Pages of Sin: A Bibliophile Mystery An eSpecial from New American Library: A Bibliophile Mystery (A Penguin Special from New American Library)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
More information to be announced soon on this forthcoming title from Penguin USA.
one of those, too. Two women strolled into the room and I stood up to greet them. “Hi, I’m Brooklyn Wainwright. Are you here for the book-repair class?” “Yes,” the taller woman said. “I’m Celeste and this is Trudy.” “Hi,” I said, popping open the packing boxes. “Come on over and pick out a book.” “Cool,” Celeste said, and peeked into the box. “Some of these are beautiful.” Trudy looked at me with an apologetic frown. “What did you say your name was? I didn’t catch it.” “Call me Brooklyn,” I
grapevine-dotted hills that rose up from the gully nearby. At the bottom of the gully flowed a bubbly, fast-moving stream that coursed down from nearby Red Mountain and meandered through Dharma. I wasn’t sure of its real name, but we locals liked to call it Moon River because our rugged, hilly region of Sonoma County was known as the Valley of the Moon. Olive trees in large wooden crates were strategically arranged on the terrace to give the illusion of intimate dining spaces. We relaxed under a
had been a busy guy, that much was clear. “See for yourself,” Mom said, and passed the thin, aged certificate over to me. It was a smudged and faded carbon copy of a document titled Certificate of Live Birth. All the boxes were filled in except for the name of the baby. The box for “female” was checked, so it was safe to say that Marjorie had given birth to a little girl. It was strange to be studying this unknown child’s birth certificate. What was even more surreal was that the child’s date
almost-twenty-year-old mystery, along with any accompanying fireworks that might take place. Marjorie breezed in a minute later, looking very chic and blond in a red wrap dress with black patent leather heels. A double gold rope chain hung around her neck and braided gold hoops dangled from her ears. She was all dressed up for a fancy cocktail party rather than for a memorial for her dead sister. I remembered meeting Marjorie once or twice when I was much younger. Back then, Mom had called her
slap. “We were all little devils, don’t you dare deny it.” He laughed and squeezed them tighter. “I wouldn’t have had it any other way.” Three hours later, Mom, Dad and I sat around the kitchen table, shaking our heads in befuddlement. “So they all knew about little Lizzie,” I said, still baffled by the reactions we’d received from revealing the incriminating documents and photo. “I guess the only real secret one of them had been hiding was Wanda’s illness.” “And the fact that she was the