Ripped From the Pages

Other Bibliophile Mysteries

Homicide in Hardcover

If Books Could Kill

The Lies That Bind

Murder Under Cover

Pages of Sin
(Novella: E-book Only)

One Book in the Grave

Peril in Paperback

A Cookbook Conspiracy

The Book Stops Here

The Fixer-Upper Mysteries

A High-End Finish

This Old Homicide

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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

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Copyright © Kathleen Beaver, 2015

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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-
IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

Carlisle, Kate, 1951–

Ripped from the pages: a bibliophile mystery/Kate Carlisle.

p. cm.— (Bibliophile mystery ; 9)

ISBN 978-1-101-59132-1

1. Women bookbinders—Fiction. 2. Books—Conservation and restoration—Fiction.

3. Rare books—Fiction. 4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3603.A7527R57 2015

813'.6—dc23 2015000479

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.

For cheering me on like no one else can, this one’s for you,
Pam.

“Won’t this be fun?” My mother squeezed me with painful enthusiasm. “Two whole months
living right next door to each other. You and me. We’ll be like best girlfriends.”

“Or double homicide victims,” my friend Robin muttered in my ear.

Naturally, my mother, who had the ultrasonic hearing ability of a fruit bat, overheard
her. “Homicide? No, no. None of that talk.” Leaning away from me, she whispered, “Robin,
sweetie, we mustn’t mock Brooklyn. She can’t help finding, you know, dead people.”

“Mom, I don’t think Robin meant it that way.”

“Of course she didn’t,” Mom said, and winked at Robin.

Robin grinned at me. “I love your mom.”

“I do, too,” I said, holding back a sigh. Mom had a point, since I did have a disturbing
tendency to stumble over dead bodies. She was also right to say that I couldn’t help
it. It wasn’t like I went out in search of them, for Pete’s sake. That would be a
sickness requiring immediate intervention and possibly a twelve-step program.

Hello, my name is Brooklyn, and I’m a dead-body magnet.

Robin’s point was equally valid, too, though. My mother and
I could come very close to destroying each other if Mom insisted on being my BFF for
the next two months.

Even though she’d raised her children in an atmosphere of peace and love and kindness,
there was a limit to how much of her craziness I could take. On the other hand, Mom
was an excellent cook and I could barely boil water, so I could definitely see some
benefit to hanging around her house. Still, good food couldn’t make up for the horror
of living in close proximity to a woman whose latest idea of a good time was a therapeutic
purging and bloodletting at the new panchakarma clinic over in Glen Ellen.

I focused on that as I poured myself another cup of coffee and added a generous dollop
of half-and-half.

A few months ago, my hunky British ex–MI6 security agent boyfriend, Derek Stone, had
purchased the loft apartment next door to mine in San Francisco. We decided to blow
out the walls and turn the two lofts into one big home with a spacious office for
Derek and a separate living area for visiting relatives and friends. Our reliable
builder had promised it would only take two months to get through the worst of the
noise and mess, so Derek and I began to plan where we would stay during the renovation.
I liked the idea of spending time in Dharma, where I’d grown up, but live in my parents’
house? For two months? Even though there was plenty of room for us? Never!

“It would be disastrous,” I’d concluded.

Derek’s look of relief had been profound. “We’re in complete agreement as usual, darling.”

“Am I being awful? My parents are wonderful people.”

“Your parents are delightful,” he assured me, “but we need our own space.”

“Right. Space.” I knew Derek was mainly concerned about me. He’d be spending most
weeks in the city and commuting to Sonoma on the weekends. His Pacific Heights office
building had
two luxury guest apartments on the top floor, one of which would suit him just fine.

I could’ve stayed there with him, of course, but that would’ve meant renting studio
space at the Covington Library up the hill for my work. This would entail packing
up all my bookbinding equipment and supplies, including my various book presses and
a few hundred other items of importance to my job. Those small studio spaces in the
Covington Library basement, while cheap, were equipped with nothing but a drafting
table and two chairs, plus some empty cupboards and counters.

I’m a bookbinder specializing in rare-book restoration, and I was currently working
on several important projects that had to be delivered during the time we would be
away from home. The original plan of staying with my parents, while less than ideal,
would’ve allowed me access to my former mentor’s fully stocked bookbinding studio
just down the hill from my parents. Abraham Karastovsky had died more than a year
ago, but his daughter, Annie, who lived in his house now, had kept his workshop intact.
She’d also given me carte blanche to use it whenever I wanted to.

