If Books Could Kill (18 page)

“Helen’s coming with us,” I said, stating the obvious.

“Wonderful,” Mom said.

“Super,” Dad said, sliding over. “Buckle up, everyone.”

“The concierge gave me directions for a scenic route, so let’s hope we don’t get lost.” With that warning, Robin drove south out of the city down a busy two-lane highway. After a few miles, suburbia turned to rural farm-land, with mown fields and low hedges. In one field, six large haystacks were piled in a neat row.

“It looks like a van Gogh painting,” Mom said with a sigh. “I want to get a picture of that on the way home.”

After twenty minutes, Robin turned onto a slightly hilly, residential street and followed it until the road ended in a wide, well-paved parking lot. As she pulled into a space, the car lurched forward and she pumped the brakes a few times.

“Everything okay?” Mom asked.

“I’m just not used to the brakes,” Robin said with a shrug. “British cars take some getting used to.”

I looked around at the smoothly paved surfaces and shiny brick wall surrounding a new visitors’ center. “They’ve upgraded this whole area.”

Robin nodded. “I’ll say. It used to be a dirt lot.”

Hollywood crews had invaded Rosslyn Chapel a few years back to film one of the climactic scenes in The Da Vinci Code. I’d heard that the producers had paid Rosslyn Chapel a potful of money to upgrade the place. It was a good thing, since the book and film had been responsible for bringing thousands of thundering hordes of tourists to the small, fragile chapel, disrupting the neighborhood and challenging the Rosslyn estate to take drastic measures before the church was completely destroyed.

A semipermanent canopy and scaffolding covered the ancient roof and sides, protecting the chapel from the rain that seeped into the walls and softened the stone.

We stopped to buy tickets at the clean, modern visitors’ center, noted the addition of a small but fully stocked café, then walked across the grounds to the chapel.

As we stepped inside the dark church, my first thought was how impossible it would be to describe Rosslyn Chapel in just a few words. Enigmatic, charming and otherworldly were several that came to mind, but they weren’t enough.

Even though I’d visited before, it was still a shock to realize how small it was, only thirty-five feet across and maybe twice that in length. It was also darker than expected, and so incredibly ornate; with carvings on every surface of every wall and ceiling, it was almost overwhelming.

Every inch of carved stonework seemed to hold some esoteric meaning. There were symbols from every biblical lesson, every saint, every sin, every virtue. The vast and complex story of creation was carved into one wall. The history of Scotland was represented, including a small sculpture of Robert the Bruce and his well-known heart. One prominent pillar showed angels playing every musical instrument imaginable. Mythological creatures ran amok. Even Scandinavian dragons dwelled at the base of one pillar, with vines streaming from their mouths.

Signs and symbols of the Knights Templar and the Freemasons who’d built the structure were everywhere. It was said that the only reason Rosslyn Chapel was spared by Cromwell during Britain ’s own civil war was that Cromwell was a Freemason.

Mom walked around, staring up at the ceiling with its thousands of small carved flowers and stars. When she bumped into one of the pillars, I hurried over and put my arm through hers.

“Mom, why don’t we explore together for a while?”

“Oh, that would be fun,” she said, patting my arm. “This place rocks. I’m getting all sorts of supreme vibes, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, I feel the power.” I actually did. You couldn’t help but feel the energy of the place.

I took her into the Lady Chapel that ran along one end of the church and pointed out a green man carved on the end of a protruding arch that jutted from the ceiling near the altar of Saint Andrew.

“What in the world?” She moved in as close as she could get and stared at the strange, ancient pagan fertility symbol whose round face was always shown surrounded by leaves. Green men could be found all over Rosslyn Chapel, carved on the walls, the ceiling, the pillars, and hidden among the seven deadly sins.

One school of thought claimed that the little green man symbolized man’s capacity for great goodness versus his corresponding facility for evil-whatever that meant. Some said the story of Robin Hood had its origins in the green man legend. The eerie thing was, green men had been found carved in the old stone walls of churches and abbeys all over Britain, depicted as demon, trickster, or lord of the forest. His true meaning remained a primordial mystery.

Surrounded by all the symbols of freemasonry in the pillars and the walls, I felt my thoughts begin to run wild. It occurred to me as I stood staring at a carving of an angel playing bagpipes that there might be some deeper significance to the Robert Burns poems than an illicit love affair and a secret baby.

What if the story of Rabbie and the princess was true? What if the royal family had known about the baby being Robert Burns’s child all along? What if they had not only refused to allow the upstart, rabble-rousing Freemason Scotsman to be an acknowledged link in the royal lineage, but also decided to do something about it? Burns had been ill ever since he’d left Edinburgh and died prematurely at the age of thirty-seven.

What if his death had been less than natural? What if he’d been murdered?

“What if you’re hallucinating?” I muttered as I shook my head to clear away the murderous thoughts. “Jeezo, Wainwright, chill out.”

