Looking around, I wondered how many people in this room knew a woman had been assaulted down the hall just twenty-four hours ago. My guess was not many.

I had no doubt that this was another subject about which Layla would prefer I kept my big mouth shut.

“Yoo-hoo, Brooklyn,” someone cried.

I turned in time to receive a fierce hug from Doris Bondurant, an old friend of Abraham’s.

“Doris,” I said, taking in the subtle scent of her Chanel No. 5. “It’s so good to see you.”

She grabbed hold of my hand. “How are you, my dear? I haven’t seen you since Abraham’s memorial service. A very unhappy day, I must say.”

“Yes, it was,” I said. “But it was wonderful to see you there.”

“He was a good friend.” She squeezed my hand tighter, then let it go. “And since then, I must admit I’ve been so distracted, I haven’t gotten around to giving you the books I want you to restore for me.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Why don’t I call you next week and we can arrange a time to meet?”

“Good girl,” she said, patting my arm. “Now, what’s going on in your life?”

Doris was a petite, wizened but feisty eighty-year-old, with a grip stronger than a truck driver’s. She was one of the wealthiest women in the city, but down-to-earth and approachable, although I’d seen her pull the diva act when the situation warranted it. She laughed at my thirty-second recap of my excellent adventures in Scotland, then frowned as the lights dimmed behind me.

“Oh, dear, what is this now?” Doris murmured.

I turned and followed her gaze to the center of the gallery, where a pin spotlight was aimed at a podium and microphone setup.

Layla walked up to the podium, wearing a white off-the-shoulder spandex sex-kitten top with skintight black toreador-style pants. She wore all that with four-inch-spike-heeled black ankle boots. Her blond hair was piled high atop her head, except for several strands that had escaped to twirl coquettishly around her neck.

The crowd closed in, blocking our view.

“She’s too damn old to be dressed like that,” Doris groused. “And I’m too damn short. I can’t see a thing over this crowd. What’s going on, Brooklyn?”

I bit back a smile at her grumblings. “Looks like Layla is going to speak.”

“I was afraid of that,” she said dolefully.

Two men flanked Layla, but both were in shadow. I couldn’t see their faces but she clutched their arms tightly and gazed up at each of them as though she knew them intimately. Then someone moved in front of me and I caught a glimpse of the man standing on Layla’s right side. He was tall and powerfully built, with a ruddy complexion and sandy hair. Now I had a better view of Layla, too. Lucky me. She moved close to the microphone and the crowd hushed.

“I’m tingling with excitement,” she said, her voice sultry as she rubbed up against the sandy-haired man. She pretended to shiver with delight, which made some of the crowd laugh and cheer.

“Oh, she’s impossible,” Doris murmured.

I wasn’t a prude, but I heartily agreed. I hated that she used sex to stir up the crowd, and I hated the crowd for sucking it up. She made everything sound so icky. These were book people. Weren’t they supposed to be smarter than the general public? I was severely disappointed in my people.

“It’s my extreme pleasure,” Layla continued, “to welcome to the Bay Area Book Arts Center the incomparable Gunther Schnaubel.”

As applause rang out, I had to admit I was excited. Gunther Schnaubel was the world-famous Austrian artist who’d been commissioned to create a series of lithographs to commemorate the Oliver Twist anniversary. The lithographs would be auctioned off at the big party on the last night of the two-week-long Twisted celebration. I hadn’t realized the artist himself would be on hand for the entire week. Maybe Layla had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

I didn’t want to go there. I was a Gunther fan, but if Layla kept rubbing up against him, I might change my mind.

Schnaubel acknowledged the applause with a brief smile and a wink for Layla, then waved to the audience. I couldn’t help but notice he had huge hands. It was an interesting contradiction that many male artists who did finely detailed work had such large hands. I’d once seen an exhibit of exquisite miniature portraits done in the Regency style, and when I met the artist, I stared dumbly at his large hands. A woman standing near me had winked and slyly confirmed that the man’s other parts matched in size.

In Gunther’s case, the theory appeared to be true, as well. He towered over Layla and looked to be made of solid muscle.

Meanwhile, Layla was still talking, explaining to the crowd how the silent auction would benefit the nonprofit Book Arts Center and also allow several scholarships to be given to underprivileged high school students who showed artistic promise.

She listed a few of the items that had been donated to the silent auction by both wealthy contributors and vendors who supplied paper and materials to BABA. Then she returned to the subject of Gunther Schnaubel.

“I don’t mean to gush, but if you could all see how beautiful Gunther’s . . . mm, lithographs are . . .” She cast another lascivious glance at his well-toned body. “Well, all I can say is . . . cha-ching!”

Over the roar of the delighted crowd, I could hear Doris make a tsk sound as she shook her head. I had to agree this was a “tsk-able” moment.

But Layla was on a roll. “And we’re doubly—no, triply honored that Gunther has agreed to conduct three short hands-on demonstrations of his patented lithographic technique, and attendees will walk away with your own piece of artwork. And I do mean ‘hands-on,’ ladies.”

The ladies and a few men tittered excitedly.

I checked my watch, then touched Doris’s arm. “I’d better try to get through the crowd. I have to teach a class tonight.”

“Good luck, dear,” she said, looking around at the wall of people. “This reminds me of the time we crossed the Serengeti. I believe I’d rather take my chances with the wildebeests.”

I laughed and promised to call her next week to discuss her books. As I inched my way through the crowd, Layla continued speaking, describing the highlights of the week, especially the closing night celebration. She named a celebrity chef who would prepare the menu, an award-winning winery owner who would select the wines, and the many spectacular items available to bid on at the silent auction that night.

“For instance,” Layla said, “just to whet your appetites, we have a first edition, 1922 quarto of James Joyce’s Ulysses; some lovely, rare Hemingway ephemera contributed by our own Zachariah Mason; and of course, the jewel in the crown and the raison d’etre of our Twisted festival, an exquisitely bound, extremely rare, 1838 first edition of Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist.”

I stopped in my tracks, wincing at her announcement. Even though I’d made her think I would play along with whatever lie she wanted to put out there, it was grating to hear her actually announce the lie to a crowd of this size. For a moment, I had the worst urge to walk right up and call her bluff. Of course, I would be kissing my job good-bye, but it was more than my job at stake. If I defied Layla, I could kiss my reputation good-bye, as well.

I hated her for that.

There was another round of applause; then Layla held up her finger and the noise died down quickly. “And I know some of you will be enchanted by a naughty little 1887 British photography journal that contains scandalous nude photographs of members of Parliament cavorting with the ladies of Queen Victoria’s court. That’s right. We’re not calling our festival Twisted for nothing, and I expect you all to be extremely generous with your bidding.”