Ripped From the Pages

Book 9: Bibliophile Mystery

by Kate Carlisle

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Excited to explore the secrets of wine country, Brooklyn attends an excavation of the caves hidden deep under her parents' commune - and the findings are explosive. A room is unearthed, and it contains a treasure trove of artwork, rare books, a chest of jewelry...and a perfectly mummified body. A closer examination of the murdered man's possessions reveals a valuable first edition of Jules Verne's A Journey to the Center of the Earth. Hidden in the book is a secret map that unveils an even greater hoard of treasures. As reporters and art appraisers flock to Sonoma to see the precious bounty, questions begin to rise. But not all crime is buried in the past. When a new presence threatens the town's peace, Brooklyn decides to do a little excavating of her own...

Release date: June 2, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 336

Sample

ALSO BY KATE CARLISLE

OBSIDIAN

Chapter One

“Won’t this be fun?” My mother squeezed me with painful enthusiasm. “Two whole months living right next door to each other. You and me. We’ll be like best girlfriends.”

“Or double homicide victims,” my friend Robin muttered in my ear.

Naturally, my mother, who had the ultrasonic hearing ability of a fruit bat, overheard her. “Homicide? No, no. None of that talk.” Leaning away from me, she whispered, “Robin, sweetie, we mustn’t mock Brooklyn. She can’t help finding, you know, dead people.”

“Mom, I don’t think Robin meant it that way.”

“Of course she didn’t,” Mom said, and winked at Robin.

Robin grinned at me. “I love your mom.”

“I do, too,” I said, holding back a sigh. Mom had a point, since I did have a disturbing tendency to stumble over dead bodies. She was also right to say that I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t like I went out in search of them, for Pete’s sake. That would be a sickness requiring immediate intervention and possibly a twelve-step program.

Hello, my name is Brooklyn, and I’m a dead-body magnet.

Robin’s point was equally valid, too, though. My mother and I could come very close to destroying each other if Mom insisted on being my BFF for the next two months.

Even though she’d raised her children in an atmosphere of peace and love and kindness, there was a limit to how much of her craziness I could take. On the other hand, Mom was an excellent cook and I could barely boil water, so I could definitely see some benefit to hanging around her house. Still, good food couldn’t make up for the horror of living in close proximity to a woman whose latest idea of a good time was a therapeutic purging and bloodletting at the new panchakarma clinic over in Glen Ellen.

I focused on that as I poured myself another cup of coffee and added a generous dollop of half-and-half.

A few months ago, my hunky British ex–MI6 security agent boyfriend, Derek Stone, had purchased the loft apartment next door to mine in San Francisco. We decided to blow out the walls and turn the two lofts into one big home with a spacious office for Derek and a separate living area for visiting relatives and friends. Our reliable builder had promised it would only take two months to get through the worst of the noise and mess, so Derek and I began to plan where we would stay during the renovation. I liked the idea of spending time in Dharma, where I’d grown up, but live in my parents’ house? For two months? Even though there was plenty of room for us? Never!

“It would be disastrous,” I’d concluded.

Derek’s look of relief had been profound. “We’re in complete agreement as usual, darling.”

“Am I being awful? My parents are wonderful people.”

“Your parents are delightful,” he assured me, “but we need our own space.”

“Right. Space.” I knew Derek was mainly concerned about me. He’d be spending most weeks in the city and commuting to Sonoma on the weekends. His Pacific Heights office building had two luxury guest apartments on the top floor, one of which would suit him just fine.

I could’ve stayed there with him, of course, but that would’ve meant renting studio space at the Covington Library up the hill for my work. This would entail packing up all my bookbinding equipment and supplies, including my various book presses and a few hundred other items of importance to my job. Those small studio spaces in the Covington Library basement, while cheap, were equipped with nothing but a drafting table and two chairs, plus some empty cupboards and counters.

