“Yes. Several had come undone.”

  “And you obviously must have cleaned these self-wrappers.”

  “I did.” I was surprised to hear him use the term “self-wrapper,” which was what Benjamin Franklin had called the pages of his Almanacks. It was a term that was both historically and factually correct, and I wondered where he had come up with it. Was he simply a quick study? Had he Googled everything there was to know about Poor Richard’s Almanack in order to pass himself off as an expert?

  “How did you track down the proper thread?” he asked, running his fingers over the linen strands.

  “My job is to study the materials and techniques that were in use at the time a book was first created.” I shrugged. “In good conscience, I wouldn’t dream of using thread or cloth or a knotting technique that wasn’t in fashion at the time.”

  “Did you read through the Almanack while you worked on it?”

  “I did. It was truly enjoyable.”

  He seemed pleased with my answer. After holding the pages up to the light for a long moment, he set it down on the counter. “I’ve seen a number of these Almanacks before, and this one is in better shape than any of them.”

  “It is now,” I said.

  He grinned at my minute correction. “The historical significance of this particular volume is breathtaking.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Which renders it beyond priceless.”

  I nodded. I’d had the same thought while working on the Almanack, so I found it interesting that he agreed.

  He gazed at me with his piercing green eyes and I had to fight to remain unaffected. It occurred to me in that moment that he was wearing contact lenses. Did he wear them to deliberately unsettle his opponent? I would bet money on it.

  When he turned back to inspect the pages, I surreptitiously studied his white hair. Was he wearing a wig?

  Frankly, the man confused me. Under normal circumstances, I would have been flattered by his compliments and his admiration for my work. I would have been disarmed by his charm, his rakish grin, and that twinkle in his eye. He listened to me, laughed with me, and essentially treated me as though I were the only person in the world he wanted to talk to and spend time with. I should have been intrigued by his extensive knowledge of bookbinding. Not a lot of people were familiar with the sort of esoteric details that bookbinders handled on a daily basis, but this guy was. And he made sure I knew it. It made me wonder what his real background was. Was he a bookbinder? A bookseller? Or was he just an uncommon thief and a really good scammer?

  Featherstone switched his attention to Billy. “How much are you selling it for?”

  “Y-you want to buy it?” Billy said, clearly thrown off by the quick switch in conversation.

  “Of course I want to buy it.”

  “I—I’ll have to ask Genevieve. She’s, um, not here right now.”

  Micah smiled patiently. “I’ll be happy to come back, but I want the Almanack and the box. I’ll leave you a deposit of five thousand dollars. Will that be enough to forestall it being mailed to New York?”

  “I’ll make sure of it.”

  Featherstone pulled a hefty money clip from his pocket and peeled off five thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills and handed them to Billy. He still had a thick wad of bills when he slid the clip back into his pocket.

  As Billy counted the money and wrote out a receipt, the man took my hand and shook it gently. “I hope we’ll have a chance to talk again. It’s been such an honor.”

  “Thank you very much. I hope you enjoy the Almanack.”

  “I will cherish it, and the book box as well.”

  Billy handed him the receipt for his deposit and Featherstone walked out of the shop.

  Billy sagged against the back wall. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “You did great,” I said. “You sounded surprised when he wanted to buy it.”

  “I was.” He scratched his head, bewildered. “I still am.”

  “Do you mean he’s never bought a book here before?”

  “No, never. Whenever I’ve seen him at the pub, he talks about coming into the store to buy something, but he never has. I thought it was because . . . well . . .”

  “Because he broke in and stole them?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said, mystified as to why Featherstone was so willing to buy the Almanack today if he’d never done so in the past. “But you did great, Billy. I’m really proud of you.”

  He grinned. “That was kind of cool.”

  I smiled and patted his arm. “Totally cool.” But as I walked to the back office, I was more confused than ever.

  • • •

  “So maybe he’s not the thief,” Genevieve said from where she sat cross-legged on top of her office desk. “Maybe he’s not the one who stole the James Bond set.”

