I endured the picture show grudgingly. London had always been the competitive one, always trying to one-up me with Mom. You didn’t see me foisting shots of my moldy old books onto my mother, did you? Figures London would give birth to twins. I wasn’t about to compete with that.
I finally managed to say good-bye without succumbing to the pot roast dinner my mother tried to tempt me with. The fact that I would turn down my mom’s incredible cooking said something about my desperate need to get back to the City before it rained. I really hated driving in the rain.
I hiked down the hill to Abraham’s where I’d left my car. On a whim, I detoured back to his studio, thinking I’d grab some more of those shells for my own use. Abraham wouldn’t miss them and I wanted to experiment with an Asian-influenced accordion-style album I was designing for a client.
There was just enough moonlight that I didn’t turn the studio light on, just zipped inside and headed straight for the shells. I stumbled over something hard but caught myself, barely.
“Nice going, Your Grace,” I berated myself. I moved forward slowly in the dark and found the back worktable. I fumbled around, grabbed a handful of shells and carefully placed them in the side pocket of my bag.
As I started back toward the door, I realized that what I really wanted was my Weeds book. It would be a sweet reminder of my early years working with Abraham and I wanted it for my own studio.
I headed for the bookshelf and my foot crunched over something. It was probably another shell. I thought I’d picked them all up off the floor, but I guess I missed one.
I made it to the darkened bookshelf and looked closely for a moment before distinguishing the blue leather cover from the others. I pulled the book off the shelf and slipped it into my bag, just as the studio light flipped on and the world lit up.
Chapter 7
“Stealing books again?”
My heart nearly jumped out of my chest. “Oh my God.”
“Call me Derek,” he said with a sardonic chuckle, amused by his little joke. He stood in the doorway, not quite inside the room, so the light didn’t reach his face. But even if he hadn’t announced himself, I would’ve recognized that lithe, muscular figure anywhere.
I had to slap my chest a few times to get my heart pumping before I could squeak intelligibly. “What are you doing here? You scared the crap out of me.”
“That’s always a nice side benefit,” Derek remarked as he strolled toward me. “I recall watching the police seal this room.”
“It was sealed? I hadn’t noticed.” I took a step back. “You followed me here.”
“Of course I did.” He splayed his hands out as though he were holding some special gift I’d always wanted. “You left the Covington in too much of a hurry to be up to any good.”
“Well, you’re late. I’m leaving now.”
“I saw you in here earlier, but your mother arrived so I decided to wait. And sure enough, you’re back, skulking around in the dark.”
“If this is about me being a murder suspect, get over it.” I rubbed my temples to stave off the headache he was giving me. “You’ve wasted time tracking me halfway across Northern California while the real killer is getting away with murder.”
“I don’t think you’re a murder suspect,” he said as he picked up a birch board and ran one hand across the smooth surface, his clever fingers stroking the wood back and forth across the grain.
Good grief.
His words slowly filtered through my clogged brain. “Wait. You don’t think I killed Abraham? Then why are you here?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I assumed you’d try something stupid. Turns out I was right.”
“You-what?”
“I said, I assumed you’d-”
“I heard you,” I snapped. “Can you get any more insulting?”
He grinned. “I can try.”
I stifled a shriek, inhaled deeply and let the air out slowly. “So you followed me because you think I’m stupid?”
“I don’t think you’re stupid but I do think you might do something stupid.” He leaned back against the worktable and crossed his ankles.
I shook my head. “Sounds like the same thing to me.”
“It’s not.”
“I appreciate that you think there’s a difference, but I don’t-”
“Are you, or are you not, trying to track down a killer by yourself?”
I licked my lips. A tell? “No.”
“I believe you are.”
I laughed but it sounded tinny. “That’s ridiculous. I came up here looking for Abraham’s journals to help with the work I’m doing on the Faust. I went to visit my parents up the street and stopped back here to get a book that belongs to me.”
I glanced around as I said it and suddenly realized something was very wrong.
Abraham’s studio was a mess. I mean, a real mess. Torn apart. Things were tossed across the countertops and on the floor. A heavy punching cradle was upended on the floor, the hard object I’d stumbled over. There were papers pulled from drawers and reams of book cloth strewn around the room. Several glass jars used to mix PVA glue were shattered on the floor.
“Look at this mess,” I said in alarm. “Somebody’s been here.”