For weeks, Derek and I had tossed around various possibilities, including renting
a place somewhere in the city. That seemed to be the best alternative, but at the
last minute, we were given a reprieve that made everyone happy. My parents’ next-door
neighbors, the Quinlans, generously offered up their gorgeous French-style cottage
for our use. They were off to Europe for three months, and we were welcome to live
in their home while they were gone.

We offered to pay them rent, but all they required from us was that we take good care
of their golden retriever, Maggie, and water their plants. When Mom offered to take
care of the plants (knowing my tendency to kill them), it was too good a deal to pass
up. I was hopeful that sweet old Maggie and my adorable kitten,
Charlie (aka Charlemagne Cupcake Wainwright Stone, a weighty name for something so
tiny and cute), would become new best friends.

So last weekend, Derek and little Charlie and I had moved out of our South of Market
Street loft and turned it over to our builder, who promised to work his magic for
us.

And suddenly we were living in Dharma, next door to my parents, in a lovely two-story
French-style cottage that was both elegant and comfortable. The floor of the wide
foyer was paved in old, smooth brick, giving the space a natural, outdoor feeling.
The spacious living room was more formal, with hardwood floors covered in thick area
rugs and oversized plush furniture in browns and taupes. Rustic wrought-iron chandeliers
hung from the rough-hewn beams that crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling. The sage-toned
kitchen was spectacular, with a twelve-foot coffered ceiling, a pizza oven, and a
wide island that provided extra space for food preparation as well as seating for
six. Off the kitchen was a small library with built-in bookshelves, a wood-burning
fireplace, and two overstuffed leather chairs. I could already picture the two of
us sitting there reading books each night by a cozy fire.

And in every room on the ground floor, dark-wood-paneled French doors opened onto
an interior patio beautifully landscaped with lush plants and flowers.

Once we were unpacked and exploring the kitchen, Derek and I watched Maggie and Charlie
sniff and circle each other for a few minutes. Finally, they seemed to agree that
they could live in peace together. At least, I hoped so. Maggie ambled over to her
bed and settled herself down on the fluffy surface. Charlie followed right behind
her, clambered up and perched directly on Maggie’s big paw. Maggie stared at the tiny
creature for a long moment, and I prepared myself to whisk the cat away. But then
Maggie let out a heavy sigh and closed her eyes. Charlie snuggled
up against the big dog’s soft, warm fur and was asleep several seconds later.

Derek and I exchanged smiles. I had a feeling we would all be very happy here.

And now here I was, sitting in my mother’s kitchen on a bright Monday morning, drinking
coffee with Robin and listening as my mother tried to brush past the fact that I did
indeed have an alarming tendency to come upon dead bodies in the strangest places.
Luckily, that wasn’t likely to happen in Dharma anytime soon.

As I watched Mom bustle around her sunny kitchen, I wondered how I’d ever thought
I could avoid seeing her every day simply because we weren’t together in the same
house. Not that I minded visiting with her on a regular basis. I joked about it, of
course, but in truth, my mother was great, a true original and a sweet, funny woman
with a good heart. All my friends loved her. She was smart and generous. But sometimes . . .
well, I worried about her hobbies. She’d been heavily involved in Wicca for a while
and recently had been anointed Grand Raven Mistress of her local druidic coven. Some
of the spells she had cast had been alarmingly effective. She would try anything once.
Lately she’d shown some interest in exorcisms. I didn’t know what to expect.

I supposed I didn’t have much room to criticize Mom’s hobbies, given that my own seemed
to revolve around crime scenes.

“Do you want some breakfast before we leave?” I asked Robin. We’d made plans to drive
over to the winery this morning to watch them excavate the existing storage cave over
by the cabernet vineyards. It would eventually become a large underground tasting
room. Cave tastings were the hottest trend in Napa and Sonoma, and our popular Dharma
winery was finally jumping on the bandwagon.

Robin pulled out a kitchen chair and sat. “I already had breakfast with Austin. He
had to be on-site at seven.”

“Derek left the house about that time, too. I thought he’d be
driving into the city today, but he decided to hang around to watch the excavation.”

“Austin was so excited, he could barely sleep last night.” Robin lived with my brother
Austin, with whom she had been in love since third grade. She and I had been best
friends since then, too, and I loved her as much as any of my three sisters. I didn’t
get to see her as often as I used to when she was living in San Francisco, but I knew
she was blissfully happy with Austin, who supported her sculpting work and was clearly
as much in love with her as she was with him.

