Bookbinders hammer—Used for rounding the spine of a book, a bookbinders hammer is smaller and lighter than a carpenter’s hammer, with a large, flat, polished pounding surface.
Book press—There are various types. One small type of wood press can be used to hold the textblock while gluing. With a newly finished book, a large brass press will help strengthen, straighten, and fuse the book together.
Punching jig or Punching cradle—A V-shaped piece of equipment with a slim opening at the bottom for cradling signatures in order to punch holes in them.
PVA (polyvinyl acetate)—Preferred adhesive in bookbinding, it is liquid and flexible and results in a permanent bond. It dries colorless and is pH neutral, so it is recommended for archival work.
Books . . . and people . . . are lost and found
in Brooklyn’s next murder investigation in One Book in the Grave,
the next Bibliophile Mystery,
available from Obsidian Mysteries
in May 2012.
A peek at the first chapter follows. . . .
Hello, my name is Brooklyn Wainwright, and I am a book addict.
It was Monday morning, and I was on my way to the Covington Library to sniff out my personal version of crack cocaine: books. Old, rare, and beautiful.
I didn’t need a twelve-step program; I just needed more bookbinding work to keep me off the streets. That was why I was heading over to Pacific Heights to see my good friend, Ian McCullough, head curator of the Covington. He’d called earlier to let me know he had a job for me.
I found a lucky parking spot less than a half block away. As I walked up the broad concrete steps of the imposing Italianate mansion, I took a moment to appreciate this beautiful building, its setting here at the highest point of my favorite city, and the glorious day itself.
Last month, after coming within striking distance of yet another callous criminal, I had vowed that from that moment forward, I would take the time to be grateful for every wonderful thing in my life. So now I breathed in the crisp, clear air, smiled at the sight of newly planted pansies lining the sidewalks, and savored the stunning view of San Francisco Bay in the distance.
After a moment, I pushed open the heavy iron doors and walked through the elegant foyer, admiring its checkerboard marble floor, coffered ceiling, and sweeping staircases. I knew that those stairs led to the second and third floors, where dozens of spacious rooms held countless collections of the greatest books ever written throughout history. In every room, alcove, and nook, a visitor would find a comfortable chair with a good light for reading. It was the most welcoming place for a book lover I’d ever known, and I loved it as much now as I had the first time I’d come here when I was eight years old.
I bypassed the main exhibit hall and headed straight for Ian’s office down the wide corridor. I was anxious to get hold of the book he was so excited about, then rush home, tear it apart, and put it back together again. With utmost love and care, of course.
Life was good indeed.
A sudden, cold sense of dread permeated the very air surrounding me, and I shuddered in dismay. In any perfect apple, a worm might be found.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” It was Minka LaBoeuf, my archenemy.
My stomach roiled in revulsion at the sound of her squealing voice, and I instantly regretted the Spanish omelet I’d eaten for breakfast. I turned and was blinded by chartreuse-and-fuchsia-striped skinny jeans that appeared to have been sprayed onto Minka’s ample lower body. As God is my witness, the jeans were topped by a matching tube top—a tube top!—and a pixie band—a pixie band!—in her hair. She looked like a demented barber pole. I couldn’t make this stuff up.
“I was invited to come here today,” I said, shielding my eyes from the glare. “I know you can’t say the same, so you should leave. Be sure to let the door hit you on the way out.”
“You’re such a bitch!”
I smiled with concern. “Really? Is that the best you’ve got? Pitiful.”
She moved in close—so close I could smell her new perfume, Eau de Goat—and hissed at me. “If you don’t stop trying to take away my jobs, I’ll make sure you never work in this town again.”
“Threats?” I backed away from her, knowing she had an unruly left hook. “Ian won’t like hearing that you threatened me.”
She sniffed imperiously. “Ian is a jerk.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him you said so.”
“You’re a jerk, too.”
“Wow.” I shook my head. “You’re so lame today, it’s pathetic.” Then I turned and walked away. I didn’t look back—possibly a tactical error where Minka was concerned. But honestly, I couldn’t take another violent shock to my nervous system.
“You’ll be sorry!” she shrieked.