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place the first time I visited when I was eight years old.
    A grand Italianate mansion situated at the very top of Pacific Heights, the Covington overlooked the city and the bay. The views were breathtaking, both inside and out. And if books weren’t your thing, the artwork throughout was spectacular and the gardens alone were worth visiting.
    This was something else I’d missed while we were away. This place, the books, the wonderful reading nooks, the scents, the quiet. I’d missed my friend Ian McCullough, head curator and newly crowned president of the Covington Library and Museum. I’d heard about his promotion but hadn’t had a chance to congratulate him. I couldn’t wait to see him.
    I waited for Derek inside the Covington’s large, elegant foyer, next to the wide staircase that led to the upper levels. The foyer floor was a checkerboard pattern of polished black-and-white marble tiles and the centerpiece of the room was a gorgeous Tiffany chandelier hanging from the ceiling that sparkled dazzlingly above me. French doors on both ends of the foyer led to either the main hall or to another wide hallway that wound around to the West Gallery.
    From the sounds emanating from the main hall, I could tell the party was already hopping and I hoped Derek found a parking spot soon. And by “hopping,” I mean that guests were laughing and talking and enjoying the wonderful hors d’oeuvres and excellent wines while a string quartet played classical music from their perchon the second-floor balcony overlooking the main exhibit hall. So maybe “hopping” wasn’t the right term, given the elegance of the crowd and the highbrow entertainment, but it sounded as though everyone was already having a good time. And with the exception of those few artistic types who perennially dressed in unrelieved black from head to toe, we were a colorful, sparkly group.
    I checked my watch. We weren’t expecting Crane to arrive for another hour. But that was fine; I would still have enough time to give him a quick tour of some of the exhibit rooms before the unveiling of the big Audubon book at nine o’clock.
    â€œBrooklyn. Thank goodness.”
    I turned to see Genevieve Taylor rushing toward me from across the foyer. She wore a little black dress that fit her petite frame perfectly. Classic pearls and shiny black heels completed the outfit.
    â€œHi, Gen. Wow, you look beautiful.” I reached out to hug her, but she was too anxious to notice. “Is everything okay?”
    â€œI’m so glad I found you first thing.” She fumbled with her purse and got the zipper open, then stopped abruptly. Glancing around, she asked, “Is Derek here?”
    â€œHe’s parking the car, but he’ll be here any minute. What’s wrong?”
    â€œNothing. I’m just feeling a little paranoid, I guess.”
    â€œWhy?”
    She took my arm and pulled me a few feet farther back from the door, away from all the guests who were milling around the lobby area, greeting friends and checking out the crowd.
    Pulling a small wrapped package from her bag, she handed it to me. “I found this a few hours ago. Or rather, I found Billy walking away with it and took it from him.”
    â€œWhat is it?” I started to tear off the tape, but she grabbed my hand to stop me.
    â€œDon’t open it here,” she whispered gruffly.
    I frowned at all the intrigue but went ahead and slipped it into my purse. “I’ll assume it’s a book.”
    She smiled for the first time. “Yes. I’ll let you have the fun of discovering for yourself what book it is, but I’ll tell you this: it’s worth as much or more than some of the books we found hidden in the stacks so far.”
    â€œCan you give me a clue of what’s going on?”
    She took a deep breath. “I thought things were starting to calm down. I mean, it’s been a rough year, you