6 - Pages of Sin

flowed in waves down her back. She sat at a table pouring tea for the Beast, who was depicted as a huge brown bear. His appearance was hairy and scary, yet he seemed dignified and well-mannered. The tea set was blue. I could’ve described it blindfolded.
    I paged back to the inside flyleaf and stared at the inscription written there. My throat tightened and the pressure building in my chest began to ache.
    “It’s very rare,” Ian said in a rush. “First edition. Look at the interior pages. They’re fantastic. I just need you to fashion a new cover and do some clean up, and we’ll have a masterpiece to display in the children’s gallery.”
    I ran my fingers over the dried ink and reread the sentimental inscription. The scrawled penmanship had a beauty all its own.
    “Earth to Brooklyn,” he snapped. “What’s going on? Can you do the work or not?”
    I shook myself out of my melancholy and glanced up at Ian. “I’m not sure I can.”
    “What do you mean, you’re not sure? You could do this restoration in your sleep.”
    “Oh yeah, I can do the work.” I turned the book over to see if the damage extended to the back joint, but it was still smooth and unfrayed. “But . . . I don’t think I can do the work.”
    He scowled, shoved his chair back from the table and stood over me. “You’re speaking in riddles. What’s wrong with the damn book?”
    “Nothing’s wrong with the book,” I said, and met his gaze directly. “Except that it was stolen.”
    “No, it wasn’t.” He stared at my expression, then shook his head vigorously. “No way. What the hell are you talking about? I bought it from Joseph Taylor, the most reputable bookseller in the city. It was a clean deal.”
    “I believe you.” Joe Taylor was an old acquaintance of mine. My mentor Abraham had known him forever, and over the years we’d done a lot of bookbinding work for him.
    I touched the crisp, deckled edges of the paper and fought to stay calm. “But I’d like to find out who sold it to Joe because I know they weren’t the rightful owner.”
    Frustrated, Ian scratched his head, causing his hair to spike wildly. “What aren’t you telling me, Brooklyn? How do you know this book was stolen? Who did it belong to?”
    Awash in memories, I didn’t realize until too late that I had tears in my eyes. I brushed them away with a fierce swipe of my hand and faced him. “Me, Ian. Once upon a time, this book belonged to me.”

Other Bibliophile Mysteries
Homicide in Hardcover
If Books Could Kill
The Lies That Bind
Murder Under Cover