“Bye-bye,” I called.
Ian stood at my door, watching Minka storm down the hall. “What was that all about?”
“The usual girl talk. Come in and close the door.”
He did so, pulled up a stool and sat. “I wanted to talk to you yesterday at the memorial but you disappeared.”
“You’re the one who did the disappearing act,” I said. “Right when the cops showed up. What was that all about?”
“Hey, I didn’t want to get in their way. But then I looked for you a while later and couldn’t find you.”
“Sorry. You want some water?”
“No, thanks.”
I grabbed a bottle from the cupboard, popped the top and drank. “Girl talk makes me thirsty. What’s up?”
He adjusted and readjusted the knot in his tie.
“Ian?”
“I saw you talking to Enrico Baldacchio at the memorial service.”
“Oh yeah.” I took another sip of water. “I was surprised to see him there since he and Abraham were less than friends. But I really think Enrico might be-”
“He’s dangerous, Brooklyn,” Ian blurted. “Stay away from him.”
Chapter 12
I put the water bottle down and reached for the candy bar. “What do you mean, dangerous? I’ve known Enrico Baldacchio forever.”
“You don’t know him as well as you think. He’s a liar and a thief.”
Whoa. Harsh words from someone who defined political correctness in this business.
“Why, Ian? What did he do?”
“I guess you didn’t know that the Winslows hired Enrico first, before they ever came to the Covington.”
I put the water bottle down. “You’re right. I didn’t know. What happened?”
He held up his hands to make a disclaimer. “Keep in mind, this is all secondhand information.”
“Fine. Just tell me.”
“Things were great for a while. They just wanted some books rebound.”
“How did they find him?”
He chuckled without humor. “In the phone book. His name is listed first under bookbinders.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No. You can look it up.”
I would. “Wow, who uses the phone book anymore? I thought everyone used Google.”
He folded his hands together on the table. “Not everyone.”
“Apparently not.” Then I noticed Ian gritting his teeth. “You’re probably not here to talk about the Yellow Pages.”
“No,” he said.
“Right.” I smiled. “You were saying about Enrico?”
He looked uncomfortable and I almost offered him some of my chocolate, but figured I needed it more.
Ian sighed. “Some book-savvy friends of the Winslows were concerned that Enrico wasn’t doing a good job. They’d seen some of his avant-garde leather work on several antiquarian books and were horrified. They insisted the Winslows bring their books to the Covington before Baldacchio destroyed the integrity of the collection. These friends convinced them-well, Sylvia anyway-that they had an incredible collection and needed a conservator and restoration experts to work with them.”
“Smart friends.”
“Doris Bondurant and her husband.”
I smiled. “I love her.”
“Yeah, she’s great.”
My stomach growled again. “I’m starving. Do you want to talk while we walk to the Rose Room?”
“Sure.”
I ignored his amused look, grabbed my purse and walked out, locking the door behind us. Outside the main library entrance, we made a right turn and followed the wide path around the building, then wound our way through the camellia garden to the small Victorian building that housed the Covington’s elegant Rose Room, named for the famous terraced rose garden it overlooked.
I turned and stared at the view from here at the top of Pacific Heights. The wind was brisk and the sky was a shade of blue no paint could replicate. From here, we could turn in three directions and see most of the City and the bay. It was spectacular. For a moment I felt at peace. This was the best place in the world to be.
“I’m buying,” Ian said, snapping me back to reality as he held the door open.
I looked at him. “I’m just going to grab a sandwich.”
“No, let’s sit and talk.”
I checked my watch again. Almost noon. I had plenty of time, but sitting around doing nothing was the last thing I wanted to do. Still, he was the boss and there was eating involved, after all.
It was early so we got a table by the window overlooking the sea of colorful roses spread across several acres. A swath of coral, ribbons of white, rows and rows of perfect pink, glorious deep reds.
A waitress arrived with a pot of tea, took our orders and left. Ian poured tea for both of us.
“So the Winslows brought their collection here,” I said as I reached for my cup. “Why didn’t you bring Enrico along to finish the restoration work?”
“Are you kidding?” Ian said in a furious whisper. “The man is a hack. The last time he worked here, he took a priceless Shakespeare quarto and turned it into rags.”
“Why am I just hearing this? He’s supposed to be a genius.”