Minka smirked in victory. Over her shoulder, I saw Naomi roll her eyes. Good to know it wasn’t just me who thought that would have been a really bad idea.

I gave Minka a look that made it clear that hell would freeze over before I would show her anything but the back door. My former good mood plummeted even further as I realized I’d have to spend the next three weeks trying to avoid both Layla’s caustic bitchiness and Minka’s toxic stupidity.

I thought of Minka’s first words a minute ago, about people dying whenever I was in the vicinity. I hoped her words wouldn’t come back to haunt us all, but with so many volatile personalities to deal with, I had to wonder how long it would be before one of us turned up dead.

I just hoped it wouldn’t be me.

Chapter 2

Avoiding Minka’s gaze, I turned to Layla and tried to smile. “I’ll have to take a rain check on that tour. Right now, I need to set up my classroom. See you all later.”

I walked with purpose across the gallery and down the south hall to my classroom. I hoped I’d be able to avoid Minka for the next three weeks but she was like a noxious cloud. Really. If I got within a few hundred feet of her, I tended to suffer flulike symptoms. I supposed I’d be forced to hide out in my classroom from now on, like a sniveling coward.

I stopped at the glass display case outside my room and found the posted schedule of classes for the month. Sure enough, Karalee Pines’s name was crossed out and Minka’s name was written in. She would be teaching a three-hour limp-binding class two nights a week for the next month. My own comprehensive bookbinding class was four nights a week for three weeks. The possibility of seeing her six times in the next month made my head hurt.

Safe in my classroom, I unpacked my tools, then placed the stacks of decorative cloth I’d brought on the side table. I’d found some beautiful printed paper at the Edinburgh Book Fair, from a vendor who specialized in handmade Japanese prints. These would be used by my students for book covers and endpapers.

Looking around, I took a quick inventory of the book presses and punching jigs. The jigs were clever, handmade contraptions made with two pieces of wood screwed together to form a V-shaped cradle. A thin space at the apex of the vee allowed for the pointed end of a sharp punching awl to make sewing holes in folded signatures.

There were six standard cast-iron table presses, plus stacks of twenty or thirty iron weights of different sizes and shapes. The students would have to share the equipment, but that was rarely a problem since everyone worked at their own pace.

The door opened and Karalee walked in and closed the door. She was BABA’s book arts manager and, along with Mark Mayberry, aka Marky May, the print arts manager, was part of the small permanent staff at BABA. They designed and ran the two main curriculums offered here.

“Hi, Karalee,” I said with a tight smile. I didn’t know her all that well, but we’d always had a good business friendship. Until tonight, anyway.

“Brooklyn, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know Layla hired Minka until this morning. I was supposed to teach that limp-binding class, but Layla said she promised it to Minka. I swear, if I had any real authority, I would tell her to take this job and shove it.”

“You can’t do that, Karalee,” I said. “It’s okay.”

“Well, if I’d known sooner, I would’ve tried to change her mind.” She shrugged helplessly. “I’ve worked with Minka before and she’s a mess.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” But I was grateful to know I wasn’t the only one who thought so. I cleaned a bunch of glue brushes in the sink and organized them in glass jars as we talked.

She tapped her nails on the worktable, plainly uncomfortable. “I’m just worried we’ll lose students because of her.”

I choked out a laugh. “You’d lose me if I had to take a class from her.”

“You and me both,” she admitted. “Damn it. Well, I don’t want to lose you, so let me know if I can do anything to make things easier for you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll just stay close to my classroom and try to avoid her.”

“That’s so unfair,” she said, nervously straightening the pile of colorful papers I’d fanned out across the side table a minute ago. “But look, I mean it. I want you to be happy. So just come running if you need anything.”

I smiled at her. “Thanks, Karalee.”

She walked out and I continued to clean up, then checked the room’s supply of polyvinyl acetate, or PVA glue. This was the glue of choice for most bookbinders because it was water soluble and strong, while it allowed for flexibility and adjustments until it was left to dry completely.

“Meow.”

I looked down, surprised to see a big yellow cat staring up at me. “Hey, Baba, how’d you get in here?”

“Meow.”

I knelt down to stroke his lovely thick coat as he rubbed himself against my ankles. Baba Ram Dass was his full name and he was BABA’s official mascot. The cat had been in residence for as long as I’d been coming here.

“You’re welcome to stay until someone starts sneezing,” I said.

“Meow.” But his look said, I’ll stay as long as I feel like it.

“I think we have a deal,” I said, standing up. I grabbed a sponge and wiped down the sink counter in the corner as my first students began to file in. They greeted me, then chose seats around the high, wide worktable that dominated the center of the room.

Within ten minutes, the table was filled with twelve chattering students who talked among themselves and fiddled with the tools I’d laid out for them.

I introduced myself and gave a brief background of my bona fides. “Okay, that’s me. Let’s go around the room and have you give your names and backgrounds. And tell us all what you hope to get out of the class.”

Five of the students were graphic artists: Sylvia, Tessa, Kylie, Bobby, and Dale. I recognized Tessa and Kylie from previous classes they’d taken with me.

There were three librarians: Marianne and Jennifer, who worked together at the main library in Daly City, and Mitchell, a muscular, tattooed Desert Storm veteran who had returned home from the war and decided to become a librarian because, as he said with a shrug, “I like books.”

“You’ve come to the right place,” I said, chuckling.

Mitchell added that his sister was a librarian and she thought books and binding would be good therapy for him after the war. “She was right. I’ve got the books part down. Now I’d like to try my hand at binding.”

The next person was Cynthia Hardesty, a tall, buxom brunette who introduced both herself and her husband, Tom.

“We’ve been on the board of directors here for three years,” she said. “Layla finally insisted we take your class. She holds you in such high regard.”

“Yes, my dear, she thinks you’re a pip,” Tom said. He was tall and lean, though not quite as tall as his wife, with thinning hair and a bit of an old-world aristocracy vibe about him. I pictured him in an ascot and smoking jacket, drinking cognac with Lord Peter Wimsey or Jay Gatsby.

“Isn’t that nice to hear?” I said, even though my internal BS meter was ticking loudly, indicating an overload of crap, for sure. Especially coming from Layla. And why hadn’t I been alerted that I would have two board members in my class? It meant I would have to be on my best behavior and that was never fun.

The last two to speak were best friends, Whitney and Gina, who talked over each other as they explained that they were always looking for interesting things to do together.

“We’re newbies but we’ll try to keep up,” Gina said.

“I think it’ll be fun,” Whitney added brightly.

“I hope we’ll all have a lot of fun,” I said, then began to explain how the class would proceed each week.

On Mondays, we would start with a very brief explanation of the type of binding we’d be constructing. Each student would create a miniature version of the real thing. I held up some samples of the tiny three-inch books we’d make, and got “oohs” and “ahhs” from the women. The little books were always a big hit. By Thursday night, they would each have a larger finished journal in the same style. At the end of the three-week course, they all would’ve made six handmade books.