I’m a bookbinder specializing in rare-book restoration, and I was currently working on several important projects that had to be delivered during the time we would be away from home. The original plan of staying with my parents, while less than ideal, would’ve allowed me access to my former mentor’s fully stocked bookbinding studio just down the hill from my parents. Abraham Karastovsky had died more than a year ago, but his daughter, Annie, who lived in his house now, had kept his workshop intact. She’d also given me carte blanche to use it whenever I wanted to.

For weeks, Derek and I had tossed around various possibilities, including renting a place somewhere in the city. That seemed to be the best alternative, but at the last minute, we were given a reprieve that made everyone happy. My parents’ next-door neighbors, the Quinlans, generously offered up their gorgeous French-style cottage for our use. They were off to Europe for three months, and we were welcome to live in their home while they were gone.

We offered to pay them rent, but all they required from us was that we take good care of their golden retriever, Maggie, and water their plants. When Mom offered to take care of the plants (knowing my tendency to kill them), it was too good a deal to pass up. I was hopeful that sweet old Maggie and my adorable kitten, Charlie (aka Charlemagne Cupcake Wainwright Stone, a weighty name for something so tiny and cute), would become new best friends.

So last weekend, Derek and little Charlie and I had moved out of our South of Market Street loft and turned it over to our builder, who promised to work his magic for us.

And suddenly we were living in Dharma, next door to my parents, in a lovely two-story French-style cottage that was both elegant and comfortable. The floor of the wide foyer was paved in old, smooth brick, giving the space a natural, outdoor feeling. The spacious living room was more formal, with hardwood floors covered in thick area rugs and oversized plush furniture in browns and taupes. Rustic wrought-iron chandeliers hung from the rough-hewn beams that crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling. The sage-toned kitchen was spectacular, with a twelve-foot coffered ceiling, a pizza oven, and a wide island that provided extra space for food preparation as well as seating for six. Off the kitchen was a small library with built-in bookshelves, a wood-burning fireplace, and two overstuffed leather chairs. I could already picture the two of us sitting there reading books each night by a cozy fire.

And in every room on the ground floor, dark-wood-paneled French doors opened onto an interior patio beautifully landscaped with lush plants and flowers.

Once we were unpacked and exploring the kitchen, Derek and I watched Maggie and Charlie sniff and circle each other for a few minutes. Finally, they seemed to agree that they could live in peace together. At least, I hoped so. Maggie ambled over to her bed and settled herself down on the fluffy surface. Charlie followed right behind her, clambered up and perched directly on Maggie’s big paw. Maggie stared at the tiny creature for a long moment, and I prepared myself to whisk the cat away. But then Maggie let out a heavy sigh and closed her eyes. Charlie snuggled up against the big dog’s soft, warm fur and was asleep several seconds later.

Derek and I exchanged smiles. I had a feeling we would all be very happy here.

And now here I was, sitting in my mother’s kitchen on a bright Monday morning, drinking coffee with Robin and listening as my mother tried to brush past the fact that I did indeed have an alarming tendency to come upon dead bodies in the strangest places. Luckily, that wasn’t likely to happen in Dharma anytime soon.

As I watched Mom bustle around her sunny kitchen, I wondered how I’d ever thought I could avoid seeing her every day simply because we weren’t together in the same house. Not that I minded visiting with her on a regular basis. I joked about it, of course, but in truth, my mother was great, a true original and a sweet, funny woman with a good heart. All my friends loved her. She was smart and generous. But sometimes . . . well, I worried about her hobbies. She’d been heavily involved in Wicca for a while and recently had been anointed Grand Raven Mistress of her local druidic coven. Some of the spells she had cast had been alarmingly effective. She would try anything once. Lately she’d shown some interest in exorcisms. I didn’t know what to expect.

I supposed I didn’t have much room to criticize Mom’s hobbies, given that my own seemed to revolve around crime scenes.

“Do you want some breakfast before we leave?” I asked Robin. We’d made plans to drive over to the winery this morning to watch them excavate the existing storage cave over by the cabernet vineyards. It would eventually become a large underground tasting room. Cave tastings were the hottest trend in Napa and Sonoma, and our popular Dharma winery was finally jumping on the bandwagon.

