I laughed. “Unless they know books.”
She glared at me.“Nobody knows that much about books. If I say it’s a first edition, then that’s what they’ll believe.”
“Probably,” I conceded.
Then she jabbed her finger at the date on the title page. I tried not to wince but I could see the dent she’d made in the thick vellum. “It says right there, printed in 1838. The year he wrote it.”
“Right,” I said slowly. “But that doesn’t mean anything. We both know it’s not a first edition.”
Her left eye began to twitch and she rubbed her temple as she leaned her hip against the edge of her desk. “True. But no one’s going to hear the real story, are they, Brooklyn?”
Her tone was vaguely threatening. Was I missing something?
“Are you saying I should lie about the book?” I asked.
“I’m saying you should keep your mouth shut.”
“But what’s the big deal? The festival is all about this book, and it’s got an interesting history.”
To me, anyway. The story went that, back in 1838, Charles Dickens was doing so well with the serialization of Oliver Twist that his publisher went behind his back and published the manuscript, using Dickens’s pseudonym, “Boz.” That first edition included all of the illustrator Cruikshank’s drawings.
Dickens was displeased because he’d intended to use his real name once the book was published. He was also unhappy with one of Cruikshank’s drawings in the book, calling it too sentimental, according to some accounts. He insisted that the publisher pull that edition and revise it to his specifications. It was done within the week.
A true first edition of Oliver Twist, written under the pseudonym of Boz, with Cruikshank’s unauthorized drawings, was beyond rare.
Layla’s book had Charles Dickens listed as the author on the title page, and the Cruikshank illustration was missing. So while the book was valuable, it didn’t count as an official first edition.
“I don’t want you going around telling people about this book, do you hear me?” Layla pushed away from the desk, drew herself up to her full height, and glared down at me. She was only an inch or so taller than I, but it was a good attempt at intimidation. “For the purposes of the festival, this book is a first edition, got it? I want to rack up some high bids on this baby.”
I looked at her sideways. “So you want me to lie.”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“It just seems like the real story would be more interesting to people.”
“Jesus, do you ever give up?” she asked. “Nobody cares about your stupid book theories, and if you like working here, you’ll say what I tell you to say. Capice?”
I sucked my cheeks in, something I tended to do whenever I wanted to chew somebody’s ass but needed to hold my tongue instead. After a long moment, I gritted my teeth and said, “Got it.”
Casually slapping the exquisite nineteenth-century volume against her hand, she said, “That’s what I thought you’d say.”
“You know what?” I turned toward the door. “I’ve got to go get my classroom set up.”
She pointed her finger at me as though it were a gun and she’d just pulled the trigger. “Good idea.”
I rushed out of her office and made it back to the central gallery before the urge to strangle her took over.
Naomi caught one look at my face and snorted. “Glad I’m not the only one she’s picking on today.”
“Yeah, lucky me.” As I headed toward my classroom, I couldn’t decide what annoyed me more: the fact that Layla hadn’t given me enough props for my work, or the idea that I should lie about the whole first edition issue. The lack of props won out. I’d done a spectacular job of restoring the book but she was just too screwed up and snotty to say so, more than that pitiful “good job” comment she’d grudgingly given me. I would have to think twice if she offered me any more restoration work.
But Layla was forgotten as a sudden bone-deep chill settled over me, as if someone had just walked on my grave. My mother used to say that, but I never knew what it meant until this moment.
“Well, if it isn’t the black widow herself,” a woman said in a familiar high, whiny tone that was purported to cause dogs’ ears to bleed. “Wherever she goes, somebody dies.”
Minka LaBoeuf.
My worst nightmare. To think I’d been so happy to be here only a few minutes ago.
I turned and glared at her. “So maybe you ought to leave, just to be on the safe side.”
“Very funny,” she said, tossing back her overly processed, stringy black hair. “I should think they’d be afraid to let you in here with your record.”
I ignored that comment, just as I ignored the cheap, fuzzy black angora sweater she wore that was causing tiny black hairs to stick in unattractive clumps on her face and neck. “What are you doing here?”