Derek? Layla? Affair?
No, it wasn’t true. I staggered out of her office, then stopped and stared at the wall, trying to focus. But I couldn’t. I felt nauseous and my throat was so dry I couldn’t swallow.
I swung around and stepped back into Naomi’s office. She looked up and I caught a glimmer of triumph in her eyes. And in that moment, I knew she was fabricating the entire story. Evidently, the bitch strain ran deep in Layla’s family. I braced myself, sucked in a few deep breaths, and struggled to gain back some of the strength that had drained away a minute ago.
“You’re lying,” I said, taking another step into her office.
Naomi’s lips curved into a smirk. “Uh-oh, looks like Brooklyn’s jealous. So you didn’t know about the two of them?”
“No,” I said, more easily now. “Because there’s no such thing as the ‘two of them.’ ”
She licked her lips, an obvious clue that she was making it up as she went along. “Yes, there is.”
“I’m not sure why you’re lying to me, Naomi. Maybe because I threatened you earlier about the book. But right now I don’t care about that. I just want you to know that if you lied to the police about Derek, that book will be the least of your worries.”
“I’m not lying and it has nothing to do with the book.” She stood and walked around the desk, then sat on the edge. It was an imitation of her aunt, and even knowing she was lying, I wanted to smack that fake sympathetic smile off her face. “I’m sorry, hon. I guess you didn’t know. But it shouldn’t be such a big surprise. You know Layla would screw anything that moved. Of course, in Derek’s case, I couldn’t really blame her. He’s totally cute.”
“Cute,” I murmured, and wanted more than anything else to throttle her. All of a sudden, pictures flashed in my head of Layla gripping Derek’s arm that first night. Of Layla rubbing her leg up against Derek’s. Of Layla patting his backside.
And right then, I was immensely glad she was dead. I hated her. There, I’d said it. To myself, anyway.
Meanwhile, Naomi sighed dreamily. “Actually, cute doesn’t really describe Derek, does it? He’s more hot and sexy than just cute. And dangerous, you know? Wouldn’t mind getting some of that myself.”
The crass words were so incongruous coming from her mousy little mouth, I just shook my head. “You know, hon, I have no idea why Layla thought so little of you, because you’re so much like her.”
She gasped and her cheeks began to blotch. Guess I had struck a nerve.
I continued. “I’m sure if we call the police right now and tell them that you made a mistake, they’ll understand.”
“It’s no mistake,” she cried, and her lower lip popped out in a pout.
“Okay, you stick with that story, but I suggest you start looking over your shoulder, because something’s going to come back and bite you on the ass.”
With that, I walked out, grabbed my coat from the gallery rail where I’d draped it earlier, and ran all the way to my car.
The drive home was touch and go, emotionally speaking. I knew Naomi was full of crap, but my mind kept drifting into possible scenarios that could very well be true.
I thought back to the first night I’d met Derek at the Covington Library, the night Abraham died. Derek had been stalking the crowded main hall, an outsider observing the goings-on of the wealthy and influential people who filled the space. More than once I’d caught him frowning at me from across the wide room. Later, in Abraham’s workroom, he’d found me covered in blood and accused me of murder. It was a strange beginning to what had become a lovely friendship-and more.
But now I recalled that Layla Fontaine had been there that night. Had she and Derek met there? Maybe they’d attended Abraham’s show as a couple.
“Oh, shut up,” I muttered. Then something else occurred to me and I pounded the steering wheel in disgust.
Layla had been in Edinburgh for the book fair. Now I recalled several nights when Derek had been unable to see me. I hadn’t given it a second thought at the time. Why would I? I thought he had obligations at Holyroodhouse Palace. Now, I couldn’t be sure. Maybe he and Layla had been frolicking all over Edinburgh while I…
Oh, God, at this rate I would be insane before I got home. So I didn’t go home. Instead, I drove through the city, to Pacific Heights. I was feeling just perverse enough that driving up and down astoundingly steep hills might actually soothe my jumbled brain. Or at least give me something else to obsess over.
When I first moved to San Francisco, I considered it my civic duty to practice my hill driving. I realized after doing it a few times that it was actually fun in a strange and crazy way, and always provided a nice distraction.
Tonight, I had a breathless moment going up a treacherous hill on Filbert Street where I stalled out and had to alternate between the emergency brake and my fancy foot-pedal work. And prayer. It wasn’t pretty, but it was exhilarating and I made it to the top of the grade.
Because of all the one-way streets, I had to circle around, taking Leavenworth to Chestnut to Larkin before I was able to drive down beautiful, touristy Lombard Street with its absurdly winding turns, vivid pink hydrangea bushes, neat green hedges, and incongruous palm trees. The night was clear, and as I took the first turn, a carpet of city lights undulated toward the shining pillar that was Coit Tower standing sentinel at the top of Telegraph Hill.
