One Book in the Grave: A Bibliophile Mystery

all!

Acknowledgments
     
    As always, I’m indebted to so many people for their help in getting this book written. My grateful thanks go to:
    My brilliant editor, Ellen Edwards, whose support, encouragement, and guidance are invaluable to me.
     
    My wonderful agent, Christina Hogrebe, for her wit, enthusiasm, and good counsel.
     
    Obsidian senior editor Sandy Harding, and everyone at NAL and Penguin, who work so hard to make book magic happen.
     
    Illustrator Dan Craig, whose artistic talent makes my beautiful book covers the envy of all the others on the bookshelf.
     
    Bookbinder Rhiannon Albers at the San Francisco Center for the Book, who shared the story of Dard Hunter and suggested that a mystery about a papermaker might be interesting.
     
    Book artist Wendy Poma, for making it look so easy.
     
    My fabulous sis-in-law, Jane Beaver, who drove to the ends of the earth and walked for miles in the rain with me, just to find the perfect spot for a Marin County goat farm.
     
    My inner circle, my lovely and generous writer friends, who keep me sane, sort of. Thanks and love to Maureen Child, Susan Mallery, Christine Rimmer, Theresa Southwick, Jennifer Lyon, Hannah Dennison, Laura Bradford, Daryl Gerber, and the notorious Romance Bandits.
     
    The many bookbinders, librarians, booksellers, and readers who have taken Brooklyn into their hearts. I can’t thank you enough.
     
    Finally, to Don, my bartender and partner in crime. Thanks, lovey. You make it all worthwhile.
     

Chapter 1
     
    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 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. 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 went there, 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 eager 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 found.
     
    “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”
     
    Shudders rippled through me at the shrill voice of Minka LaBoeuf, my archenemy.
     
    My stomach bubbled and roiled in revulsion and I instantly regretted the Spanish omelet I’d eaten for breakfast. I turned to face her and was sorry I had. Chartreuse-and-fuchsia-striped leggings appeared to have been sprayed onto