Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, February 2012

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Copyright © Kathleen Beaver, 2012

All rights reserved

EISBN: 9781101575260

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This book is dedicated to my favorite Beast, my brother,

Daniel Patrick Beaver, and to his beautiful and very

clever wife, Deborah, and their amazingly perfect

children, Campbell and Callan.

I love you 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.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

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 Minka’s ample lower body. As God was my witness, the leggings were topped by a matching tube top (a tube top!) and a pixie band (a pixie band!) in her hair. She looked like a demented barber pole.

I couldn’t make this stuff up.

“I was invited to come here today,” I said, shielding my eyes from the glare. “I know you can’t say the same, so you should leave. Be sure to let the door hit your ass on the way out.”

Baring her teeth, she snarled and said, “You’re such a bitch!”

I smiled with concern. “Really? Is that the best you’ve got? Pitiful.”