Kate Carlisle - Homicide in Hardcover

My teacher always told me that in order to save a patient youd have to kill him first. Not the most child-friendly way of explaining his theory of book restoration to his eight-year-old apprentice, but it worked. I grew up determined to save them all.

As I studied the faded, brittle, leather-bound volume that lay near death on the worktable before me, I knew I could bring it back to life, too. But it wouldnt be easy. With six hundred pages of crusty, smelly pulp, the books once-elegant, gilded spine was nearly severed from its body.

Sorry, old thing, but Im not letting you die on my watch. I dusted its hinges with a soft brush, then ran a finger along the spine. It came away covered in red powder. Red rot had set in. The leather binding was terminal.

I picked up my scalpel and pierced the frail calfskin along the aged brown hinge, extricating the bits of thready sinew still clinging to the sticky bits of leather.

Despite my mothers misgivings, I was grateful Id bypassed medical school, because lets face it, if this book were human, Id be drenched in blood up to my elbows and probably unconscious. I didnt do so well around blood.

I heard a sharp intake of breath. Thats disgusting!

I flinched and the scalpel flew from my hand. I looked up and saw my best friend, Robin Tully, staring at the flaky leather chunks and moldy paper splayed across the table.

I didnt hear you come in, I said, patting my heart.

Apparently not, she said as she retrieved the scalpel off the floor and placed it safely on the table. A bomb could go off and you wouldnt notice.

I ignored that, jumped off the high stool and grabbed her in a tight hug. Youre early, arent you?

She checked her watch. Actually, Im right on time, which I suppose is early in your world.

I smiled, then held up my camera. Do you mind? I need another few minutes to map and shoot this stuff.

Procrastinate all you want. Im in no hurry. She pulled off her fuzzy black jacket and fluffed her hair.

Im not procrastinating. I took several close-up shots of the decomposing front foredge, then looked up and caught Robins look of profound pity. What?

She held up her hands. I said nothing.

I can hear you judging me. I put the camera down and grabbed a handful of chocolate-swirled caramel kisses, a product I personally considered a miracle of modern technology. I popped a few pieces into my mouth, tried to enjoy the warm burst of flavors, but finally threw my hands up in defeat. Okay, Im procrastinating. Can you blame me? I could be walking into a trap tonight.

She laughed. Were going to the library, not sneaking down a dark alley.

I know it. I scowled. Tonight was a private showing of the most important book collection to open at the Covington Library in years. And the man being honored tonight, the man responsible for the restoration of the rare antiquarian books on exhibit, was Abraham Karastovsky, my lifelong teacher and mentor.

And nemesis?

I didnt know. We hadnt spoken in six months and I was frankly nervous about seeing him after being estranged for so long.

Six months ago, after years of indecision, Id finally given Abraham notice that Id be moving out from under his shadow to start my own business. He hadnt taken the news well. Hed never been good at accepting change. He was old school, settled in his ways, determined to fight the modern trends in both book restoration and life in general. When I went off to college to study book restoration and conservation, he declared it was a useless waste of time and Id learn more on the job, working with him.

Despite his gruff ways it had been a difficult decision to leave him, even though Id essentially been working independently for years. Abraham had been furious and had said some things I hoped he might regret now.

What would happen when we met face-to-face again? Would he treat me like an enemy? Cut me off without a word? Ridicule me in front of friends and colleagues? I was beyond worried. Could anyone blame me for procrastinating?

He sent you an invitation, Robin said. That proves he wants to see you. Hes not the best communicator, but he loves you, Brooklyn. You know that.

I felt tears spring up and I prayed she was right. It was both comforting and annoying to know she usually was.

Wed been best friends since the age of seven, when my parents joined a spiritual commune up in the wine country north of San Francisco. My mom and dad had dragged me and my five young siblings off to experience the excitement of growing our own vegetables, wearing clothing made of hemp and sharing in the harmony and oneness of nature. I did not go quietly.