Austin ran the Dharma winery, and my brother Jackson managed the vineyards. My father
did a great job of overseeing the entire operation, thanks to his early experience
in the business world. Decades ago he’d turned his back on corporate hell and gone
off to follow the Grateful Dead. Ironically, these days, Dad and four other commune
members made up the winery’s board of directors. He was also part of the town council,
but this time around he loved all of that business stuff. It probably helped that
Dad had always been remarkably laid-back and still was. I sometimes wondered if Mom
had cast a mellow spell on him.

I checked the kitchen clock. It was already seven thirty. The cave excavation was
scheduled to begin at eight. “I’ll just fix myself a quick bowl of cereal, and then
we’ll go.”

Robin glanced at Mom. “Becky, are you coming with us?”

“You girls go on ahead,” she said, pulling a large plastic bin of homemade granola
down from the cupboard. “I want to put together a basket of herbs and goodies for
the cave ceremony. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“What cave ceremony?” I asked as I poured granola into a bowl and returned the bin
to the cupboard.

She looked at me as though I’d failed my third-grade spelling test. “Sweetie, we have
to bless the new space.”

“Oh.” I shot Robin a wary glance. “Of course we do.”

Robin bumped my shoulder. “You haven’t been away so long that you’d forget about the
sacred cave ceremony.”

“I’ve been busy,” I mumbled. She was teasing me, but still, I should’ve known that
my mother would want to cast a protection spell or a celebration spell to commemorate
the groundbreaking of our winery’s newest venture.

I could picture Mom doing a spritely interpretive dance to the wine goddess. She would
chant bad haiku and sprinkle magic sparkles on the heavy tunneling machines and equipment.
It would be amazing, and the heavy equipment would turn our dark storage cave into
a large, magical wine-tasting space where all would be welcome.

“Oh, sweetie,” Mom said, hanging a dish towel on the small rack by the sink. “While
you’re here, you should go to lunch at the new vegan restaurant on the Lane. They
serve a turnip burger that is to die for.”

I swallowed cautiously, hoping I didn’t lose my breakfast. “I’ll be sure to check
that out, Mom.”

She glanced at me and laughed. “Oh, you should see your face. Do you really think
I’d be caught dead eating something so vile?”

“I . . . Okay, you got me.” I shook my head and chuckled as I carried my bowl to the
sink. “I was trying to remember when you turned vegan.”

“I tried it once for a day and a half and vowed never again. And even then, did I
ever serve my children turnips? No, never.”

“You’re right and I appreciate it. But I haven’t seen you in a while. I was afraid
maybe you’d turned into Savannah.” My sister Savannah was a vegetarian now, but she’d
gone through several austere phases to get there, including a few months when she
would only eat fruit that had already fallen from the tree.

“No, I was just pulling your leg.”

I smiled at her. “You still got it, Mom.”

“I sure do.” She grabbed me in another hug, and it felt good to hold on to her. “Oh,
Brooklyn, I’m so happy you’re here.”

“So am I.”

She gave me one last squeeze, then let me go. As I washed out my cereal bowl, she
left the kitchen.

“Let’s get going,” Robin said after I put my bowl away in the cupboard. “I don’t want
to miss anything.”

“Wait a second, girls,” my mother called from her office alcove off the kitchen. She
walked out, holding two tiny muslin bags tied with drawstrings, and handed one to
each of us. “I want you both to carry one of these in your pocket,” she said, her
expression deadly serious. “It’ll keep you safe.”

*   *   *

“T
hat is the coolest, scariest piece of equipment I’ve ever seen,” Robin said.

I had to agree. We both stared at the monstrous excavation machine that was parked
at the mouth of the storage cave, waiting to roll into action. They called it a roadheader,
and it was huge, weighing more than sixty tons (I’d overheard Dad gushing about its
weight to Derek while they were standing around having a manly conversation about
heavy equipment), and was as large as the biggest bulldozer I’d ever seen.

Extending at least fifteen feet out in front of its tanklike body was a medieval-looking
articulated arm, or boom, at the tip of which was a large steel ball covered in clawlike
spikes. As the machine rumbled forward, the ball rotated fast enough to tear its way
through hard rock, slowly creating a tunnel. That was the theory, anyway. It hadn’t
started working yet. When it did, there would be dust and noise and, possibly, earthquakelike
shaking. It would
all be worth it when the tasting cave was completed. I could barely wait for that
day.