“Minka,” I said, trying not to choke on the word.
“Brooklyn,” she said, stretching the mesh veil back so she could actually see me. “You remember Enrico, don’t you?”
Of course I remembered Enrico. He was an unpleasant little man with a tendency to sweat. And he’d been present at the Covington Library the night of Abraham’s murder.
Abraham had told me they’d tried to work together again but it had ended badly. Before that, they’d barely spoken in years, beginning back when they wound up on opposite sides of a lawsuit involving a counterfeit Marlowe folio sold to the Palace of the Legion of Honor years ago.
“Hello, Enrico,” I said. “It’s been a long time.” Not long enough, I thought, but didn’t say aloud because I’m basically a nice person.
“Che piacere è vederti, il mio caro.” He grabbed my hand and kissed it.
Minka cut in. “He’s saying something like, ‘How are you, my dear? Such a pleasure.’ Blah, blah, blah.”
“Yeah, I get it,” I said, then cringed at the trail of slime Enrico left on my hand. I furtively wiped it off with my appetizer napkin.
“Che posto bello!” he cried, sweeping his arm around. “Una montagna bella! Una montagna bella! Un giorno bello-ma che tragedia!”
“Uh, right. It’s a real tragedy.” I thought that was what he said. But what was up with the Italian? With a name like Baldacchio he had to be Italian, of course, but I remembered him coming from New Jersey.
“Quite a service,” Minka said, but I could see her tongue in her cheek so I knew she was lying. She viewed the crowd for a moment, then said, “Where the hell are we?”
I detested her with all of my being, but this was my town, my home, and my mother would be appalled if I treated any visitor badly, so I sucked it up and said stiffly, “Sonoma County. Really glad you could make it.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
I turned to Enrico. “What are you working on now, Enrico?”
“Ah, signorina.” He shrugged dramatically and fiddled with the cuffs of his dark brown shirt.
Minka slipped her arm through his. “We’re working with an important collector whose name cannot be revealed.”
My bullshit meter must’ve been showing on my face because she continued. “It’s true. He made us sign a confidentiality agreement.”
Who was she trying to impress? And why was she speaking for Enrico? I remembered him speaking English.
“Enrico,” I persisted, “I was so glad to see you at the Covington the other night. It gave me hope that you and Abraham had become friends again. Is that true? Did you bury the hatchet, so to speak?”
“Hatchet?” His eyes widened. “No hatchet! I did not do it.”
“Enrico,” Minka said through gritted teeth as she tightened her hold on his arm. “That’s an American joke. It means, you’ve made friends with Abraham.” She glared at me. “Stop baiting him.”
“I’m not,” I protested, then said to Enrico, “I’m sorry. I meant, I’m so glad to hear you and Abraham were able to be friends again.”
Minka nodded. “And his death is even more tragic because Baldacchio and Karastovsky”-she struck a dramatic pose-“the two greatest bookbinders in all the world, had once again joined together on a very important project.”
Enrico pulled a silk scarf from his pocket and dabbed his dry eyes. “Sì. è una tragedia.”
Minka’s head bobbed in agreement. “The book world has suffered a double blow.”
“Totally,” Enrico said, blowing the Italian for a moment. He nodded rapidly, like a bobblehead. “Sì, sì, si, signorina.”
So not only was he faking the accent, but he was lying about his renewed friendship with Abraham, who’d told me himself that Enrico was a deceitful thief.
“That must’ve been such a comfort,” I said. “To know that you became friends again before he died. Otherwise, you might’ve had to live the rest of your life feeling guilty for never repairing the friendship.”
“Guilty?” he cried. “Non sia stupido! I do nothing! Karastovsky! He try to ruin me! Guilty? Siete pazzeschi! ”
He continued sputtering in outrage. I might’ve touched a nerve. But did he just call me stupid? I hated that.
“Oh, great,” Minka said. “Now I’ll have to listen to this crap all the way home. Thanks a lot.”
“Sorry,” I said flimsily.
“I need more alcohol.” She stomped off, leaving me with one angry Italian. I needed alcohol, too.
“Enrico, I apologize.” I grabbed his oily hand. “I’m so sorry. I did not mean to accuse you of anything.”
I was starting to talk with an Italian accent.
“That’s right. You donna know what you-a talking about, missy.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” I took a deep breath and wrapped my arm through his. “Enrico, we’ve both lost a good friend, and today is no time to talk about business.”
He seemed mollified for the moment. “You right.”