Robin pulled out a kitchen chair and sat. “I already had breakfast with Austin. He had to be on-site at seven.”

“Derek left the house about that time, too. I thought he’d be driving into the city today, but he decided to hang around to watch the excavation.”

“Austin was so excited, he could barely sleep last night.” Robin lived with my brother Austin, with whom she had been in love since third grade. She and I had been best friends since then, too, and I loved her as much as any of my three sisters. I didn’t get to see her as often as I used to when she was living in San Francisco, but I knew she was blissfully happy with Austin, who supported her sculpting work and was clearly as much in love with her as she was with him.

Austin ran the Dharma winery, and my brother Jackson managed the vineyards. My father did a great job of overseeing the entire operation, thanks to his early experience in the business world. Decades ago he’d turned his back on corporate hell and gone off to follow the Grateful Dead. Ironically, these days, Dad and four other commune members made up the winery’s board of directors. He was also part of the town council, but this time around he loved all of that business stuff. It probably helped that Dad had always been remarkably laid-back and still was. I sometimes wondered if Mom had cast a mellow spell on him.

I checked the kitchen clock. It was already seven thirty. The cave excavation was scheduled to begin at eight. “I’ll just fix myself a quick bowl of cereal, and then we’ll go.”

Robin glanced at Mom. “Becky, are you coming with us?”

“You girls go on ahead,” she said, pulling a large plastic bin of homemade granola down from the cupboard. “I want to put together a basket of herbs and goodies for the cave ceremony. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“What cave ceremony?” I asked as I poured granola into a bowl and returned the bin to the cupboard.

She looked at me as though I’d failed my third-grade spelling test. “Sweetie, we have to bless the new space.”

“Oh.” I shot Robin a wary glance. “Of course we do.”

Robin bumped my shoulder. “You haven’t been away so long that you’d forget about the sacred cave ceremony.”

“I’ve been busy,” I mumbled. She was teasing me, but still, I should’ve known that my mother would want to cast a protection spell or a celebration spell to commemorate the groundbreaking of our winery’s newest venture.

I could picture Mom doing a spritely interpretive dance to the wine goddess. She would chant bad haiku and sprinkle magic sparkles on the heavy tunneling machines and equipment. It would be amazing, and the heavy equipment would turn our dark storage cave into a large, magical wine-tasting space where all would be welcome.

“Oh, sweetie,” Mom said, hanging a dish towel on the small rack by the sink. “While you’re here, you should go to lunch at the new vegan restaurant on the Lane. They serve a turnip burger that is to die for.”

I swallowed cautiously, hoping I didn’t lose my breakfast. “I’ll be sure to check that out, Mom.”

She glanced at me and laughed. “Oh, you should see your face. Do you really think I’d be caught dead eating something so vile?”

“I . . . Okay, you got me.” I shook my head and chuckled as I carried my bowl to the sink. “I was trying to remember when you turned vegan.”

“I tried it once for a day and a half and vowed never again. And even then, did I ever serve my children turnips? No, never.”

“You’re right and I appreciate it. But I haven’t seen you in a while. I was afraid maybe you’d turned into Savannah.” My sister Savannah was a vegetarian now, but she’d gone through several austere phases to get there, including a few months when she would only eat fruit that had already fallen from the tree.

“No, I was just pulling your leg.”

I smiled at her. “You still got it, Mom.”

“I sure do.” She grabbed me in another hug, and it felt good to hold on to her. “Oh, Brooklyn, I’m so happy you’re here.”

“So am I.”

She gave me one last squeeze, then let me go. As I washed out my cereal bowl, she left the kitchen.

“Let’s get going,” Robin said after I put my bowl away in the cupboard. “I don’t want to miss anything.”

“Wait a second, girls,” my mother called from her office alcove off the kitchen. She walked out, holding two tiny muslin bags tied with drawstrings, and handed one to each of us. “I want you both to carry one of these in your pocket,” she said, her expression deadly serious. “It’ll keep you safe.”

