It is I, the devil says.

Enter, says Faust.

“Yes, do come in,” I muttered. “Take my soul in exchange for immortality and destroy everything I’ve ever loved.”

That was the devil’s plan all along, wasn’t it?

Remember the devil.

Did Abraham’s last words have anything to do with Goethe’s masterpiece? I kept forgetting to pick up a paperback copy, but in my defense, I’d had some distractions to deal with. I made a note to do it after my meeting with Enrico this afternoon.

For now, I concentrated on the foxing I’d seen on a number of the pages. Foxing referred to the small, reddish brown spots of mildew or dirt that appeared over time on the pages of old books. There were different techniques for removing the spots. Most of them involved solutions of bleach or peroxide or other chemicals that could ultimately damage the fibers in the paper. I couldn’t take that chance with the Faust, so I had decided to experiment with something I’d seen on one of my online loops.

I pulled a slice of white bread from the cheapest loaf I’d found at the market, then tore off the crusts and squished the slices together to make a ball.

The theory was that the bleached flour would help whiten the spots without damaging the paper itself. The e-mail poster had warned that the results wouldn’t be perfect but there would be some improvement.

After gently rubbing in a circular pattern, I was amazed to see the white ball of bread turning darker and crumbly. It was actually pulling the dirt out of the paper. The spots didn’t completely disappear, but they were much lighter than before.

“That was amazing,” I marveled as I tossed the used bread in the wastebasket and pulled out another slice. All this bread reminded me that I’d been going on two lattes and chocolate since I’d left home this morning. I was starving. I supposed I could munch on the white bread, but that seemed pathetic somehow. Maybe I’d grab a sandwich at the Covington tearoom.

I pushed the stool away from the table, stood and stretched. Without warning, my neck muscles cramped up.

“Loafing on the job as usual,” Minka said as she walked in. She wore leopard-skin leggings, a tight black turtleneck sweater and sparkly red heels. I don’t make this stuff up.

“Didn’t I warn you to stay out of my workroom?” I asked, dismissing any pretense of politeness as I rubbed away the kink in my neck caused by her proximity.

“What bug crawled up your ass?” she said, her nasal voice fraying my nerves.

“I’m busy, Minka.” I made a show of grabbing the white cloth and covering the book, afraid her cooties might infect it. Childish, but it worked for me.

She snorted. “If I’d just inherited a shitload of chaching, I’d be in a hell of a better mood than you are.”

My mouth fell open. How had she heard about Abraham’s will? I hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. It was as if the woman had extrasensory psychosis.

She studied her half-inch-long fingernails, then nibbled at a hangnail. “I had a little talk with the police yesterday.”

“What a coincidence. So did I.”

Her brows knit together. “You did?”

“Yeah. Except in my case, I told the truth.”

“I don’t lie,” she said, offended.

“Yes, you do,” I said. “You lied about Abraham and me, remember? About us fighting the night he died? That was a lie.”

She cocked her head. “Really? My bad.”

It was probably unkind to despise someone so stupid, but I did. My bad.

She glanced at me through blue-mascara-caked eyelashes. “I bet the police would be interested to hear about all that money you got.”

I took a breath and counted to five. It wouldn’t do for another murder to occur at the Covington within a week of the first one.

“I’m sure they would,” I said. “That’s why I’m calling them this afternoon to tell them.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Whatever.” But her lip curled. I’d stolen her thunder.

“I should apologize, though,” I said. “I didn’t realize you hadn’t mentioned to the police that Abraham fired you from your job.”

Her eyes grew wide. “That had nothing to do with-”

“With murdering him?”

“You shut up.”

“They think that’s a great motive for murder.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“Now, that’s the pot calling the kettle late for dinner.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” I waved my hand at the table. “Go away, Minka. I’m busy here.”

She folded her arms tightly under her breasts and glowered at me. “You think you’re so smart.”

I thought about that. “I guess I do.”

“We’ll see who’s smarter when you’re standing in the unemployment line.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Maybe.”

“Fair enough.” I moved closer. “But if you say one more word about me to the police, I’ll make you sorry you ever crawled out from under that rock and started screwing with my life.”

“Is that a threat?” she mocked.

“Yeah, it is.”

“God, you’re such a bitch.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

She turned on her heel and stomped out, pushing Ian out of her way before he could move aside.

“Bye-bye,” I called.

Ian stood at my door, watching Minka storm down the hall. “What was that all about?”

“The usual girl talk. Come in and close the door.”

He did so, pulled up a stool and sat. “I wanted to talk to you yesterday at the memorial but you disappeared.”

“You’re the one who did the disappearing act,” I said. “Right when the cops showed up. What was that all about?”

“Hey, I didn’t want to get in their way. But then I looked for you a while later and couldn’t find you.”

“Sorry. You want some water?”

“No, thanks.”

I grabbed a bottle from the cupboard, popped the top and drank. “Girl talk makes me thirsty. What’s up?”

He adjusted and readjusted the knot in his tie.

“Ian?”

“I saw you talking to Enrico Baldacchio at the memorial service.”

“Oh yeah.” I took another sip of water. “I was surprised to see him there since he and Abraham were less than friends. But I really think Enrico might be-”

“He’s dangerous, Brooklyn,” Ian blurted. “Stay away from him.”

Chapter 12

I put the water bottle down and reached for the candy bar. “What do you mean, dangerous? I’ve known Enrico Baldacchio forever.”

“You don’t know him as well as you think. He’s a liar and a thief.”

Whoa. Harsh words from someone who defined political correctness in this business.

“Why, Ian? What did he do?”

“I guess you didn’t know that the Winslows hired Enrico first, before they ever came to the Covington.”

I put the water bottle down. “You’re right. I didn’t know. What happened?”

He held up his hands to make a disclaimer. “Keep in mind, this is all secondhand information.”

“Fine. Just tell me.”

“Things were great for a while. They just wanted some books rebound.”

“How did they find him?”

He chuckled without humor. “In the phone book. His name is listed first under bookbinders.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No. You can look it up.”

I would. “Wow, who uses the phone book anymore? I thought everyone used Google.”

He folded his hands together on the table. “Not everyone.”

“Apparently not.” Then I noticed Ian gritting his teeth. “You’re probably not here to talk about the Yellow Pages.”

“No,” he said.

“Right.” I smiled. “You were saying about Enrico?”

He looked uncomfortable and I almost offered him some of my chocolate, but figured I needed it more.

Ian sighed. “Some book-savvy friends of the Winslows were concerned that Enrico wasn’t doing a good job. They’d seen some of his avant-garde leather work on several antiquarian books and were horrified. They insisted the Winslows bring their books to the Covington before Baldacchio destroyed the integrity of the collection. These friends convinced them-well, Sylvia anyway-that they had an incredible collection and needed a conservator and restoration experts to work with them.”