  “You think it might be a coincidence?” I asked. “One day he was asking Billy about those very books and it just so happens that three days later, they were stolen?”

  Gen grimaced. “It’s so not a coincidence.”

  “Probably not,” Inspector Lee said. “But we can’t arrest someone without hard evidence.”

  “Can you search his house?” Derek asked.

  Lee scowled. “We don’t know where he lives.”

  “But Billy has his phone number,” I said. “Can’t you track him down through the phone company?”

  “We tried. It’s a burner,” she said in disgust.

  Gen blinked. “He uses a disposable phone? That proves he’s disreputable, doesn’t it?”

  “Wait.” I pointed toward the front of the store. “He just left a few minutes ago. Someone should follow him. Derek and I can try to catch up with—”

  “Cool your jets, Wainwright,” Lee said mildly. “I’ve got a car following him.”

  I took a deep breath and let it out. Derek had agents watching Featherstone, too. “Sorry to freak out, but I really want to catch this guy. What if he’s the one who killed Goose?”

  “Did he strike you as a killer?” Derek asked.

  “Good question,” Lee said. “You just spent twenty minutes with him, Brooklyn. What’s your take?”

  I hid my surprise. The fact that she would ask my opinion was another heady moment for me, since that didn’t happen too often. “I was expecting someone less polished,” I admitted. My feelings were still percolating in my mind, but I tried to express them the best I could. “He knows a lot about books and bookbinding, and that surprised me. He came across as erudite and charming, frankly.”

  “What does he look like?” Derek asked.

  I glanced up at him. “Not quite as tall as you. Sort of attractive, but very intense. Green eyes, white-blond hair. But I think he was wearing contact lenses and I’m pretty sure his hair is dyed. He’s thin. I know Alex thought she saw a tall, thin woman at our door, but I’m wondering if it could’ve been Featherstone. He’s tall and really thin and could probably masquerade as a woman. That’s another long shot, though.”

  “Yeah,” Lee muttered as she made notes.

  “He seems to love books, but if that’s true, how can he justify stealing them?” I stared at the skeptical faces in front of me. “Okay, I’m being naive, but it just seems wrong. Anyway, despite him putting on a very charming act, I thought it was just on the surface. I saw something else in his eyes besides the contacts. He was very controlled, but once or twice I caught a flicker of pure, raw anger. Underneath the shiny, smooth veneer, I would bet he’s a bubbling cauldron of rage. He could flip out at any moment. I wouldn’t want to be around if he did. His eyes . . .” I shivered. “His eyes were like pinpoints, staring right into your brain. I think he picked that shocking green color on purpose, just to freak people out.”

  “Sounds creepy,” Gen said.

  “It was.” I stretched my jaw and rubbed my cheeks.

  “What’s wrong?” Derek asked.

  “My facial muscles ache, probably from trying to keep this fake smile on my face. I was tense the whole time, but trying to be cool and calm.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Genevieve said. “I’ve been uptight all morning.”

  I gave her a sympathetic look, then turned to Inspector Lee. “I know I’m not a psychiatrist, but I think Micah Featherstone could be a sociopath. He’s naturally charismatic and really manipulative. He had Billy wrapped around his little finger. And what really bugs me is that if I hadn’t been warned about him ahead of time, I might’ve fallen into his trap, too.”

  Lee nodded and kept writing.

  “I wish I could be more specific,” I said. “If I remember anything else about the conversation that might help, I’ll give you a call.”

  “You seem to have remembered quite a bit,” Derek remarked.

  “And don’t worry about it too much,” Lee said. “We had Billy wired, so we’ll be playing back the tapes later today. If I have any questions, I’ll call you. You’ve been a big help.”

  “I’m glad,” I said. “I just hope the guy following him can find out where he lives. I don’t like not knowing whether he’s the thief or not.”

  “Or the killer,” Derek added.

