“At least you admit it,” the man said bitterly. “Now I’ve got to figure out the best way to handle this asshole and the bind he’s put us in.”

“Language, dear,” the woman cautioned.

“She’s heard worse,” he argued.

“Look,” the woman said, “let’s just forget the problems with the book and try to have a nice time tonight.”

“Can I leave?” the girl asked. “This is so boring.”

“Your legacy is boring?” the man said, his voice rising. The trio marched out of the alcove, saw me and stopped dead.

I recognized them. Conrad and Sylvia Winslow and their lovely daughter, Meredith, San Francisco’s answer to Paris Hilton. They were the present owners of the Winslow collection and wealthy beyond belief, but unlike Abraham’s friends, Doris and Teddy Bondurant, the Winslows liked to flaunt their money, creating daily fodder for the local paparazzi.

I prayed I didn’t look like a deer caught in the headlights as I smiled, said a gracious “Good evening” and kept walking. When in doubt, act as if you own the damn place.

As they strutted off, I wondered who might be the “son of a bitch” Mr. Winslow had been referring to. And what was his wife talking about when she said there were “problems with the book”? If there were any problems with any books, Abraham would know. I quickly headed for the West Gallery.

I realized I’d lost track of both Robin and the frowning man. It was just as well, since the last thing I wanted to see was the two of them flirting with each other. And how silly did that make me sound? I’d never even met the man.

Temporary insanity. Too many long hours spent in the company of moldy old books. Whatever. I took another gulp of wine as I popped through the West Gallery door and headed for the basement stairs to find Abraham.

The stairwell lighting was low and the stairs were narrow and steep. My high heels didn’t help matters, so I took each step slowly, clutching the rail with one hand and my wineglass with the other as I descended.