I figured that if the brown suitcase was Mr. Renaud’s, and he was a friend of Guru Bob’s grandfather, then Guru Bob would want this book for his library collection. And if that was the case, it would need quite a bit of cleanup work before I would feel good about handing it over to him.
Even though it was obviously a rare book—I could tell by looking at the binding, the title page, and the date of publication—it had apparently belonged to a rambunctious young boy, based on the childish scrawls I’d noticed on a few pages. I would have to examine the book more closely before I would know if I could get rid of the scrawls and still maintain the book’s integrity.
As I strolled along the sidewalk of the treelined road on which my parents had lived for more than twenty years, I had to smile at the hodgepodge of home styles that made up our friendly little enclave. It was typically American for our own rambling, craftsman-inspired ranch home to live in harmony with the Quinlans’ two-story French cottage next door and the Westcotts’ modified Tudor across the street behind a sheltering copse of oak and pine trees.
Two doors down, the Farrell family had a cool-looking California bungalow, and next door to them, the Barclays had built their house in the prairie style because of their affection for Frank Lloyd Wright. Carl Brundidge, the commune lawyer, lived in a contemporary steel-and-glass showpiece that somehow fit perfectly nicely next door to the ???midcentury modern,” which was how Mr. Osborne described his home, otherwise known as a good old 1950s house complete with plastic flamingoes in the garden. Years ago, he had built a geodesic dome workshop in the backyard to keep his hippie vibe alive. Next door to the Osbornes were the Howards, who lived in a glorious three-story Victorian gem. And near the bottom of the slope was Abraham’s imposing Spanish colonial mansion.
Guru Bob had always encouraged his followers to do their own thing when it came to choosing their style of house. Once the winery became successful and people started making money, neighborhoods like ours popped up all over Dharma. Visitors to the area couldn’t quite wrap their brains around the fact that all these beautiful homes and shops and upscale restaurants belonged to commune members. It went against their ingrained image of what a “commune” should look like.
When I reached Abraham’s house, I opened the side gate, skirted the pool and patio, and continued across the lawn to the studio he’d built for his bookbinding business.
I stared at the locked door and realized that I hadn’t been back here since Abraham’s death. At the time, yellow crime scene tape had crisscrossed the entrance, blocking my way. I had hesitated, but had finally torn it off to get into the room. I’d been a suspect in Abraham’s murder, so ripping away the tape probably wasn’t the smartest thing I could’ve done, but I’d come up here on a mission to find a clue to his murder. And I’d found it, even though I didn’t know it at the time.
Now I let out a breath, unlocked the door, and stepped inside—and realized how completely unprepared I’d been for the overwhelming sensations that bombarded me.
I could smell Abraham in here. I could hear his voice and see his ink-stained fingers from the letterpress projects he often took on in addition to the bookbinding. The scent of leather mingled with the musty fragrance of old paper. An odd waft of peppermint almost brought me to my knees.
This room held his essence.
No wonder his daughter, Annie, had left it as it was when he died.
I managed to stay on my feet, but decided to grab a high stool and sit for a minute as a barrage of memories assaulted me. I’d grown up in this room. Abraham was a huge part of my world. He was my teacher, my friend, my confessor, my taskmaster. I’d dreamed of being a bookbinder just like him ever since I was eight years old, when I watched him bring back to life a beloved book that my horrid brothers had tried to destroy. It was nothing short of miraculous to me.
I could still see him standing by the book press, wearing his black leather apron over an old white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was a big, strong, barrel-chested man who had no trouble at all tightening the huge brass book press down onto a newly rebound masterpiece.
I’d watched him do it so many times that I’d figured it was easy. What a shock it had been to find out how difficult that sucker was to use. Of course, I was only eight years old at the time. To this day, I thought of Abraham’s muscular arms whenever I struggled to press a book.