Layla Fontaine, Executive Artistic Director of the Bay Area
Book Arts Center, was tall, blond and strikingly beautiful,
with a hair trigger temper and a reputation for
ruthlessness. Some in the book community called her a
malevolent shark. Others disagreed, insisting that calling
her a shark only served to tarnish the reputation of decent
sharks everywhere.

Since I had business with the shark, I arrived at the Book
Center early and parked my car in the adjacent lot. Grabbing
the small package I'd brought, I climbed out of the car and
immediately started to shiver. It was dusk and the March air
in San Francisco was positively frigid. I seemed to be in
the direct path of a brisk wind that whooshed straight off
the Bay over AT&T Park and up Potrero Hill. Huddling inside
my down vest, I quickly jogged to the front entrance of the
Book Center and climbed the stairs.

I almost whimpered as I stepped inside the warm interior and
rubbed my arms to rid myself of the chills. But looking
around, I grinned with giddy excitement. It was the first
night of my latest bookbinding class and I, Brooklyn
Wainwright, Super Bookbinder, was like a kid on the first
day of grammar school. A nerdy kid, of course; one who
actually looked forward to spending the day in school. I
couldn't help myself. This place was a veritable shrine to
paper and books and bookbinding arts, and I had to admit,
grudgingly, that it was all due to Layla Fontaine.

As head fundraiser and the public face of the Bay Area Book
Arts Center, or BABA as some affectionately called it, Layla
had her finger—and usually a few other body parts—on the
pulse of every well-heeled person in the San Francisco Bay
area. She was willing to do, say or promise anything to keep
BABA on firm financial ground, no matter how shaky the
legalities seemed. Hers was a higher calling, she claimed,
right up there with Doctors Without Borders and Save the
Children, and anything was fair game in the nonprofit
sector. While that might've been true, the fact remained
that Layla Fontaine was a snarky, sneaky, notoriously picky,
manipulative bitch.

But Layla had one true saving grace, and that was her pure
and abiding appreciation of and devotion to books. She had
an extensive collection of antiquarian treasures that she
displayed regularly in BABA's main gallery. And miracle of
miracles, she'd managed to turn BABA into a profitable
enterprise and a prestigious place to visit and contribute
one's time and money to.

Most importantly, she had brought me on staff to teach
bookbinding classes here, and she'd also hired me privately
to do restoration work on her own books. In exchange, I
suppose I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt
when it came to her questionable behavior. Yes, I could be
bought. I wasn't ashamed to admit it. After all, a girl's
got to make a living.

I walked through the foyer where artists' brochures and
postcards and flyers and all the local free press papers
were stacked, then entered the main gallery. The room was
large with a dramatically high ceiling and skylights. Two
ramps led down to the lower gallery where glass display
cases showed off the best works of the visiting bookbinders
and artists. In the center was an unusual mix of ancient art
and new technology, including an antique printing press and
a large freestanding, eighteenth-century cast-iron paper
cutter with a thirty-inch blade. Next to these was BABA's
latest acquisition, a computerized guillotine that could cut
cleanly through six inches of compacted paper.

The lower gallery was surrounded by the upper level,
conveniently referred to as the upper gallery, that ran the
perimeter of the room. Here were the main display walls and
two large alcoves filled with bookshelves and comfortable
seating areas.

Strolling through the upper gallery, I spied Naomi Fontaine,
Layla's niece and BABA's facilities coordinator. She was
busy assembling a new display of children's vintage pop-up
books.

To my left, on the main display wall, a number of darkly
dramatic, steampunk-style wood block prints were hung. On
another wall, tall shelves of beautifully bound books were
available to study or purchase.

Off the main room were three long halls that angled off like
spokes on a bicycle wheel. Down these halls were classrooms,
offices, mudrooms, a number of individual workrooms, the
printing press room and several smaller galleries.

"Hi, Naomi," I called out. "Is Layla in her office?"

She bared her teeth at me. "She's in there and she's in rare
form today. Good luck."

"Thanks for the heads up," I said, wondering, not for the
first time, why Naomi Fontaine stayed with BABA. She would
never get the respect she deserved from her aunt Layla and
would always stand in her shadow. Naomi was a true
bluestocking who, in another era, might've been just as
happy as a cloistered nun. She was pretty in an understated
way, and talented enough, but she was a mouse. Shy and a bit
obsequious, she lacked the dynamic personality it took to
appeal to the high society types with whom her aunt Layla
hobnobbed.

Still, it was wise to keep on Naomi's good side. She was the
person to talk to if you wanted to get anything done here.
If Layla was the brains behind BABA, Naomi was its heart and
soul. She had her faults, but everything ran smoothly
because of her.

I crossed the gallery and walked down the North hall toward
Layla's office. I was anxious to show her the restoration
work I'd done on a rotted-out copy of a nineteenth century
illustrated edition of Charles Dickens' Oliver Twist. She'd
given me the decrepit old book to restore and if I said so
myself, I'd done a fabulous job for her.

Layla planned to use the book as the centerpiece for BABA's
week-long celebration of the one hundred seventy-fifth
anniversary of Dickens' publication of Oliver Twist. She was
calling the festival "Twisted." Layla was always throwing
lavish parties to celebrate obscure anniversaries such as
this one. Anything to drum up sponsors and visitors to BABA.

I was grateful for the work and figured that as long as
Layla was willing to provide me with books to restore, I was
willing to believe she had a heart buried somewhere in that
size Double D chest of hers.

As I reached the end of the long hall leading to Layla's
office, I could hear voices, loud ones. Her door was closed
but the angry shouts penetrated through the thick wood. I
was about to knock when the door flew open. I jumped back
and missed being hit by an inch.

"You'll be sorry you crossed me, you bitch," a furious man
declared, then stormed out of Layla's office. I stood flat
against the wall as a handsome, well-dressed Asian man
stomped past me, down the hall, across the gallery and out
the front door.

I took a moment to catch my breath, then peeked around the
doorway to make sure Layla was all right. She sat at her
desk, casually applying red lipstick and looking as if she
didn't have a care in the world.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

She glanced at me over her mirror. "Of course. Why wouldn't
I be?"

"That guy sounded like he wanted to wring your neck."

"Men." She waved away my concern, swept her cosmetics into
her top drawer, then stood and rounded her desk. She was
dressed in an impossibly tight, short black skirt and a
crisp white blouse unbuttoned to show off her impressive
cleavage. In her five-inch black patent leather stilettos,
she looked like an overeducated Pussycat Doll.

"Give me the book," she demanded.

I hesitated, feeling a bit like a mother wavering at the
thought of handing a beloved child over to a stern East
German nanny. Yes, the woman might make sure the child was
fed, but she wouldn't love it.

"Brooklyn." She snapped her fingers.

I don't know why I faltered. The book belonged to Layla.
Aside from that, she was my employer. I exhaled heavily and
carefully handed her the wrapped parcel, then had to watch
as she ripped the brown paper to shreds to find the Oliver
Twist.

"Oh, it's perfect," she said greedily as she turned the book
over and back. "You did a good job."

"Thank you." Good? It was a great job. If I said so myself.
She'd given it to me in tattered pieces and I'd turned it
into a stunning piece of art.

She stared at the elegant spine, studying my work, then she
glanced inside and stared at the endpapers. Turning to the
title page, she murmured, "No one will ever suspect this
isn't a first edition."

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?