With the next turn, I could make out the ebony surface of the bay. Many miles beyond the water, the vague outline of the Berkeley hills was silhouetted against the night sky.
At this time of night, there were only a few other cars making the descent, so I eased off the brake pedal and drove briskly around the two remaining sharp, twisting curves for which the redbrick-paved street was justifiably famous.
Years ago, when my parents had first brought us kids here, we piled out of the car and clambered down the stairs that lined both sides of Lombard. I’m sure we were shouting and pushing and laughing all the way. When we got to the bottom, we crossed and climbed up the other side of the street, stopping every few steps to turn and gaze out at the incredible view of the city, with the blue waters of the bay and Alcatraz Island beyond. I remembered thinking how cool it would have been to live in one of the houses that lined the crookedest street in the world. Now, as I drove down, I thought how awful it had to be to deal with the daily onslaught of tourists and the constant line of cars, the photographers, the screaming kids.
Despite the ubiquitous tourists and the cars and the kids, I loved San Francisco. Who wouldn’t fall a tiny bit in love with a town where you could walk into a bar and sit down between a Trotskyite and a drag queen and wind up three hours later at a Giants game with both of them? For a place that was remarkable for its lack of pretension, San Francisco was unashamedly self-indulgent. San Franciscans adored their town. One of the first things a new resident learned was that San Francisco dwellers capitalized the t and the c when referring to the city of San Francisco. This was The City. And while most cities didn’t require full participation, San Francisco did.
I smiled as I coasted down Filbert again, feeling much better than I had earlier. The hills had done their job.
I headed for home, and less than fifteen minutes later drove into my parking garage. I found my space, turned off the engine, and rested my forehead on the cool plastic hardness of the steering wheel.
Unfortunately, the reeling thoughts of Derek and Layla were back in full force and I knew I wouldn’t survive the night if I didn’t find another distraction. So I pulled out my cell and called Robin.
The next morning, I woke up puffy and so exhausted I didn’t want to get out of bed. I felt hot and wondered if maybe I had a fever. Everything hurt and I was certain I was coming down with a cold or the flu.
I lay in bed, pondering the night before. I’d been an embarrassing mess. And good friend that she was, Robin had rushed over to keep me company. She poured wine and listened to me rant. Occasionally, she would remind me that Layla and Derek together was all a big fat lie, and I would agree and thank her. Then I’d go off on another tirade. I think we laughed a lot. I hope so.
I guess I didn’t have the flu, after all. I had a bit of a hangover. We’d finished a full bottle of wine. Or rather, I’d finished it. I think Robin had nursed one glass, just to keep me company. She really was the best kind of friend.
I climbed out of bed and trudged to the kitchen, where I downed two ibuprofen, then started the coffeemaker and stumbled off to the shower. I let the water pour over me for a long time, trying not to think. But it was impossible; all sorts of errant thoughts kept filtering through.
I examined every word Derek had ever said to me, picking them apart, searching for ulterior meanings.
I stared at myself in the mirror. The truly pathetic thing was that I was doing all this to myself, clear in the knowledge that Naomi was lying. What kinds of torture would I be going through if I’d actually believed she was telling the truth?
It was a sickness and I hated it.
I buried myself in work, dragging Guru Bob’s book out of my bag to begin the restoration. It was a beautiful little gem and I was happy and honored that he trusted me to do the job, but my heart wasn’t in my work today.
Nevertheless, hours later I’d photographed every inch of the book and taken it apart, piece by piece. I saved every bit of sinew and thread I could salvage, spreading the pieces out across my worktable, mapping it on wide strips of white construction paper. I loved my work, but I was tired and cranky and wanted to take a nap in the worst way.
But it was already three o’clock and I knew if I lay down now, I’d sleep right through my class. So I made a small pot of Peet’s coffee, hoping it would get me revved up enough to go teach my class. I felt marginally better after two cups. As I washed my cup in the sink, the phone rang. I ran across the room to grab it.
“It’s not true,” Derek said flatly.
My heart stuttered at the sound of his voice and I had to clutch the edge of the bar stool to keep myself steady. My hands were shaking. When had I turned into such a weenie?
“Why should I believe you?” I said, hating the vulnerable tone of my voice. Even though I believed him, I still wanted to hear him deny it twenty different ways.
“It’s not true,” he said again, enunciating every word. “I don’t know why Naomi lied to the police, but I’m going to find out.”
“How did you know it was Naomi?”
He paused. “You know it, too.”
“Yes.”
“What else do you know?”
“I think she did it to get back at me.”
“Why would she use me to get back at you?”
