The class burst into laughter.
“Thank you,” I said, laughing along with everyone. “Best offer I’ve had in weeks.” Sadly, that was true.
“I’ve done some academic presentations of Dubuisson’s work along with some comparative studies of his gilding designs vis-à-vis his students’. But I’ll spare you the details.”
“You don’t have to,” Alice said loyally.
“Thank you, Alice,” I said, and laughed again. “But I’ll just move on to our next book.”
Since I was leading them through the same steps we’d taken to make last week’s book, the students moved smoothly through the process with only a few reminders from me. It was just as well, because I was having a hard time staying focused. I was burning with curiosity about Naomi. Had the police arrested her last night?
The dinner break finally arrived and I dashed out to find out what had happened. I knocked on Naomi’s door and was almost surprised when she called out, “Come in.”
“You are here,” I said as I opened the door. “I was a little worried.”
“Oh, it’s you, Brooklyn,” she said with some disappointment. “What is it?”
Ooh, feel the warmth. Had she been expecting someone else to come knocking? I was amazed to see her sitting there as though nothing had happened in the last few days to change her life. But I was even more shocked to see her looking like such a fashion plate. She wore a peach jacket that suited her skin tone and fitted her small frame to perfection, giving her the look of a true professional. Her makeup was subtle and her hair curled softly around her face. The mouse had come out of her shell, to mix a metaphor.
“You look great,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said, and her expression softened a little. “What’s up?”
I stepped inside and closed the door. “This is sort of a sensitive issue, but Layla had a book with her the night she died. It was the Oliver Twist I restored for her. I’d like to buy it from you once the police return it.”
Naomi’s eyes widened—in fear? Or was that speculation? But her face calmed instantly and I was no longer sure what I’d seen. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what book you’re talking about.”
“Layla talked about it the night of the Twisted opening party, remember?”
“Sorry, can’t help you.”
My eyes narrowed. She flinched. What game was she playing? She’d had a bad week, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt and explained the book again. “Since the police took it in for evidence, you probably won’t get it back in time for the silent auction, so I’d like to buy it whenever you do get it back.”
She carefully exhaled. “Oh, yeah, I think I know the book you’re talking about.” She pushed her hair away from her face and set her jaw. “No. Sorry, it’s not for sale.”
I couldn’t tell what was going on in that brain of hers, but she was carrying the mini-Layla bit too far. My gloves were off now.
“Naomi, I did the restoration work on that book. I know it from cover to cover, and I can assure you, it’s not what you think it is.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about its market worth. It’s a truly beautiful book and worth a lot of money, but it’s not the rare first edition Layla pretended it was the other night.”
“Layla wouldn’t lie.”
I almost laughed. “Oh, please. Layla lied plenty. And this time she lied to a room full of wealthy BABA contributors and supporters. And she did it knowingly and willfully.”
“Stop it. I don’t believe you.”
I had to think for a moment. Naomi did wield some power at BABA, but I didn’t think she was capable of sabotaging my career like her aunt was. So I decided to plunge ahead with the truth. “I’m sorry, Naomi, but Layla was not being honest about the book. And if you continue her lie and try to pass it off as a first edition, you’ll get caught. Whoever buys it will find out soon enough what the book was really worth. Do you know how fast your funding would be cut off if your corporate sponsors found out about it?”
Naomi’s face was a sickly gray. She blinked rapidly and shook her head. “I can’t . . . it’s not . . .” She mumbled something incoherent, pushed away from her desk, and ran from the room.
“Well, that went well.” I blew out a breath and wandered back to the gallery, looking for someone else to browbeat.
“Hello, darling.”
Shock and pleasure overcame me. Derek was loitering by the bookshelf in the north alcove, thumbing through one of the many other copies of Oliver Twist on exhibit.
I slipped my arms around his waist and rested my head against his rock-solid chest.
“Ah, that’s lovely.” He wrapped his arms around me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Hoping to see you, of course.”
“That’s so sweet.”
“I’m a sweet guy.”
“But isn’t Gunther giving a class tonight?”
“Is he?”