I sat at my desk, clutching the business card. I composed myself, then made the call. It went to voice mail, so I left a clear message. “I have what you’re looking for and I’m willing to hand it over for the small sum of two hundred thousand dollars.”
I felt like Dr. Evil. I should’ve demanded more, but since I was bluffing anyway, did it really matter? I checked my watch.
“It’s two o’clock, Tuesday afternoon,” I continued on voice mail. “If I don’t hear from you by six o’clock tonight, I’ll call the police.”
I hung up and immediately called Inspector Lee. Yes, I’d lied to the killer about waiting until six to call the police. My bad.
Inspector Lee wasn’t in. I didn’t feel comfortable talking to Inspector Jaglow, so I asked the operator to transfer me to Lee’s voice mail. I left another detailed message, telling her what I’d found and the name of the person I was convinced had killed Abraham Karastovsky and Enrico Baldacchio.
I hung up the phone, feeling a tiny bit guilty. Maybe I shouldn’t have teased the killer with my threat of blackmail, but I’d worked my way back to full anger. That bastard had killed my friend, killed Enrico, plundered and pillaged Abraham’s studio, broken into my home and ransacked my studio, destroyed Robin’s beautiful vase and knocked me unconscious. I had the right to demand some frontier justice, such as it was.
I made two more quick phone calls and had to leave messages both times. Where was everybody today? The first call was to Derek, explaining what I’d discovered and asking him to come by whenever he could. The other call was to my dad, telling him I was absolutely certain that Mom would be released later today.
Then I folded Gretchen’s letter, wedged it back into the wildflower book, and shoved the book back into place on the shelf.
Now there was nothing to do but wait for the phone to ring. I nibbled on noodles but I wasn’t really hungry. On any other day, that would’ve been cause for alarm, but today I was hyperaware of the source of my anxiety.
So I got back to work, first testing the glue on the spine. It was dry. Time to put it all back together.
Adjusting the Armageddon painting back into its pastedown/flyleaf position, and using Mylar and waste sheets to shield the pages from any excess glue, I rolled the text block onto the glued, refurbished cover boards and sealed the book.
I cleaned and polished the rubies until they sparkled with new life, then glued them back into place on the front cover.
It was gorgeous if I did say so myself. Next, I covered the jeweled front cover with a layer of protective foam, then wrapped the entire book in thin cloth and slid it between the plates of the book press for thirty seconds to seal the deal.
I would take pictures of the finished binding tomorrow. I hoped that someday I’d have the time to replicate the intricate design with its gilded royal crest and fleur-de-lis finishes. But in the meantime, the photos I took would be uploaded to my Web site with a detailed description of the work I’d done to complete the restoration.
The book itself gleamed in the fading light, a rare and beautiful work of art, but what it represented was tarnished and ugly. So much for its legendary curse. The curse didn’t exist-unless you considered arrogance, greed, fear and stupidity a curse.
The light in the studio had grown dim as I’d worked, so I turned on some lights. It was only four o’clock but the fog was rolling in. The phone hadn’t rung and my head was beginning to pound again.
I felt the painful lump on the back of my head, a dull reminder of the attack last night. I needed some aspirin and my stomach was growling. I’d left the bowl of noodles virtually untouched. My world was truly cracked.
Checking that the protective foam and cloth were still wrapped tightly, I secured the Faust between two pieces of smooth plywood and put a ten-pound weight on top. I would keep it wrapped and pressed overnight until the glue was completely dry and the aged black leather was securely fastened to the boards.
The restoration was complete.
I celebrated by sticking a piece of leftover pizza in the microwave, then popping two aspirins while I waited for the pizza to heat up.
Ten minutes later, the pizza was history and I was feeling more like myself, no longer suffering hunger pangs and now wondering whether it was too early for a glass of wine. Unfortunately, there was some pesky business to deal with involving a killer and the police, so sobriety was called for until further notice.
I was washing my dishes when the phone rang. I dried my hands and grabbed it on the third ring.
Conrad Winslow lost no time getting to the point of his call. “What the hell are you trying to pull?”
“Hi, Mr. Winslow.”
“You’re trying to blackmail me?”
“Abraham Karastovsky is dead and now I know why.”
“And blackmail is your way to handle it?”
“No, that was just a little joke,” I said, rubbing my head where I’d been coshed last night.
“What the hell are you talking about?”