On a hunch, I Googled Frances Hodgson Burnett heirs, but all that produced was a brief outline of Little Lord Fauntleroy. The main character, poor young Cedric, receives a message from his grandfather, the earl, that with the death of his brothers, Cedric is now a lord and heir to the earldom and a vast estate.
A horrifying image sprang to mind, of Grizzly and Lug Nut wearing blue velveteen jackets and knee pants with ruffled collars and curls in their hair.
I shuddered in revulsion and shut down the computer. There had to be more information, but I’d reached too many dead ends on the Internet. All of these short biographical bits and sketches were leading me nowhere.
If I wanted to know more about Frances Hodgson Burnett, I was going to have to access a more extensive database than was available on my own computer through Google or Wikipedia or even her book publisher’s Web site with its page devoted specifically to the author and her books.
But would anything I found relate back to Lug Nut and Grizzly Jones’s relentless pursuit of The Secret Garden? Was I wasting my time? I wouldn’t know until I did the work. I just knew I wasn’t willing to give up yet. There had to be a connection somewhere.
My mood brightened as I realized exactly where I could do my research. The Covington Library, one of my favorite places in the world. I would run over there as soon as it opened tomorrow morning and work for a few hours before going to the studio. Maybe I could mix a little business with pleasure and convince Ian to have lunch with me. After all, my showbiz career would soon be coming to an end and Ian was good at coming up with new bookbinding gigs. I was even willing to pay for lunch.
Chapter Fourteen
The following morning, Derek drove me across town to the Covington Library. He brought the Bentley to a stop directly in front of the imposing building at the top of Pacific Heights, but kept the engine running. “I’m still not sure this is a good idea,” he said.
“Then park the car and come inside with me,” I said gently, resting my hand on his thigh. “You can take a look around and make sure things are copacetic.”
He scowled for a moment, but quickly shook off the gloom. “All right.” It was early still, so he found a parking spot within a few feet of the front of the main building.
Derek was rarely unsure of himself, but this week had been a strange one for both of us. We had decided over breakfast that he would drop me off at the library, knowing I would be safe inside the building while Derek spent a few necessary hours at his office over on California Street, near the top of Nob Hill.
But when he was faced with actually leaving me and driving away, he was having a difficult time. His protectiveness tugged at a tender little spot near my heart. I knew what a dilemma it was for him, so I slid my arm through his and held on as we walked.
“I’ll be fine,” I assured him. “This place is crawling with security guards.”
“And I’m certain they’re all nice people,” he muttered. “I’m just not sure they’ve run a hundred-yard dash in the past ten years, or jogged down a flight of stairs in pursuit of a vicious thug.”
“I’m not in any danger here,” I insisted. “I plan to hide away in a quiet cubbyhole on the third floor. Nobody will even know I’m there.”
He stopped and stroked my hair. “So beautiful, yet so naive.”
I laughed and smacked his chest. “Oh, shut up.”
We entered through the main doorway of the dignified Italianate-style mansion and I took a moment to breathe in the magic. I’d been coming to the Covington since I was a little girl and had never grown tired of it.
We lowered our voices as we walked through the main library. Not because it was a church or some other holy place, but because the dignity of the room itself and the magnificence of the ancient and rare books displayed behind glass walls conveyed a silent message: Take time to look, listen, learn, revere. There were universal secrets within these walls, within these books.
One of my teachers used to say that a civilization that didn’t respect its books was destined to die off.
The guy had probably stolen that quote from someone else, but I believed it completely and felt it anew every time I walked into the Covington.
Derek and I trekked through the east gallery and down the arched hall that led to the new Children’s Book Museum. A door to the left led to the administrative offices.
At the end of another hall, we came to a closed door. Unintimidated, I pushed it open and we entered a big, bustling office that fanned out as wide as the length of the building. Eight large cubicles were spread across the expanse, each one occupied by an assistant who played gatekeeper to whomever was working inside the executive offices behind those eight doors.