My luck held out as I snagged a parking space on the street. I took in the graceful Italianate building with its famously lush gardens and walked up the wide central marble stairway. The stately iron doors were open, and I entered the hushed foyer, then walked into the grand hall, a massive room three stories high that held many of the most sacred and rarest of all the books of the world.
I’d been coming to the Covington since my early teens and had never grown tired of it. I loved this place. It defined me.
I edged my way past the exhibits because I didn’t have time to peruse anything today and didn’t want to be tempted. But I promised myself I would come back very soon. I’d missed the Covington and its magnificent collections.
Minutes later, I was knocking on Ian’s door. His secretary gestured for me to go right in, so I cracked the door open.
“Knock, knock,” I said, peeking inside.
“Brooklyn!” he cried. “Come in.”
“Sure you’re not busy?”
“Not when it’s you.” He pushed back from his desk and strolled across the wide, stylishly appointed space with open arms. After a rousing hug, he led me over to one of the elegant wing-back chairs in front of his mahogany desk. “Sit. What’s going on? What a treat. Do you want to have lunch?”
“I can’t stay for lunch, but thanks. I just wanted to say hello and see how you’re doing. How’s Jake?”
“I’m fine, he’s fine, and we’re fine. So what’s in the bag?”
I laughed. “Okay, enough niceties. I wanted to show you a book I’m working on.”
“Let’s see it,” he said, leaning his hip against the edge of his desk.
I looked around the room. “Let’s use your conference table.”
“Perfect.” He waved his hand for me to precede him to the dark wood table set along a wall of windows that presented an incomparable view of the Golden Gate Bridge and Marin County beyond the blue waters of the bay.
I carried the book across the room and placed it on the table’s smooth surface. “Check it out.”
“Wow,” he said, sitting down and running his hand along the joint of the front cover. “Awesome.”
“Is that your professional opinion?” I asked, teasing him.
He opened the book and studied the frontispiece. “No. Professionally, I would say this book totally rocks.”
I laughed again. We were both such book geeks, it was scary. This was another reason marriage to Ian had been such an absurd idea. I mean, other than the fact that he was gay, our temperament and our likes and dislikes were so identical, we would’ve bored each other to death.
I watched his examination of the Kama Sutra. It was fun to listen to his oohs and ahhs, along with the occasional moan or gasp.
While he enjoyed himself, I took a moment to glance around and check out his office, and noticed a new painting on the wall behind his desk. I knew for a fact that the painting hid a wall safe, so size mattered. Even though this painting wasn’t particularly large, maybe four or five feet in both directions, it was impressive. It was modern and stark, yet intriguing in its simplicity, showing a woman wearing a navy sweater and skirt, sitting in a red chair, drinking coffee. On the wall behind her was a window. Splashes of white, black, and blue filled the background.
“You have a new painting,” I remarked.
He dragged his attention away from the book and followed my gaze. “My Diebenkorn lady. Do you like her?”
“A lot, and I’m not even sure why, because it’s not really my style. But I’m also jealous that you can snap your fingers and get a fabulous work of art installed in your office.”
“One of the many perks.” He returned his attention to the Kama Sutra, turning pages, studying the endpapers, the inner joints and spine. Finally he looked up at me. “You shouldn’t be jealous of me when you get to work with something like this every day.”
“It really is amazing, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. I’d love to display it. Is it for sale or available for loan?”
“I don’t know, but I could find out.” I explained the situation. My work would take a few weeks; then I would be glad to contact Rajiv and find out his plans for the book.
“Great,” Ian said. “Let me know, because this would be an excellent addition to our exhibit of sacred texts.”
“I’ll definitely let you know. Oh, and this should make you laugh. Thanks to Robin, I’m now involved in a bizarre murder investigation involving a Ukrainian or Russian connection to something or other that-”
His office door swung open without warning-and the air around me chilled to freezing.
“Ian, Bill won’t let me use his tools.” The voice sounded like the bleating whine of a bloated sheep. “I want you to-What the hell is she doing here?”
Minka LaBoeuf.
My worst nightmare. My back stiffened, my throat tightened, and my ears plugged up. My whole body went into lockdown mode. It was the only way I could survive her repugnant presence, the only way I could deal with my intense aversion to her voice, her negativity, her existence. Her pleather wardrobe.
“What are you looking at?” she demanded as she pushed past me and reached for the Kama Sutra. “Hey, that’s French! I know French! My father’s half French! Why didn’t you ask me to work on this book?”
I pulled the book away firmly and glared at Ian. “You hired her again, didn’t you?”
He gave me an abashed scowl. “Bill thought she could help out with the new arrivals from the Merced collection.”
“Only if you want to declare the whole thing a loss,” I declared, and briskly wrapped up the Kama Sutra, mainly to protect it from Minka’s bad vibes.
Hadn’t Ian learned that Minka was an anathema to books everywhere? And to me, too. If I’d known she was working here, I might’ve rethought this visit with Ian. She could ruin my day just by walking into the room. And why hadn’t she knocked on Ian’s door? Talk about freaking rude. Honestly, she needed to wear a bell around her neck to warn people she was coming.
“She was injured at BABA last month, so Bill took pity on her,” he explained quietly.
I knew about her injury. I’d been there. Still, that was no excuse. “He should’ve taken more pity on the poor books.”
“I know,” he murmured.
“Hello, I’m standing right here,” Minka griped. “I can hear what you’re saying.” She turned her back on me and faced Ian. “I should be working on that book, Ian. I heard her say there’s a Russian connection. My grandmother was born in Estonia, so I’m practically Russian. And I saw the text. It’s French and so am I.”
I rolled my eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, as usual.”
Ian stood and worked up a gracious smile. “Sorry, Minka, but I’ll talk to Bill in a few minutes. Why don’t you use your own tools until then?”
“If I use my own tools you’re going to have to pay me more.”
“You’re paying her?” I said, outraged.
“Shut up,” Ian hissed, trying not to laugh.
Minka stomped her foot and let out a little shriek. “God! You’re both a couple of superficial jerks!” And she flounced out the door.
I started to breathe again.
“Damn it, Brooklyn,” he said. “Now I’m going to have to be nice to her.”
“Why? She’s so close to worthless it’s ridiculous.”
“Exactly. She’s cheap. That’s her best quality.” He put his hands on his hips. “Do you want to come in and do the work instead?”
“Cleaning books? Are you kidding? No way.”
“You superficial jerk,” he grumbled.
“Hey, you’re one, too.”
He laughed out loud. “Can’t you just see that on a T-shirt?”