I would’ve loved to pursue the topic of Minka’s shortcomings and find out how in the world she’d finagled a job at the Covington in the first place, but Abraham’s friend Doris interrupted us just then, grabbing Abraham’s arm and giving it a vigorous shake.

“Now, what were you yelling about, old man?” she said.

I almost snorted.

“Doris Bondurant,” Abraham said formally, “I’d like to introduce my former assistant and now my greatest competition, Brooklyn Wainwright. Brooklyn, this is my old friend Doris Bondurant.”

“Watch who you’re calling old, buster,” she said, and elbowed Abraham in the stomach. She turned to me and shook my hand. “Hello, dear.”

“It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” I said. Along with being Covington Library trustees, Doris and Theodore Bondurant were on the board of at least a half dozen charitable organizations around San Francisco, and their names were synonymous with the arts and high society. On a good day they were probably worth a few billion dollars, so Doris could afford to be feisty.

Her hand was gnarled and covered in age spots, but her handshake was strong enough to make me cry uncle.

“I’ve heard a potful of good things about you from this guy, missy,” she said, pointing her thumb at Abraham. “I’d like to see some of your work around here one of these days.” Her voice had the gravelly character of a lifelong smoker’s.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bondurant. That’s very kind of you.”

She wagged a finger at me. “First of all, I’m not kind. And second, you call me Doris.”

I smiled. “All right, Doris.”

She winked. “That’s better. Now, look, people think I’m a mucky-muck around here, but mostly I just love books.”

“Me, too.”

“Glad to hear it,” she said. “Now, this big lug tells me you know your way around a bookbinding, so I’m going to send you some business.”

I sent Abraham a grateful look and he waggled his eyebrows at me. “I’d be honored.”