I hadn’t noticed the other night, but up close, Meredith Winslow, despite her petite stature, had an almost predatory thing going on. Like a cat, but not a nice kitty. The tabloid press had often called her frivolous, a dumb blonde, but I had the distinct impression there was a lot more going on under those expertly highlighted tresses than most people gave her credit for.
Dumb wasn’t the word I’d use for Meredith Winslow.
Scary came a lot closer.
Chapter 8
I supposed Meredith Winslow and I would never go shopping together, but Mr. and Mrs. Winslow were a couple of pips, as my dad would say. Nice, charming and nothing like what I’d expected, especially after overhearing that argument the other night.
As I began work on the Faust, first prying away the pastedowns from the cover boards, I recalled what I’d overheard of the Winslows’ conversation the night of the murder.
They hadn’t actually mentioned Abraham’s name, so maybe they’d been talking about someone else. But they’d definitely said something about a problem with a book. It had to be connected to their book collection and probably the exhibition.
Could they have meant Ian? I hoped not. The Covington Library had employed an entire crew to work on the Winslow collection. I could ask Ian for the names of everyone on staff, then talk to each of them. But why? Was this me, playing detective? Was this where Derek Stone would step in and call me an idiot for trying to flush out a killer?
“I’m not an idiot,” I grumbled, then realized I was gripping the knife handle so hard it was digging into my palm. I quickly relaxed my grip before I drew blood and broke one of the top ten rules of bookbinding. Don’t bleed on the books.
Maybe I could satisfy my curiosity by calling the police. Just to touch base, find out how the investigation was going. Unfortunately, I still had a few secrets of my own I wasn’t ready to give up, so how could I wangle information out of them if I wasn’t willing to spill my guts in return?
I couldn’t tell them about the Winslows’ conversation I’d overheard the night of the murder because I didn’t even know who they’d been talking about.
And there was my mother showing up at the Covington that same night and acting very strangely. I wasn’t about to mention that to the cops.
There was something missing from inside the Faust. But until I knew what it was, what could I tell the police?
There was the splotch of blood found on the cover of the book, wiped clean by none other than Derek Stone.
“A suspicious move on his part,” I added aloud, then made a note to follow up with Derek about whose blood it was.
I also hadn’t mentioned to the police that I’d found Anandalla’s cocktail napkin note in Abraham’s ransacked studio. But I didn’t know who she was or whether she had anything to do with anything. She could be Abraham’s accountant or his manicurist or someone equally innocuous.
Let’s face it, all I had were theories and maybes and possibilities. No wonder my head was spinning. I guess I wouldn’t be calling the police anytime soon.
The gilded eagle on the cover of the Faust stared up at me with its one good eye. Was it thinking I should get my butt back to work and earn my inflated salary?
“My salary is not inflated, and you’re not even a real bird,” I protested. But I picked up my brush and got back to work anyway. I worked page by page, using the stiff, dry brush to remove microscopic grains of dirt and film and making notes of any damage as I went.
The book hadn’t been stored well, but it wasn’t the worst I’d ever seen. I’d have to detach the signatures-the pages-from the spine and clean and resew them back together more securely. The front and back boards had come loose at the hinges and would need reinforcement. There was some mild insect damage on the tops of a number of pages. And I’d have to clean and reset the gems on the front cover.
I got up from my chair and tested the workroom’s double-screw book press to see if it was in workable condition. I would use it to hold the book, spine end up, to resew the signatures and do the gluing and possibly regild the spine titles and “make it look pretty,” per the clients’ orders. The screws on the press needed oiling, but otherwise, it was a decent piece of hardware. This type of press, with its two independent screws, was ideal for books that had suffered water and mildew damage because they were often bloated and uneven along the sides.
I studied the fanciful text as I worked. The book was written entirely in German, of course. I could make out a number of basic words, having spent two weeks skiing in Garmisch-Partenkirchen during college. Unfortunately, I didn’t see any references to swilling cheap German lager or extreme snowboarding, which I would’ve been able to translate impeccably. I made a note to buy a German dictionary and a paperback version of Faust and read Goethe’s version of the man who sold his soul to the devil.
The devil.
My hands froze on the page as Abraham’s last words came rushing back into my head. Remember the devil. I felt a wave of dismay that I still didn’t have a clue what they meant.
“Knock, knock.”