But I knew I couldn’t keep my mouth shut about the book.
I drove around the block twice before I found a parking place three blocks away. When I walked inside BABA, I found out why the area was so congested.
It was happy hour. The central gallery was packed with people partying, laughing, and drinking. A full bar was set up along the far wall and guests were grabbing wineglasses as fast as the two bartenders could fill them.
It was the kickoff cocktail party for BABA’s Twisted festival. I’d completely forgotten. This exclusive, by-invitation-only event was being held for BABA’s major donors, the movers and shakers who contributed so heavily to Layla’s coffers all year long.
I knew this event had been on the calendar for months, but it still seemed tacky to be throwing a party the night after someone was viciously attacked. I wondered, not for the first time, if Minka was still in the hospital or if they’d sent her home already.
The noise level was set at shrill, thanks to the rock music being piped through the sound system. Was it my imagination or was every man and woman in the room wearing black? They all looked artistic and wealthy and skinny. It was odd to be the most colorful person in the room in my navy jeans, white T-shirt, and moss green jacket.
I recognized some familiar faces. These were the San Francisco elite, the same people I’d seen barely two months ago at the Covington Library’s gala opening of the Winslow Exhibit. The night my old friend Abraham Karastovsky had been murdered.
It made sense that the same people who supported the Covington would be BABA patrons and donors. They were all book lovers. I just wished I’d remembered about the party tonight. I would’ve dressed a little better.
Looking around, I wondered how many people in this room knew a woman had been assaulted down the hall just twenty-four hours ago. My guess was not many.
I had no doubt that this was another subject about which Layla would prefer I kept my big mouth shut.
“Yoo-hoo, Brooklyn,” someone cried.
I turned in time to receive a fierce hug from Doris Bondurant, an old friend of Abraham’s.
“Doris,” I said, taking in the subtle scent of her Chanel No. 5. “It’s so good to see you.”
She grabbed hold of my hand. “How are you, my dear? I haven’t seen you since Abraham’s memorial service. A very unhappy day, I must say.”
“Yes, it was,” I said. “But it was wonderful to see you there.”
“He was a good friend.” She squeezed my hand tighter, then let it go. “And since then, I must admit I’ve been so distracted, I haven’t gotten around to giving you the books I want you to restore for me.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Why don’t I call you next week and we can arrange a time to meet?”
“Good girl,” she said, patting my arm. “Now, what’s going on in your life?”
Doris was a petite, wizened but feisty eighty-year-old, with a grip stronger than a truck driver’s. She was one of the wealthiest women in the city, but down-to-earth and approachable, although I’d seen her pull the diva act when the situation warranted it. She laughed at my thirty-second recap of my excellent adventures in Scotland, then frowned as the lights dimmed behind me.
“Oh, dear, what is this now?” Doris murmured.
I turned and followed her gaze to the center of the gallery, where a pin spotlight was aimed at a podium and microphone setup.
Layla walked up to the podium, wearing a white off-the-shoulder spandex sex-kitten top with skintight black toreador-style pants. She wore all that with four-inch-spike-heeled black ankle boots. Her blond hair was piled high atop her head, except for several strands that had escaped to twirl coquettishly around her neck.
The crowd closed in, blocking our view.
“She’s too damn old to be dressed like that,” Doris groused. “And I’m too damn short. I can’t see a thing over this crowd. What’s going on, Brooklyn?”
I bit back a smile at her grumblings. “Looks like Layla is going to speak.”
“I was afraid of that,” she said dolefully.
Two men flanked Layla, but both were in shadow. I couldn’t see their faces but she clutched their arms tightly and gazed up at each of them as though she knew them intimately. Then someone moved in front of me and I caught a glimpse of the man standing on Layla’s right side. He was tall and powerfully built, with a ruddy complexion and sandy hair. Now I had a better view of Layla, too. Lucky me. She moved close to the microphone and the crowd hushed.
“I’m tingling with excitement,” she said, her voice sultry as she rubbed up against the sandy-haired man. She pretended to shiver with delight, which made some of the crowd laugh and cheer.
“Oh, she’s impossible,” Doris murmured.