The impressive double doors in the center led into Ian’s office. I’d started calling him the Grand Poobah since he had recently been promoted to president of the museum and still acted as their chief curator. A very notable achievement, although he still had to answer to a distinguished board of trustees as well as to old Mrs. Covington herself, whose bazillionaire father had first established the elegant museum, library, and gardens back in the twenties.
“There’s Wylie,” I said, waving at Ian’s longtime assistant. “How are you?”
“I’m living the dream, Ms. Wainwright,” Wylie said, flashing me an angelic smile that hid a keen wit. Picking up his phone, he whispered something. After a few seconds, he hung up. “You can go right in. He can’t wait to see you.”
“Thanks, Wylie.”
Derek knocked, then cracked open the door.
Ian stood and met us halfway across the office. “Hey, you two.”
“Hello, mate,” Derek said. The two men shook hands, then gave each other one of those manly hugs with lots of back slaps.
“Hi, Ian,” I said, and hugged him, too. “Can you join me for an early lunch today? My treat. We can go to the Rose Room.”
The Rose Room was the Covington’s charming tea shop situated outside the main building near the terraced rose garden on the northwest side of the library. The quaint Victorian-style restaurant was a big draw on sunny days because you could sit and stare out at the Golden Gate Bridge and the rugged Marin County coastline.
“I can’t,” Ian groused. “I’ve got a damn lunch meeting scheduled. Can we do it tomorrow?”
“Yes, but I have to leave for the studio by one o’clock.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
Derek checked his watch and I took the cue. “I’m in good hands.”
“Yes, I see. So I’ll be going. Great to see you, Ian.”
“You, too. And don’t worry. I’ll make sure she stays out of trouble.”
Derek shot me a stern look, then nodded at Ian. “I trust you’ve ordered in extra security.”
I laughed lightly and kissed him good-bye. The fact that he was willing to leave meant that he trusted I would be safe here.
A few minutes later, after settling on a time for our lunch the next day, I left Ian and headed back to the large foyer at the entrance to get the elevator for the third floor.
Passing through the main room of the library again, I gazed up at the elegant coffered ceiling three stories above me. I loved this upward-facing view, with its stunning art deco light fixtures and intricate wrought-iron balconies that wrapped around the outer perimeter of the second and third floors.
Glass-fronted dark oak bookshelves lined the narrow walkways. Every few yards, an open door led off to an even narrower hall that ended up in a cozy reading room or in a tiny nook big enough for an individual study carrel, one chair, and a lamp. This was where my computer and I were headed and I was excited to get to work, plug into the Covington’s international database, and do some deep Internet surfing.
As I pushed the elevator button, I had a flashing thought that the only thing I was in danger of here was running into Minka LaBoeuf, my archrival, worst enemy, and the world’s most disastrous bookbinder. Ian had a kindhearted but misguided tendency to hire her for contract book jobs when he couldn’t get anyone else to do the work.
I shuddered from the instant chill I got whenever Minka’s visage passed through my consciousness. I shook my head vigorously to dislodge all thoughts of her before stepping inside the elevator.
The only good that came from being reminded of Minka was that I wasn’t focused on Grizzly and Lug Nut for the moment. It was the lesser of two evils, I supposed, but not by much.
Once on the third floor, I turned right and found the long, narrow hallway. This place was a rabbit warren of passageways and alcoves and dead ends. It was all part of its charm, and yet I was often tempted to bring bread crumbs with me to find my way out.
I finally found a comfortably isolated carrel and arranged my computer and notes and got to work.
Two hours later, my cell phone buzzed. Knowing my tendency to get drawn into my work, I had cleverly set the alarm to alert me when it was time to go.
Derek would be swinging by to pick me up in thirty minutes. That would give me just enough time to finish up and find my way back to Ian’s office.
Based on what I’d read, I wanted to ask him a few questions.
? ? ?
“We have a number of collectors of her children’s books,” Ian said when I asked him about Frances Hodgson Burnett. I had caught him getting ready to leave for his lunch meeting so I walked out of the building with him.
“But no experts on the author herself?”
“No. That is, no one who’s expert enough to give you the kind of intimate background knowledge you’re looking for.”
I had expected as much, but I was still disappointed. “In that case, I’ll just download her biography onto my phone reader.”
“You can read off that little screen?”