I gritted my teeth and said, “I might’ve threatened her a little.”
I heard him sigh; then he said, “What time is your class?”
“It starts at six.”
“I’ll be by in ten minutes.”
“Okay. You can-” But there was only a dial tone in my ear. I was going to let him park in the building but I guessed he could manage on his own.
Glancing around, I saw more dishes in the sink and the couch pillows thrown about. I bustled about the loft, straightening and cleaning, polishing the coffee table and mentally preparing myself to see Derek again. Cleaning always helped distract me from my problems. It was a wonder my place wasn’t sparkling from floor to ceiling.
And yet, despite the fun diversion of scrubbing the sink, little thoughts began to sneak in. Had Derek spent the night in a jail cell? Or had the police let him go and he’d come back to BABA, looking for me? Probably not, and it was just as well. I’d spent the entire evening gibbering like a nincompoop. Poor Robin! She’d listened to me blather on and on, babbling about Derek, wondering what he’d been doing and when he’d been doing it. And why did it matter?
I’d managed to let my fears get the best of me, even though I’d seen right through Naomi’s lies. I’d been enveloped in a nasty, miserable red haze of jealousy. Or is jealousy a green haze? Either way, it wasn’t pretty.
I guess one could conclude that my feelings for Derek were even stronger than I’d realized. And that was so freaking scary, I wanted more than anything to grab the mop and clean my kitchen floor. But I couldn’t. I had five minutes to pull myself together, so I rushed to my room and gave it my best shot.
The doorbell rang. I ran down the hall, then skidded to a stop. It wouldn’t do for him to hear me racing to the door. And since when had I ever played games like this?
I blew my bangs off my forehead and walked the rest of way.
“Oh, hi.” There, that didn’t sound awkward. Not at all. Much.
“About time,” he murmured and took one step into the house, but it was more like he stepped into me, fitted his mouth to mine and took.
And nothing else mattered.
Out on the sidewalk an hour later, after we’d had a nice conversation and some tea… no, really. After that long, lovely kiss at the door, Derek had pulled me into the living room, where he insisted we sit down and talk. He proceeded to assuage any fears I might’ve had about him and Layla. Of course, I assured him that I hadn’t given it a second thought, but he persisted in telling me the whole story.
He’d never met Layla before, but a mutual friend had told him to look her up when he got to the city. This was weeks ago, and they’d planned to meet over cocktails the night of the Covington Library event, when Abraham died. Derek found me with blood on my hands, and the rest was history. He never contacted Layla again. So I had spoiled their big date. I did not regret it.
Then, when Derek showed up at BABA with Gunther, Layla thought they ought to pick up where they’d left off and go for cocktails after the party. Derek quickly disabused her of that possibility.
He wasn’t as sure of Naomi’s motives as I was. He suspected Layla had lied to her niece about him to save face. He had a point, I thought. After all, how would it look to her underlings if the great and powerful Layla couldn’t lure a man into her bed?
I stood on the sidewalk as Derek opened the passenger door of his Bentley.
“I can drive my own car,” I said in protest.
“Why bother?” he asked. “I’ll drive you to your class, and afterward we’ll go out to dinner. Do you like Italian?”
I gazed at him across my shoulder. “Is the pope Catholic?”
“Italian it is,” he said, patting my butt. “Now get in the car.”
I laughed lightly and climbed into the butter-soft leather seat of the Bentley and buckled my seat belt. The car smelled new. And sexy. Or maybe that was just the mood I was in.
Derek hopped in and started the engine. “I need to make one stop. Do you mind?”
“No, we have time.”
“Good.” Within minutes, he’d driven over the bumpy streetcar tracks running down Market Street and continued up Kearny to Pine. We talked of normal things, the weather, my family, Gunther’s brilliant lithographs. He drove two more narrow blocks to Stockton, then pulled into the elegant porte cochere of the Ritz-Carlton.
“We’re stopping at your hotel?” I said, a tad incredulous, though I shouldn’t have been. He was, after all, just a man. “We don’t really have time for this.”
Although, if pressed, I would be more than willing to comply. I was learning quickly that I was that kind of girl.
He checked his watch, then pierced me with a look. “You’re right. You have to be at work in one hour, and I intend to take a lot more time than that.”
I broke out in a sweat and started to whistle.
He laughed. “I simply forgot my wallet, darling. We’ll only be a moment.”
“Okay.” Because really, how often did I get a chance to go to the Ritz?
“It’s not like you to forget your wallet,” I said as we entered the hushed lobby.
“I was in a rush to see you.”
I smiled at him. As excuses went, that was a good one.
We rode the elevator up to the penthouse. I thought about it. The penthouse suite at the Ritz-Carlton went for what, ten thousand a night? The guy had an expense account that didn’t quit.
