6 - Pages of Sin

Elaine’s Happy Llama stories. And even though Elaine didn’t have the talent to write them herself, she often came up with clever story lines she thought little Lizzie would enjoy. She considered Lizzie her muse. When she related some of the stories to Wanda, her sister wrote them down for her. That’s when the two of them first realized her talent. But Wanda wasn’t about to go out into the world as an author, so Elaine put her name on the books. She insisted the stories were hers anyway, so it worked out just fine for her.
    Marjorie had been dictating her ideas to Wanda for years, too. And she’d worked out a similar arrangement to her sister Elaine’s. They had simply never bothered to inform one another of their little deceits.
    The three sisters and Byron had been close friends until the day Elaine uttered her famous damning words to Byron and another estrangement began. But now that she was back home where she belonged and everything had been talked out, he couldn’t be happier.
    Luckily for Elaine, Wanda had never taken offense from Elaine’s words as Byron had. Wanda had agreed to continue writing the Happy Llama books for Elaine, proving once again that Wanda was the most honorable person in the family.
    “I think we need a little mood changer,” Mom said suddenly. She popped up from the table and riffled through one of the kitchen drawers.
    Dad and I exchanged a wary glance and he took hold of the wine bottle. “You might need a bit more of this.”
    I smiled and held out my glass as he poured.
    And minutes later, my mother, accompanying herself on the sacred Marrakeshi bongo drums, proceeded to perform the wildest, most excellent cleansing and purification ritual ever.

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Bibliophile Mystery by Kate Carlisle
One Book in the Grave,
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starting February 2012.
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    Hello, my name is Brooklyn Wainwright, and I am a book addict.
    It was Friday morning and I was on my way to the Covington Library to sniff out my personal version of crack cocaine: Books. Old, rare, and beautiful.
    I didn’t need a twelve-step program; I just needed more bookbinding work to keep me off the streets. That was why I’d driven over to Pacific Heights to see my good friend Ian McCullough, head curator of the Covington Library in San Francisco. He’d called earlier to let me know he had a job for me.
    I found a lucky parking spot less than half a block away. Lucky was the perfect way to describe how I was feeling that day. As I walked up the broad concrete steps of the imposing Italianate mansion, I took a moment to appreciate this beautiful building, its setting here at the highest point of my favorite city, and this glorious, early fall day.
    A few months ago, after coming within striking distance of yet another callous criminal bent on killing me and a few close friends, I had made a vow to be grateful for every wonderful thing in my life. My family, my friends, my gorgeous, exciting lover, the career I enjoyed so much, my books, pizza; I was grateful for them all. Life was good.
    So now I stopped to breathe the crisp clear air, smile at the colorful sight of newly planted pansies lining the sidewalks, and savor the stunning view of San Francisco Bay in the distance.
    The moment passed and I strolled up the last few steps. Pushing open the heavy iron doors, I walked through the elegant foyer of the Covington with its broad checkerboard marble floor, coffered ceiling, and sweeping staircases. Those stairs led to the second and third floors, where dozens of rooms held priceless artwork and countless collections of the greatest books ever written throughout history. In almost every alcove and nook, a visitor would find a comfortable chair with a good light for reading. It was the most welcoming place for a book lover I’d ever known and I loved it as much now as I did the first time I came here when I was eight years old.
    I bypassed the main exhibit hall and headed straight for Ian’s office down the wide corridor that led to the inner sanctum. I was anxious to get hold of the book he was so excited about and envisioned myself rushing home, tearing it apart, and putting it back together again. With utmost love and care, of course.
    Yes, life was good indeed.
    That thought was snuffed out as a sudden, cold sense of dread permeated the very air around me. I shuddered in dismay. In any perfect apple, a worm might be