*   *   *

“That is the coolest, scariest piece of equipment I’ve ever seen,” Robin said.

I had to agree. We both stared at the monstrous excavation machine that was parked at the mouth of the storage cave, waiting to roll into action. They called it a roadheader, and it was huge, weighing more than sixty tons (I’d overheard Dad gushing about its weight to Derek while they were standing around having a manly conversation about heavy equipment), and was as large as the biggest bulldozer I’d ever seen.

Extending at least fifteen feet out in front of its tanklike body was a medieval-looking articulated arm, or boom, at the tip of which was a large steel ball covered in clawlike spikes. As the machine rumbled forward, the ball rotated fast enough to tear its way through hard rock, slowly creating a tunnel. That was the theory, anyway. It hadn’t started working yet. When it did, there would be dust and noise and, possibly, earthquakelike shaking. It would all be worth it when the tasting cave was completed. I could barely wait for that day.

It had always made sense to use caves for wine-barrel storage. Sonoma tended to get hot in the summer, and underground storage was the cheapest and most efficient way to maintain a constant temperature, which was vital to the health of the wine.

But over the past few years, many of the local wineries had expanded on the idea and had brought the actual wine-tasting experience into the caves. I’d done a tour of some of the tasting caves in the area, and they were beautiful, unique spaces. Some were rustic; others were elegant. One low-ceilinged, tunnel-like cave I’d visited in Napa had been excavated by hand during the days of the gold rush. You could still see the uneven spike marks on the dark stone walls made by the workers’ hammers and pickaxes.

Several wineries in the area had built luxurious private dining rooms within their caves. Another offered a complete spa experience. There were waterfalls and unusual lighting and nooks and crannies to explore. One local tasting cave featured an underground library. And there was always wine.

And finally, wine-cave tasting was coming to Dharma. We already had a number of storage caves on the property, but none was big enough to use as a fully functioning tasting room. The most spacious of the storage caves was located on the opposite side of the parking lot from the current tasting room. Once the cave excavation was completed, the current tasting room would be redesigned to use for private dinners and special events.

The wide double doors at the entryway to the storage cave were made of thick wood and arched to fit the cavelike opening. With the doors opened, the passageway was broad enough to allow a truck or a forklift to drive through. The interior was dark and cool and roomy enough to hold the hundreds of oak barrels that stored the wine until it was bottled.

The barrels had been moved into the fermentation barn and to other parts of the winery to avoid possible damage from the heavy equipment that would be used to expand the cave. Geologists had already tested the hard ground above the existing cave and had approved the digging.

A crowd was beginning to gather as Robin and I planted our folding chairs on the blacktop a safe distance from the storage-cave entrance. We were drinking coffee and sharing cookies and snacks with at least fifty other commune members who were also here to watch the show.

I spied my father standing with Derek next to a massive piece of equipment. My two brothers and a couple of others were there, too, deep in conversation. They all wore hard hats and looked very manly while kibitzing with the excavation company’s owner, a tall, good-looking, gray-haired man named Stan.

We had been warned that there would be a tremendous amount of dust flying and the noise would be impossible to endure without earplugs or, better yet, headphones that covered our ears completely. A while ago, Stan and his men had walked through the crowd, passing out headphones and protective goggles to anyone who wanted them.

The crowd’s chatter subsided abruptly, and that was when I noticed Guru Bob walking toward the group of men. Guru Bob, otherwise known as Robson Benedict, was the avatar, the spiritual leader of the commune. My parents considered him a highly evolved conscious being, and, having known him for most of my life, I couldn’t disagree. He was the reason my parents had gathered up their six small children and moved us all to Sonoma so many years ago when Guru Bob summoned them. Back in the day, he had purchased sixteen hundred acres of rich Sonoma farmland and had chosen this spot to establish his Fellowship for Spiritual Enlightenment and Higher Artistic Consciousness.

The commune members began growing grapes that first year, and, ten years later, with the winery thriving and lots of members’ shops, restaurants, and B and Bs doing well, Guru Bob decided to incorporate our little community. He suggested we call the new town Dharma, which means “law” in Eastern philosophy.

