As the cats chased each other and their tails, I thought about last night at Abraham’s studio. I’d barely avoided meeting a murderer. He’d been there-whoever he was-carrying on a hasty search while I’d blissfully visited with my family a few hundred yards up the hill.

Creepy.

I couldn’t put a face to whoever it was. I wondered again whether he’d been looking for the same missing item I was after. Or was it something else? Had Abraham been hiding other secrets?

And speaking of secrets, I hadn’t told Derek Stone about the cocktail napkin I’d found with the scrawled note from someone named Anandalla. I wondered guiltily whether I should’ve told him, then shook my head. There were only so many sins I could deal with at one time. I’d tell him about the note later.

It wouldn’t hurt to stop at the Buena Vista tonight, chat up the bartenders and ask whether they knew someone named Anandalla. It was a long shot. I couldn’t describe her.

Did the cocktail napkin note even matter? Was I picking at nits? Possibly. Nevertheless, I was overcome by a sudden desire for Irish coffee. I could tag Robin to come with me if she didn’t have a date. She probably had a date. Fine. I could go alone.

Maybe Derek Stone was available. He seemed to have nothing better to do than follow me around, so why not include him?

“It’s not like it’s a date or anything,” I muttered aloud. “More like an outing.”

Pookie hopped onto the couch and gave my thigh a much-needed head butt.

“Come here,” I murmured, and settled the cat in my lap, where he proceeded to lick and groom himself. Splinters paced in front of my feet and meowed loudly.

“I thought cats were supposed to be aloof,” I said, scratching Pookie’s ear. “You’re embarrassing Splinters.”

Pookie apparently got the message because he leapt off the couch to rejoin Splinters in their chasing game. I watched them for another minute, chuckling and wondering if maybe I should get myself a cat. Then I caught a whiff of something horrendous and remembered I hadn’t cleaned out their litter box.

“Oh, mercy.” I grabbed a plastic bag, covered my nose and approached the offending box.

So maybe I didn’t need a pet right now.

As I walked back to my place, I realized my headache was gone. I packed leftover Chinese food for lunch, collected the tools I would need for the day along with some leather and paper samples, then locked up and took off across town.

When I got to the Covington, I headed straight for Ian’s elegantly masculine office to sign all the necessary papers to become an official independent contractor for the Covington Library.

“You won’t be leaving early today, right?” Ian asked, as he walked to a large Renaissance painting of a nude woman lounging on a bed and holding an orange shawl that did nothing to cover her lush body. He pulled the frame away from the wall, revealing a wall safe. “I’d hate to disappoint the Winslows two days in a row.”

“I’ll be here,” I assured him, then added lightly, “I guess they’re used to everyone kowtowing to them.”

He turned. “The Winslows are our largest benefactors, so it’s in our best interests to kowtow our butts off to make them happy.”

I grimaced inwardly but said, “Kowtowing here, boss.”

He smirked. “I like the sound of that. So you’ll stick around?”

“Of course, don’t worry.” But it still annoyed the hell out of me that the Winslows got away with making everyone bend over backward to accommodate them.

I shouldn’t have been so irritated, but after overhearing that suspicious discussion the night Abraham was killed, I couldn’t help feeling that they weren’t nice people. Had one of them killed Abraham?

I had to say, it gave me a warm feeling to picture Meredith Winslow spending twenty years or so in an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, cozying up to a great big gal named Beulah.

“Here you go.” Ian removed the Faust from the wall safe and handed it to me. The book was still wrapped in the white cloth I’d secured it in yesterday when I left it with Derek.

“Thanks.” I gripped it close to my chest, feeling a strange urge to protect it. I had a sudden picture of Abraham clutching the book inside his jacket as he died.

A pounding wave of grief washed over me and I had to fight the urge to curl up and cry. I wondered how many other painful memories the book had been witness to. Could a book hold memory within its covers? When I peeled away its covers, would the pain seep out and hurt me? Was I going a little crazy?

Maybe it was a good thing Ian kept it in the safe.

He was watching me closely, I realized. Were all my feelings showing on my face?

“Guess I’ll be downstairs,” I said.

He smiled uncertainly. “Have a productive day, Brooklyn.”

Productive. Right. Get to work.

“Ciao,” I said, and rushed out of his office.

“First, do no harm” was not just for doctors. In book restoration, the same was true. The less manipulation and disturbance of the original work, the better. As I stared at the thick black leather cover where the spine was mildly cracked along the front seam, I determined exactly how to proceed, step by step, and made notes accordingly.

Of course, I wouldn’t take any steps until the Winslows had come and gone. I didn’t mind an audience when I worked, but I drew the line at book owners. For some reason, they rarely handled it well. It was as if they were watching me destroy their baby, pulling the little darling apart and spreading its tiny limbs and body parts out across the work space.

Plus, owners had opinions-which they were entitled to, of course, but that didn’t mean I wanted to hear them.

So while I waited, I pulled out my camera and photographed the book from every possible angle. I took shots of the interior pages and the gorgeous Armageddon painting that was just as staggering on second view as it had been yesterday. I zoomed in on the brass eagle’s claw clasps in both latched and unlatched positions and got close-up shots of each, then photographed the embedded jewels from several angles to catch their many facets.

“Why is she taking pictures of our stuff?”

I should’ve been used to people sneaking up on me by now, but no. I almost dropped my camera.

Meredith Winslow stood just inside the room, wearing a petulant frown and a perky yellow wool mini-dress. Meredith’s mother and father stood close behind her, making a perfect family portrait. American Gothic with snotty offspring.

I had an insane urge to shout, “Say cheese!” and snap their photo, but I resisted. Instead, I pasted a smile on my face and said, “Come on in. I’m just doing some preliminary work before I start the restoration.”

Meredith didn’t move but continued to glare at me with her bottom lip stuck out in a pout. She looked exactly as I’d seen her in hundreds of tabloid photos taken over the years. I wondered why she was looking at me as if I’d stolen her favorite puppy or something.

“Come on, Merry, you’re holding up the show,” Conrad Winslow said jovially as he grabbed hold of his daughter’s arm and steered her into the room. I hadn’t noticed the other night, but he spoke with a slight German accent.

“Daddy,” Meredith protested, and tugged her arm away. Her cheeks turned pink. She seemed embarrassed by her dad and obviously pissed off about being dragged in here to meet me.

“I’m Brooklyn,” I said as I casually spread the white cloth over the Faust. I still felt a little protective about the book.

“We’ve heard all about you, Brooklyn,” Mrs. Winslow said. Her smile was so genuine, I almost relaxed.

“I can explain some of the work I’ll be doing if you’d like.”

“We’d love it,” Mrs. Winslow said.

I pulled the book closer and took off the cloth, and they all jostled for position around me.

“It’s so fascinating,” Mrs. Winslow said.