  “Yeah,” Lee said, frowning. “That, too.”

  • • •

  “I wouldn’t have been surprised to see Featherstone try and steal the book box before our very eyes.”

  Instead of driving home, Derek and I decided to take a stroll down Clement Street to enjoy the crisp, clear San Francisco weather. With all the colorful shops and restaurants lining the street, it was always a treat to window-shop. And this close to lunch, I was practically drooling over the intoxicating aromas that emanated from the plethora of Asian restaurants we passed. It made me hope I could talk Derek into stopping for a meal somewhere nearby.

  “Listening to the conversation from inside the office,” Derek said, “we were all rather shocked when we heard him pay the deposit. I think Inspector Lee had a moment where she was unsure whether to call off the sting or not.”

  “I’m glad she didn’t. I think he could be the thief.”

  Derek pondered the situation. “Perhaps he sensed he was being set up.”

  “Maybe.” I frowned. “Can you believe he paid cash? Five thousand dollars. Who walks around with that much money these days? I don’t know why he creeped me out so much.”

  Derek held my hand as we walked. “That sort of obsessive-compulsive behavior can be alarming and confusing up close.”

  “I definitely felt confused.” I gazed up at him. “I think you’re right about him being obsessive-compulsive.”

  “Either that,” he said casually, “or he’s a stone-cold psychopathic killer.”

  “Comforting,” I muttered.

  He squeezed my hand. “Time for you to let this go, if you can.” Scanning both sides of the street, he said, “How would you like to have lunch at one of these places?”

  My stomach did a victory lap. “There you go, reading my mind again.”

  We walked another half block and picked a restaurant at random. But as we passed the shop next door, I glanced in the window and stopped. “I have to run in here for one minute.”

  “You’re going shopping?” he said.

  “I just need one thing. It’s too perfect.” I quickly found what I was looking for and paid for it. Five minutes later, we walked into the restaurant and were quickly seated at a comfortable booth. And with my first bite of delicately wrapped Burmese samosas, I began to relax.

  We chatted about nothing in particular while sharing a bowl of rich seafood stew and a dish of riotously flavorful Singapore-style noodles. The service was wonderful and I was happy.

  But the joyful food-fest couldn’t last forever, and when we finally walked outside, I was reminded that I lived in a world where someone as disturbingly enigmatic as Micah Featherstone could intimidate me enough to make me search the faces of the people around me to make sure he wasn’t nearby.

  “He shouldn’t have bought the book,” I murmured as we crossed the street. “It makes me question whether he’s our thief or not, even when I know in my gut that he is.”

  “He obviously came prepared to pay the money,” Derek mused. “Perhaps he realized in advance that he’d been made.”

  “Do you think Billy could’ve telegraphed it somehow?”

  “Certainly. He’s a nice kid but clearly a weak link.”

  “Poor guy. He was so nervous.”

  “And Featherstone is a pro,” Derek said flatly. “Billy’s no match for him.”

  “I figured as much before, and now that I’ve met the man, I know it’s true. So he brought five thousand dollars with him, just to psych us out?”

  “Perhaps. The sociopathic types I’ve run into tend to enjoy playing mind games with their intended victims.”

  Scowling, I said, “I refuse to be his victim.”

  “You’ll never be his victim,” Derek said, wrapping his arm around me. I was glad of it; the fog was rolling in and I was starting to get chills. “I was referring to Billy and Genevieve.”

  “We can’t let anything happen to them.”

  “Inspector Lee promised them an hourly patrol for the time being.” He pulled the car key from his pocket and pressed the button, and the doors of the Bentley unlocked. I stared at Derek across the roof of the car. “Featherstone will return with the rest of the money and pick up the Almanack as soon as Billy calls him with the price. Shouldn’t we stick around?”

  “No. From here on, Inspector Lee will take charge.”

