I stared at Abraham’s house, an imposing two-story Spanish colonial with a great view of the town and rolling hills beyond. Not exactly the picture that leapt to mind when you heard the word commune, but years ago, once the commune had started making money, Guru Bob had been adamant about raising the level of impressions and lifestyle.
Abraham’s patio and pool circled the back of the house and his bookbinding studio was at the far end of the property.
I grabbed my keys and bag and headed for the studio. A banner of yellow crime scene ribbon was strewn across the door, so the police had been here, too. Had they found anything incriminating?
I had a moment of indecision, then resolutely pulled the tape off and opened the door. I walked inside and was assailed by the smells of rich leather, musty parchment, inks and oils and peppermint. Almost instantly, bittersweet memories flooded my consciousness.
I could picture Abraham standing in his leather apron, his shirtsleeves shoved up his dark, muscular arms, his leather-stained hands gold-flecked as he painstakingly gilded an intricate design on the spine of a book held tightly in place by one of his antique book presses.
I’d grown up in this room, apprenticing for the man. It hadn’t been easy. He’d enjoyed being a strict task-master and I made a lot of mistakes. But I loved the work, loved the books, loved the feeling of accomplishment that came with completing a project. I knew from the beginning I had a gift for both the art and the craft of bookbinding, even though Abraham never said so. It didn’t matter. I’d overheard him telling my parents on more than one occasion that I’d done good work and it never failed to warm my heart to hear him say so.
As I rounded the room, I caught a whiff of sawdust mixed with sweat and glue and I almost lost it right there. He should’ve been here, working and laughing and ordering me around. I gulped, trying to ease the lump in my throat.
I dabbed away tears with my jacket sleeve as I ambled around the studio looking for anything that might tell me what had been hidden behind the endpapers of the Winslow Faust. A journal perhaps, or a binder, a calendar. Or maybe a sign that read “Yo, here’s what you’re looking for.”
Abraham’s studio was arranged in typical workshop fashion with three wide counters running along the walls and a high worktable in the center. The side counters were jammed with book presses and punches and other equipment. Shelves lined the walls and held hundreds of spools of threads, tools, brushes, more paper, rolls of leather and stacks of heavy cardboard.
“You were always such a mess.” I straightened tools as I went, clumped loose brushes together in an empty jar, neatly restacked an unruly pile of endpapers.
I distracted myself by picking up the cordless phone from its base at the edge of the worktable. Absently, I checked the phone numbers on speed dial and recognized my own as well as my parents’. I put the phone down on the napkin it was resting on, then noticed that it was a cocktail napkin from a restaurant I recognized, the Buena Vista near Fisherman’s Wharf.
I picked it up and saw a note scrawled on the back.
You missed our appt. Are you bullshitting me? You’ve got one more chance. Meet me at the BV this Friday night or all bets are off.
It was signed Anandalla.
Anandalla? What kind of a name was Anandalla? More important, who was she? A date? A client? The note sounded ominous. Was it written by Abraham’s killer?
I was familiar with the Buena Vista, a venerable bar and restaurant near Fisherman’s Wharf, down the street from Ghirardelli Square. I hadn’t been there in months but it might be worth a visit this Friday night. Not that I had a clue who this Anandalla might be, but maybe she knew something about Abraham that would help me put the pieces of the puzzle together.
I stuck the cocktail napkin in my pocket and moved to the long counter against the back wall. Here, Abraham had stacked a number of newly sanded, thin birch wood panels for use as book covers, I guessed. Big chunks of bone and seashells lay in a pile next to the wood.
Months ago, Abraham had mentioned teaching a class on Zen and the art of Japanese bookbinding. I’d thought it sounded like great fun. I sifted through the bones and shells, picking out the most solid shapes, thinking they would make beautiful closure clasps. I stuck a few in my bag, neatly lined up the shells and bones, straightened the stack of birch covers, then moved to Abraham’s bookshelf at the end of the counter. This was where he’d always kept his finished projects and samples, along with some of my earliest attempts at bookbinding. I leaned in to see the titles.
“Hey,” I whispered, and pulled out the aged, leather-bound copy of Wild Flowers in the Wind.