After weighing the pros and cons, I figured I’d better put in a full day at the Covington and get back on track with the Winslow project. I pulled out of the parking space and headed north on Castro, then crossed Market Street. The lush, thick palm trees lining the center island at this spot along Market were always an impressive sight, but I was too uptight to appreciate them today. I checked my rearview mirror all the way across Market, up Divisadero toward Pacific Heights. As I came to a stop at Jackson Street, a homeless woman with leathery skin and tangled hair crossed in front me, shouting and cursing at no one in particular. The disturbed, ranting woman reminded me of Minka LaBoeuf going off on me yesterday, screaming to the world that I was a murderer. Okay, maybe she had seen my car on Enrico’s street, but you’d never hear me confess it aloud.
I’d discounted Minka as the killer, but now I had to wonder why. She certainly was capable of violence. I touched my still-bruised cheek and rubbed the scar on my hand as if to hammer home the realization.
I doubted she was clever enough to pretend to show up at Enrico’s house after she’d killed him, but it could’ve happened.
But if Minka were the killer, she also would’ve been the one who ransacked my loft and studio. Regrettably, Minka had been in jail last night, so she was an unlikely suspect. Or was she? I made a mental note to check with Inspector Lee on Minka’s whereabouts last night.
My hands trembled on the steering wheel. I still had plenty of unresolved issues when it came to my nemesis.
When the signal changed, it felt good to gun the engine and roar up the steep hill.
“Yoo-hoo?”
I looked up from my pasting job and saw Sylvia Winslow standing tentatively at the door.
“I know I’m interrupting,” she said.
“Not at all,” I insisted with a smile. “Come on in.”
She stepped inside and closed the door, looking lovely in an elegant navy pin-striped pantsuit, her red hair tucked behind her ears to show off her diamond studs. Robin could’ve nailed the suit’s designer and the size of those diamonds in a heartbeat. All I knew was that everything she wore was expensive and gorgeous.
“I just wanted to stop in and see how you’re doing,” she said. “Your work is so interesting.”
“Come look.”
“Oh my.” She placed her clutch purse on the side table and stared at the vertical press that held the repaired signatures I was gluing. Her gaze slowly swept across the wide work surface, resting on the black leather cover for the Faust that was stretched and held in place at each corner by weights.
“It’s all in pieces, isn’t it? I never expected…” She wrung her hands. “Well, you obviously know what you’re doing. I won’t disturb you.”
“Please don’t worry.” I stuck my glue brush into the jar of water and wiped my hands. “You’ve caught me at the perfect moment. The glue has to dry before I can do much else.”
She wandered around the table to get a better look at the weighted leather cover, then looked at me, bewildered.
I explained the process of straightening the leather, showed her how the glue was drying on the signatures and how I’d fasten the refurbished leather cover to the new boards.
“It’s fascinating,” she said, but her lips were pinched with worry.
“What’s wrong, Mrs. Winslow?”
“Oh dear,” she said. “I hate to even bring up the subject. But I understand Enrico Baldacchio was found dead yesterday.”
“Yes. It’s horrible.”
Her hand was trembling when she took mine. “I hate to speak ill, Brooklyn, but he was not a nice man. I didn’t trust him in the least. But of course, he didn’t deserve to die.”
“No, of course not.”
“I don’t know what’s happening,” she whispered. “I wonder if it’s our fault.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our book is cursed,” she said, forlorn. “I’ll never forgive myself if we somehow-”
“No.” I pushed my high chair away from the table. “I’m sorry, but a book does not go around killing people. You can’t blame yourself for any of this.”
She waved her hand in the air, flustered. “Oh, of course it’s not really cursed. But so many awful things are happening. I don’t like all this controversy hanging over our exhibit.”
“Well, it’ll certainly drive up ticket sales,” I said philosophically.
She hid a smile with her hand. “That’s very bad of you.”
“I know,” I said, biting back my own smile. “I apologize.”
“No, you’ve made me feel better.” She wandered along the side counter and ended up in front of the heavy brass horizontal press. She planted both hands on the wide wheel and barely budged it a half inch. “My goodness, that’s impressive.”
“Yes,” I said, smiling. “Nobody can keep their hands off the book press.”
“I can see why.” She straightened her jacket and moved closer to the worktable. “Well, I didn’t come here solely to waste your time. I actually had a question about books.”
“I hope I can help.”
“It’s a bit distasteful.” She laughed uncomfortably.
“I can probably handle it.”
“It’s about silver fish,” she said, wringing her hands.
I laughed. “I hate those little buggers.”
“God, so do I. One of the maids found several on our bookshelves. I’m absolutely revolted at the thought of vermin in my house.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said. “And they do love books. Or rather, they love the paper and the wheat paste and the starch in the bindings.”
“I knew you’d know about this. You’re so clever. Tell me what I do. I’m determined not to bombard our home with chemicals, but how else can I get rid of them?”
“If I were you, I’d have your housekeeper empty the shelves and wipe the wood down with cinnamon oil.”