranting woman reminded me of Minka LaBoeuf going off on me yesterday, screaming to the world that I was a murderer. Okay, maybe she had seen my car on Enrico’s street, but you’d never hear me confess it aloud.
I’d discounted Minka as the killer, but now I had to wonder why. She certainly was capable of violence. I touched my still-bruised cheek and rubbed the scar on my hand as if to hammer home the realization.
I doubted she was clever enough to pretend to show up at Enrico’s house after she’d killed him, but it could’ve happened.
But if Minka were the killer, she also would’ve been the one who ransacked my loft and studio. Regrettably, Minka had been in jail last night, so she was an unlikely suspect. Or was she? I made a mental note to check with Inspector Lee on Minka’s whereabouts last night.
My hands trembled on the steering wheel. I still had plenty of unresolved issues when it came to my nemesis.
When the signal changed, it felt good to gun the engine and roar up the steep hill.
“Yoo-hoo?”
I looked up from my pasting job and saw Sylvia Winslow standing tentatively at the door.
“I know I’m interrupting,” she said.
“Not at all,” I insisted with a smile. “Come on in.”
She stepped inside and closed the door, looking lovely in an elegant navy pin-striped pantsuit, her red hair tucked behind her ears to show off her diamond studs. Robin could’ve nailed the suit’s designer and the size of those diamonds in a heartbeat. All I knew was that everything she wore was expensive and gorgeous.
“I just wanted to stop in and see how you’re doing,” she said. “Your work is so interesting.”
“Come look.”
“Oh my.” She placed her clutch purse on the side table and stared at the vertical press that held the repaired signatures I was gluing. Her gaze slowly swept across the wide work surface, resting on the black leather cover for the Faust that was stretched and held in place at each corner by weights.
“It’s all in pieces, isn’t it? I never expected…” She wrung her hands. “Well, you obviously know what you’re doing. I won’t disturb you.”
“Please don’t worry.” I stuck my glue brush into the jar of water and wiped my hands. “You’ve caught me at the perfect moment. The glue has to dry before I can do much else.”
She wandered around the table to get a better look at the weighted leather cover, then looked at me, bewildered.
I explained the process of straightening the leather, showed her how the glue was drying on the signatures and how I’d fasten the refurbished leather cover to the new boards.
“It’s fascinating,” she said, but her lips were pinched with worry.
“What’s wrong, Mrs. Winslow?”
“Oh dear,” she said. “I hate to even bring up the subject. But I understand Enrico Baldacchio was found dead yesterday.”
“Yes. It’s horrible.”
Her hand was trembling when she took mine. “I hate to speak ill, Brooklyn, but he was not a nice man. I didn’t trust him in the least. But of course, he didn’t deserve to die.”
“No, of course not.”
“I don’t know what’s happening,” she whispered. “I wonder if it’s our fault.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our book is cursed,” she said, forlorn. “I’ll never forgive myself if we somehow-”
“No.” I pushed my high chair away from the table. “I’m sorry, but a book does not go around killing people. You can’t blame yourself for any of this.”
She waved her hand in the air, flustered. “Oh, of course it’s not really cursed. But so many awful things are happening. I don’t like all this controversy hanging over our exhibit.”
“Well, it’ll certainly drive up ticket sales,” I said philosophically.
She hid a smile with her hand. “That’s very bad of you.”