Derek stopped at room 919, slipped his key card into the slot, and opened the door. “You can look at the view while I find my-”
He halted abruptly and I almost slammed into him. “Find your what?”
“Shit.”
Derek rarely swore.
“What’s wrong?”
“Stay here,” he said, reaching behind his back to grip my arm.
“What is it, Derek?”
He turned and put a finger to his lips “Shh. Somebody’s been in here.”
I whispered, “Maybe just the maid?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
He looked at me over his shoulder. “A man knows when his fortress has been breached.”
My heart stammered. Now, why did I find his words so sexy when they should’ve been just plain ridiculous? Maybe it was something in the British accent that gave them gravitas.
It was my turn to grab his arm as I glanced around anxiously. “They might still be here.”
“You’re to stay right here,” he said with an urgency that I’d rarely heard from him.
I nodded briskly. “All right.”
He didn’t have to tell me again. I’d been accosted in a hotel room recently and didn’t relish a repeat experience. I watched from the safety of the elegant foyer as he conducted a swift but professional sweep of the room.
After shifting all the pillows and checking under the couch, he moved to the dining table and chairs and on to the coffee table. Finally, he approached the small Regency-style desk next to the wall of windows. He checked the drawers, pulling each one out completely and turning it over to see if anything was attached underneath. He ran his hands smoothly over the top surface, then squatted down and felt under the desk.
“Ah,” he whispered, and crouched on his hands and knees to get a good look at whatever it was he’d felt. After prying it from beneath the desk, he stood.
“Is it a bomb?” I asked, cowering closer to the wall of the entryway.
“No,” he said, bemused. “It’s a book.” He ripped duct tape off a Ziploc freezer-strength Baggie as he walked toward me. I ventured into the room and met him halfway, watching as he undid the plastic zipper and pulled a book out of the Baggie. He appeared lost in thought as he studied it. Then he looked up.
“I suppose this is your bailiwick,” he said, handing the book to me. “Any thoughts?”
I frowned. “My first thought is that this is really weird.”
The book was crimson morocco leather, in near perfect condition. The spine was elaborately gilded with The Legend of Sleepy Hollow written in gold between the raised bands. The paper was heavily gilded on all three edges. I opened it to check the date of publication: 1905.
On the inside flyleaf, facing the title page, was a full-color Arthur Rackham illustration of Ichabod Crane and a pretty woman dressed in pink frills, walking under a gnarly tree. Hiding among the branches of the tree were a band of evil-looking pixies, grinning maniacally.
“Oh, it’s charming,” I whispered, turning it over to check out the back joint along the spine. It was strong, in mint condition.
“Yes, it’s lovely, I suppose,” Derek said grudgingly. “Why it was left here, hidden, I have no idea.”
“No.” It was indeed lovely and extremely rare; of that, I had no doubt. I imagined a collector would be willing to pay twenty or thirty thousand dollars, if not more.
“What in the world was this doing in a Baggie under your desk?”
He bristled. “I didn’t put it there.”
“Of course you didn’t,” I said. “I’m just wondering who did. And why.”
I could feel the tension radiating off him. While I studied the book, he paced back and forth in front of me, visibly furious. It made me wonder how someone like him, with his legendary self-control and fervent belief in the order of law, could stand to be put in a position of having to defend himself to the police.
He probably felt upside down and discombobulated, although he might describe it in less whimsical terms. Whatever you called it, I knew the feeling. I felt his pain.
“If I knew who did it,” he said tersely, “they’d be in jail by now.”
Baffled, I shook my head. “What were they trying to prove?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He took the book from me and studied it for a few seconds, then handed it back. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find that it’s one of Layla’s books. Clearly, someone put it here to frame me.”
“How would they get in?” I waved away the question. “Never mind. Housekeeping.” I had intimate knowledge of the ease of slipping a key off the housekeeping trolley.
“Exactly.”
“But who? Naomi again?”
“I don’t know.” His fists clenched as he paced. “Is she smart enough to carry out such an elaborate scheme?”
“She’s smart enough, but this would take more than mere smarts. It’s so brazen, it’s almost… diabolical.”
“Yes, it is.” He gritted his teeth. “And I’m determined to find out who did it.”
“I’ll help,” I said immediately.
He tilted his head to study me.
“What?” I demanded finally. “I’m going to help. I don’t care what-”
“Yes, I can use your help.”
“-you think, I’m… what? I mean, it’s not like you can stop me, but… really?”
He flashed me a sexy, lopsided grin. I wondered if he could hear my little heart pitter-patter as I returned his smile.
“Yes, really.” His grin faded and he reached out to touch my cheek. “Because whoever tried to frame me has also hurt you, darling. And that is one thing I cannot forgive.”