Free Books of a Feather by Kate Carlisle Page B

happy to do it. Would you like something to drink? Or some chocolate?” I indicated the half-empty bag of chocolate almonds on my desk.
    â€œNo, thanks.”
    â€œOkay, let’s sit down and take a look at the book.” I led her over to the worktable and we both sat.
    She glanced around the room. “Convenient having your workshop at the front of the house.”
    â€œI think so. I figure if someone’s here on business, they can come right into my office without going through the rest of the house.”
    â€œCool.” She pulled a heavy square book from her bag. “Here it is. You can see what a putzy kid I was.”
    On the cover was a column of Chinese characters next to an intriguing painting of a Chinese woman in workers’ garb. In small letters along the side, it read in English, THE FINE WORKS OF CHINA FAMOUS OIL PAINTER ZHANG SONG . I turned the book over and opened it to the title page. It was written completely in Chinese. No English anywhere. On the facing page someone had taken a box of crayons and scribbled incoherently in ten different colors.
    I nodded. “Oh yeah. Very nice crayon work.”
    â€œYeah, thanks. And you’ll notice I tore some pages out. But they’re still in there in case you think you can tape them back together.”
    â€œI can do that easily. But the crayon marks are a little trickier.”
    â€œThat’s what I was afraid of.”
    I paged slowly through the book. There were only about sixty pages, but the paper was thick, as in many coffee table art books. It gave the book more heft. “These are beautiful paintings.”
    â€œI thought so, too. Which is why I tore them out and taped them to my wall when I was five years old. Idiot child.”
    â€œI’m sure your mother understood.”
    She shrugged. “Not exactly. I can still see it vividly. My mother’s face crumbling as she burst into tears and ran from the room. I wanted to throw the book away after that, but I just couldn’t. She must have tucked it inside her drawer that day because I don’t remember seeing it around the house again. Not until the other day.”
    â€œI’m so sorry.”
    â€œYeah, me, too. But if you can fix it, it’ll be the greatest gift I’ve ever given her.”
    I continued turning pages. The paintings were portraits of different Chinese women wearing richly woven traditional robes and clothing. Each woman was as beautiful as the next. Some were partially nude. Others were dressed in rigorously formal dresses. The brushwork was exquisite. The colors were soft and sensual and so tangible, I felt I could almost reach out and feel the satiny textures of the clothing.
    As I paged through, admiring the artwork and the subject matter, it began to dawn on me that the paintings were all of the same woman. She changed her looks, her attitude, and her hairstyle for each picture, but it was clear to me now that it was the same model. This book was all about her. I wondered who she was and I was willing to bet that the artist had been in love with her.
    â€œThis woman is so striking,” I said. “And these paintings really are fabulous. Have you seen any of the originals?”
    â€œYou could say that,” she said, twisting her lips into an irreverent smile. “That’s my mother.”
    I might’ve opened my mouth, but no sound emerged. I wasspeechless. I grabbed my bottle of water and gulped down a few ounces.
    Inspector Lee began to laugh. “Now you know why I wanted to tape the pages to my wall.”
    â€œWow,” I said, finally able to speak. “She is a gorgeous woman. I see where you get your looks.”
    â€œThere you go again, trying to butter me up, but it won’t work. I’m not going to divulge anything about the murder case, so don’t bother asking.”
    â€œThat’s not fair.” I let my shoulders slump for dramatic effect. “Okay, fine. You