But the word meant much more than that, according to some philosophies. When the world was first created, it was said to have emerged from chaos. As the gods stabilized the mountains and separated earth from sky, they created harmony and stability—Dharma. In Buddhism, the word referred to cosmic law and order. Other disciplines translated it to mean “to live in harmony with the law.”

Guru Bob chose to interpret the word as the Sikhs and others had: “To follow the Path of Righteousness.” That idea appealed to his followers as well, and the town of Dharma was born.

Oh, and while Guru Bob was a fun name we kids liked to use, I would never have called him that to his face. It would have been disrespectful. Funny thing, though—I’d always had the feeling he knew we called him Guru Bob and didn’t mind at all.

After five minutes of serious discussion, Guru Bob waved to the rest of us and walked away, heading off toward the center of town. I knew the reason he left wasn’t that he didn’t have an interest in what was going on. It was more that he’d put reliable people in charge of the job and he didn’t want them to think he was watching over their shoulders or micromanaging. He would show up later to see how things turned out, trusting that everything had gone according to plan.

The buzz of voices rose once again.

“I’m getting excited,” Robin said.

“So am I.”

She gave me a look. “You sound surprised.”

“I guess I was trying to be blasé about it, but this is really fun.”

“It is. And I already told you how psyched Austin is to get started.”

“My dad is, too.”

She laughed. “He’s been talking about building this tasting cave since before I moved back up here. At least a year ago.”

“I know.” I sipped my coffee. “So it’s about time we did it. It seems like every winery in the county has a tasting cave now.”

She smirked. “And we must keep up with the trends.”

I nodded, although I knew that keeping trendy wasn’t the only reason the winery had finally chosen to carve out a larger space for the tasting rooms and additional barrel storage. The plain fact was that underground storage saved money. Temperatures in our existing caves didn’t vary much from the recommended sixty-two degrees, which was ideal for making and storing wine. Dad had mentioned that they planned to build an interior waterfall to add to the natural humidity. Solar panels installed on the hillside above the caves would collect energy to be used for lighting the cave space and for pumping out excess moisture.

There was only one small tunnel built under the vineyards that led from one storage cave to another. More would be added, and they would be upgraded, widened, and modernized with better drainage in the floors and a thicker layer of shotcrete added to the walls for improved insulation. Shotcrete was a concretelike material applied using high-velocity hoses so that it dried quickly and covered every inch of the cave wall.

It was amazing how much cool information you could pick up from hanging around my father for a few hours. I’d learned that the winery committee had also approved plans to build a freshwater lake on the other side of Ridge Road that would eventually provide irrigation for the entire vineyard and winery. The plan was for Dharma to become self-sustaining and energy independent within five years.

A few of the men began walking toward us, away from the cave entrance where the heavy roadheader was ready to spring into action. Derek grinned as he approached, and my stomach did a little twist. There was something about a gorgeous man smiling at me that gave a boost to my day. Especially when that man was Derek Stone. The hard hat was an added treat.

“Having fun?” I asked.

“I’m having a fantastic time,” he said, his British accent sounding even sexier than usual. Maybe it was the worn jeans or the heavy work boots he was wearing. Then again, he sounded sexy in a business suit, too.

I handed him my coffee mug. He took a sip and handed it back to me. “Thanks, love.” Then he moved behind my chair so he wouldn’t block my view, and we all waited for the show to begin.

A few seconds later, the sound of a loud, powerful engine erupted, and anyone who wasn’t wearing a headset immediately fumbled to get one on. A cloud of thick dust erupted from the cave doorway and filled the air. I adjusted my goggles to watch the roadheader extend its claw arm deeper into the storage cave, where I imagined it clawing its way through the thick stone. A Dumpster-sized vessel rolled out on a track, carrying a pile of broken-down gravel that was dumped off to the side. I figured that pile would be massive by the time the job was done.

