“Yoo-hoo?”

I looked up from my pasting job and saw Sylvia Winslow standing tentatively at the door.

“I know I’m interrupting,” she said.

“Not at all,” I insisted with a smile. “Come on in.”

She stepped inside and closed the door, looking lovely in an elegant navy pin-striped pantsuit, her red hair tucked behind her ears to show off her diamond studs. Robin could’ve nailed the suit’s designer and the size of those diamonds in a heartbeat. All I knew was that everything she wore was expensive and gorgeous.

“I just wanted to stop in and see how you’re doing,” she said. “Your work is so interesting.”

“Come look.”

“Oh my.” She placed her clutch purse on the side table and stared at the vertical press that held the repaired signatures I was gluing. Her gaze slowly swept across the wide work surface, resting on the black leather cover for the Faust that was stretched and held in place at each corner by weights.

“It’s all in pieces, isn’t it? I never expected…” She wrung her hands. “Well, you obviously know what you’re doing. I won’t disturb you.”

“Please don’t worry.” I stuck my glue brush into the jar of water and wiped my hands. “You’ve caught me at the perfect moment. The glue has to dry before I can do much else.”

She wandered around the table to get a better look at the weighted leather cover, then looked at me, bewildered.

I explained the process of straightening the leather, showed her how the glue was drying on the signatures and how I’d fasten the refurbished leather cover to the new boards.

“It’s fascinating,” she said, but her lips were pinched with worry.

“What’s wrong, Mrs. Winslow?”

“Oh dear,” she said. “I hate to even bring up the subject. But I understand Enrico Baldacchio was found dead yesterday.”

“Yes. It’s horrible.”

Her hand was trembling when she took mine. “I hate to speak ill, Brooklyn, but he was not a nice man. I didn’t trust him in the least. But of course, he didn’t deserve to die.”

“No, of course not.”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she whispered. “I wonder if it’s our fault.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our book is cursed,” she said, forlorn. “I’ll never forgive myself if we somehow-”

“No.” I pushed my high chair away from the table. “I’m sorry, but a book does not go around killing people. You can’t blame yourself for any of this.”

She waved her hand in the air, flustered. “Oh, of course it’s not really cursed. But so many awful things are happening. I don’t like all this controversy hanging over our exhibit.”

“Well, it’ll certainly drive up ticket sales,” I said philosophically.

She hid a smile with her hand. “That’s very bad of you.”

“I know,” I said, biting back my own smile. “I apologize.”

“No, you’ve made me feel better.” She wandered along the side counter and ended up in front of the heavy brass horizontal press. She planted both hands on the wide wheel and barely budged it a half inch. “My goodness, that’s impressive.”

“Yes,” I said, smiling. “Nobody can keep their hands off the book press.”

“I can see why.” She straightened her jacket and moved closer to the worktable. “Well, I didn’t come here solely to waste your time. I actually had a question about books.”

“I hope I can help.”

“It’s a bit distasteful.” She laughed uncomfortably.

“I can probably handle it.”

“It’s about silver fish,” she said, wringing her hands.

I laughed. “I hate those little buggers.”

“God, so do I. One of the maids found several on our bookshelves. I’m absolutely revolted at the thought of vermin in my house.”

“I don’t blame you,” I said. “And they do love books. Or rather, they love the paper and the wheat paste and the starch in the bindings.”

“I knew you’d know about this. You’re so clever. Tell me what I do. I’m determined not to bombard our home with chemicals, but how else can I get rid of them?”

“If I were you, I’d have your housekeeper empty the shelves and wipe the wood down with cinnamon oil.”

“Cinnamon oil? Are you sure?”

“Some people love it and recommend it. I’ve never had to try it, but I know bugs don’t like it.”

“It sounds perfect.”

I pressed my finger to the glued spine to test its dryness. Not quite. “I’ve heard of people using a drop of tea tree oil on the book paper, but it smells like antiseptic, so I’d try the cinnamon oil first.”

I mentioned some places she could buy the oil and she clapped her hands in glee. “I knew you’d have the answer. I’ll leave you in peace now. I’ve got to meet-”

“Mother?”

We both turned as the door opened and Meredith poked her head in.

“Here I am,” Sylvia said gaily.

Meredith looked at me with distaste, then turned to Sylvia. “What are you doing in here, Mother?”

Sylvia winked at me. “Just checking up on things.”

“We’re going to be late,” Meredith said peevishly.

“We’ll be fine.” Sylvia sighed, picked up her clutch and patted my arm as she passed. “Thank you, dear. We’ll see you at the opening this Saturday.”

Meredith threw me a poisonous look and stormed off behind her mother. Instantly, all the pleasant feelings from Sylvia’s visit dissolved. I was really growing tired of Meredith Winslow and her bad-tempered behavior toward me.

I’d been half kidding when I’d envisioned her in that orange jumpsuit, but now I seriously had to wonder if she had taken her hissy fits to another level by killing Abraham. I remembered Ian saying she wanted to put a hit out on Enrico. Was she capable of murder? Had she ransacked my studio?

I needed to walk off my anger and clear my head. Since I couldn’t do much with the book until the glue dried, I decided to take a lunch break. I told the front desk where I was going and headed to my favorite hole-in-the-wall noodle house, the Holy Ramen Empire.

As I cautiously walked down the steep slope of Pacific toward Fillmore, that feeling that someone was watching me returned. I continually glanced around, but didn’t see anyone I knew.

Safely inside the restaurant, I ordered the Singapore noodle bowl with shrimp and a small pot of tea, then set my tray down at a small table by the front window and dug into the noodle bowl with gusto. I opened my paperback copy of Faust and read while I ate.

It was… interesting. I knew it was a classic, considered by many to be the finest German work of fiction in history, but I couldn’t help thinking that if he tried to sell it today, old Goethe might find himself out of luck. Still, I was surprised to find so much humor in the dialogue. Naturally, the devil got all the best lines.

I skimmed the translator’s introduction and his words began to jump out at me. Alchemy, magic, necromancy. Temptation. The devil.

I rubbed my arms to ward off another bout of shivers, then glanced up as a man walked into the restaurant wearing worn jeans and ratty high-top sneakers. Despite the fact that his faded navy hoodie stretched so far over his head I couldn’t see his face, he seemed familiar to me. I’d seen him somewhere before. In my neighborhood, maybe? Or earlier in Noe Valley? Had he been following me? I realized I was holding my breath and forced myself to relax.

Hoodie Guy checked out the menu on the wall above the cash register, then turned around and stared at the people in the room. He might’ve made eye contact with me. I couldn’t tell. There was a black hole where the hoodie covered his face and eyes.

I tried to brush him off as yet another San Francisco burnout, but it wasn’t easy. After all I’d been through lately, this weirdo was freaking me out. I stared at the noodle bowl and realized I’d lost my appetite.

Now I was really angry.

I kept my eye on Hoodie Guy, aware that too much ugly stuff had happened over the past week. I reminded myself that once I was through with the Winslow project, I would be able to put the finishing touches on two books I was eager to enter in the Edinburgh Book Fair competition.