  We drove a few blocks in silence, and then I said, “What’s still confusing me about Featherstone is how much he knew about bookbinding. Is he really a bibliophile or just a very smart thief? I mean, he didn’t have to give Billy any money. Even if he knew he’d been set up, he could’ve walked away. Is he so invested in this deal that he’ll pay out that much money?”

  Frustrated, I pounded my fists together a few times and continued my rant. “And if he’s just a simple book lover, then who is the real burglar who’s been breaking into Taylor’s Fine Books? And who broke into our house and killed poor Goose? And why? Were they after the Almanack? Are they connected to Jared Mulrooney? We know there must be a connection because of the similarity in the way they both died. So it’s got to be connected, but how? Is Featherstone working for someone else? What in the world is going on here?”

  Derek turned onto Geary and headed east. “We ought to sit down tonight and make a list.”

  I was so irritated, it took a few seconds for the words to sink in. And then I smiled. “You know I love making lists.”

  “Of course I know.” He grabbed my hand and held it the rest of the way home.

  Derek and I had found that the best way to deal with those myriad questions swirling around was to sit down and make a list of suspects and motives. Of scenarios. Of means and opportunity. Building a list of all those items helped us to focus in on what was important. We could break things down. Work things out. Clear away the mental muck, so to speak.

  The fact that we found ourselves making these sorts of lists with alarming regularity was why we now made sure we did it with a nice bottle of wine nearby.

  Meanwhile, since it was almost three o’clock when we arrived home, Derek decided to finish up the workday in his home office. I went to my workshop in hopes of starting the restoration of the next book from Genevieve’s shop, the small Latin primer Amo, Amas, Amat.

  Since both the front and back endpapers were badly torn at the fold, I went ahead and cut them all the way through. Then I set the cover aside and took hold of the text block. With the spine facing me, I tore off the original headbands, those small decorative fabric bands attached to the head and foot of the spine. The headbands, besides being pretty, served to cover up any remnants of loose threads and glue that might otherwise be visible after binding. Ideally, they also add strength to the spine itself.

  I carefully picked and peeled away the old glue from the spine and from the super, which is a very stiff strip of woven cotton that also adds strength to the spine.

  In a book this age—I saw that it was copyrighted in 1927—the adhesive used by the bookbinder was almost sure to be animal glue derived from animal protein. This type of glue had its uses, but bookbinders rarely used it anymore because it tended to turn brittle on paper and darken and shrink with age.

  I picked off as much of the old glue as I could and then brushed an even coating of methyl cellulose over the spine. The methyl cellulose would soften the original animal glue and make it easier to remove.

  It took a few minutes for the methyl cellulose to do its work, so in the meantime, I picked up the old cover and began removing the original endpapers from the cover boards. For this task, I used a thin stainless steel tool called a micro spatula that could be wedged between the endpapers and the cloth turnover to lift and separate and tear away the paper from the boards. As much of the endpaper had to be removed from the boards as possible, after which I would sand away any bits that remained in order to create a smooth surface for the new endpapers.

  Meanwhile, the methyl cellulose had softened the old glue, so I returned to the text block spine and used the micro spatula to scrape away more glue. The combination of glues was extremely sticky and I had to continually scrape at it to get rid of it all.

  Once everything was removed and all of the surfaces were sanded and smooth, I picked up the text block and tapped it gently against the surface of the table several times to straighten and realign the sewn signatures.

  For the new endpapers, I had chosen two sturdy pieces of acid-free paper with a nice pattern of forest green swirls. I folded each of the pieces in half, lined the text block along the fold, and trimmed the paper to size.

  Starting with the back of the book, I brushed the edge of one of the endpapers with PVA glue and attached it to the back edge of the text block. Once the glue was dried, it was time to actually stitch the new endpaper to the first set of signatures of the text block, using linen thread and lining up the original needle holes. I reinforced the kettle stitch knots with tiny dabs of glue and then slipped a sheet of wax paper between the sheets. Then I placed a heavy metal weight on top of the text block to press it until it was set.