On the drive over, Robin had explained that the initial excavation would take several long weeks, possibly a few months. It all depended on the thickness and resistance of the stone.

But barely five minutes after the digging began, the earsplitting noise suddenly stopped. One of Stan’s men, the one who was spotting for the driver, came running out of the storage cave.

“We’ve broken through some sort of wall,” he explained loudly to my father and the other men. He didn’t sound happy about it.

I looked up at Derek and saw him frowning. The experts had determined that most of the ground under the hillside was solid rock and heavily compressed soil. What did he mean, We’ve broken through? Was the dirt and stone beneath the vineyards less solid than the geologists had thought?

Dad, Derek, Austin, Jackson, and a few others went running toward the cave, where the roadheader had come to a complete stop. I glanced at Robin and without saying a word, we both jumped up and went running after them. No way were the boys going to have all the fun.

Eighteen narrow inches separated the massive roadheader from the sides of the storage-cave door, so we were able to slide past and enter the cool, dark space.

The dust was just clearing as Robin and I joined Derek and the others at the far end of the room where they stared at a jagged, gaping hole in what had been a solid stone wall a few minutes ago.

It looked broken, like an egg that was dropped and cracked open. Fissure lines radiated out from the large gash in the middle of the wall.

“We don’t know how stable the walls are,” Austin said to the small crowd, “so I’d like everyone to leave the cave for their own safety.”

The commune members walked away, whispering quietly to one another. No one knew what this new development would mean to the tasting room plans, never mind the structural viability of the underground space.

I was too curious to leave. I noticed Robin wasn’t going anywhere, either. But I sort of wished we’d both been given hard hats to wear. In lieu of that, I stuck my hand in my pocket to make sure my mom’s little herb packet was still there. It was probably silly, but I felt better carrying it.

Derek flicked on a small flashlight and studied the open gash. About two feet wide and about four feet off the floor, it was just low enough that I could climb up and through it if I were brave enough. Was there some space back there? A tunnel, maybe? There had to be something.

Thanks to the beams from Derek’s flashlight, I could see that the wall itself was at least four inches thick.

I moved closer and touched the grainy surface. “Is this concrete?”

“Looks like it,” Derek said, exchanging a look with me. A wall of concrete meant that it was manmade. The excavation crew must have thought the concrete had been applied to the surface of the storage-cave walls and figured that behind the concrete were natural rock and packed earth.

“Can you see inside the hole?” I asked.

“Barely,” he said, aiming the light directly into the hole in the wall. He leaned his head inside to take a look.

I held my breath. What if some wild creature was living in there? I shoved my hand back into my pocket and touched that small bag of herbs again. It gave me the oddest sense of well-being.

“Idiot,” I whispered under my breath. “It’s just some weeds in a bag.” But I continued to rub the thin muslin packet anyway, hedging my bets while briefly considering slipping it into Derek’s pocket.

Derek pulled his head back and handed the flashlight to Austin, who leaned in to take a look. “Holy Mother.”

“What is it?” Robin demanded.

“You’ve got to see it for yourself.”

“Let me see,” I said, sounding like a typical younger sister. But Austin handed me the light without comment. I took another deep breath, not knowing what to expect. What in the world could survive in such a small, airless space?

I stuck my head inside to take a look for myself.

“Can you see well enough?” Derek murmured in my ear as I swung the small beam of light around.

I had to blink a few times before I could make out what I was looking at. The light beam didn’t illuminate the entire space, but instead landed on small objects that were indecipherable at first. Slowly, though, things began to take shape. “What in the world?”

“What is it, Brooklyn?” Robin asked.

“It’s a whole bunch of . . . stuff. Different things. Furniture. A big inlaid wood wardrobe with a beautifully beveled mirror built into its front door. There’s an antique table with a fancy candelabra on it. A bookshelf with lots of things on all the shelves. Silver candlesticks. A silver teapot. At least, they look like silver from here.” I leaned in farther. “There’s more over in this corner. Another table with some small statuary. A couple of busts. I can’t tell who they are. There are two bronze horses.