I loved a conspiracy theory as much as the next girl, but that was ridiculous. In my defense, it probably wasn’t the first time someone had suffered acute delirium inside Rosslyn Chapel.

“What’d you say, honey?” Mom asked.

“Nothing.” I smiled gaily, causing her to frown.

“What’s this?” I asked quickly, pointing to the arch above us. It seemed to distract her as she checked her brochure.

“The
danse
macabre,” she explained. “See the little skeletons walking next to their earthly bodies? They’re supposed to represent death’s supremacy over mankind.”

“Cheery,” I said.

“I know.” She mused, “I wouldn’t be surprised to find out these old Freemason dudes were once Deadheads.”

It was useless to point out that the chapel had been built over six hundred years ago, while the Grateful Dead and their Deadhead followers had come into being only forty or so years ago, not the other way around. Mom had a whole different way of dealing with that pesky space-time continuum thing.

And who was to say she wasn’t right? I thought, staring at the perky little carved skeletons. In my current state, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see them pop out of the wall and start grooving to “Iko Iko.”

And now that I thought about it, that carving of the last prince of Orkney, William St. Clair, over in the corner near the entrance to the baptistry, bore a striking resemblance to Jerry Garcia.

Oh, good. More hallucinating.

We caught up with Dad downstairs in the sacristy, an austere space with none of the ornate carvings found in the main church. Here, six feet below ground level, was where a number of tombs of the Rosslyn barons and Orkney princes were located. If there were any ghosts in Rosslyn Chapel, I figured they slept here at night.

“Who’s ready for lunch?” Dad said, not a moment too soon.

We all blinked like baby possums as we stepped outside into the glaring sunshine. After wandering around the lovely grounds for another twenty minutes, we decided to buy sandwiches and tea and water for Dad in the café and eat in the car.

On the drive back, I sat with Robin in the front seat while Mom and Dad started a songfest in back. Dad wanted to start with sixties hits, but Mom insisted on Scottish tunes. She began to sing “ Loch Lomond ” and we all joined in.

On the chorus, my father’s tenor voice filled the car and made my eyes sting with pride.

“Oh! Ye’ll take the high road, and I’ll take the low road,

And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye,

But me and my true love will never meet again,

On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.”

Mom kissed him on the cheek and I saw that her eyes were damp, too.

“Second verse is yours, Helen,” Dad said jovially.

“But I don’t know the words.”

So they just sang the chorus a few more times, and Helen laughed a lot, making me smile. I figured Mom and Dad had started the singing to coax her out of her shell, and it was working. She seemed to be her old self again, relaxed and upbeat. Maybe she and Martin would work things out, after all. I hoped not, but that was just me. I would give him the benefit of the doubt if it made her happy.

I turned to face the front window and sighed. Not with happiness, exactly, but I felt good. I thought about Derek and wondered what he was doing today, wondered what might happen tonight if… well, hmm. I’d let the possibilities percolate for a while. Otherwise, I’d be a basket case by the time I saw him next.

I sighed. It felt great to get away from thoughts of killers and falling bookshelves, not to mention one very recent hit-and-run attempt. Cold prickled my arms at the thought of that black car zooming straight at me. I stiffened, causing my back to cramp up, so I slowly stretched from side to side to ease the lower back pain. I was way too young to feel this old.

The backseat group continued their chatter, so I turned to Robin to talk. “How’s it going?”

She gripped the steering wheel with a look of grim determination. “Great.”

“Something wrong with the steering?” I asked.

“It’s the brakes,” she said. “They’re weak.”

“Can you downshift?” I asked.

“It’s an automatic.”

She took the next curve too fast and Mom grabbed hold of the back of my seat.

“Slow down there, Parnelli,” Dad said with a chuckle.

“Sorry,” Robin said, but her jaw was tight and her lips were thin as she held on to the wheel.

We hit a stretch of straight road that ran through flat green fields, and Robin pumped the brakes a few times.

“Nothing,” she muttered, then tried the hand brake.

“Nothing?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“Crap.”

Dad caught the vibe and moved forward, wedging himself between the two front seats. “What’s up?”

“Brakes are fried,” Robin explained.

I realized we were heading for a sharp curve to the right, then straight ahead into a more populated area. “Turn off the engine,” I suggested.

“Can’t,” Dad told me. “The steering will lock up if you do.”

“Crap again.”

“Get off the road, now,” Dad said firmly, pointing to the wide field to our left.

Robin’s head whipped around frantically. “But it’s-”

“Now,” he directed, still pointing as if he could guide her along. “You can do it. Ease over the shoulder and keep going, toward those haystacks.”

“Everything okay?” Mom asked.

“Brakes,” Dad explained calmly. “We’re going into that field. Now.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Mom said, keeping upbeat as she pulled Dad back. “Seat belt on, Jimmy.”

Robin jerked the wheel off to the left and the minivan bumped and bucked like a wild horse over the low rows of hedges lining the highway.

The seemingly smooth field was full of ruts and mounds, and we were bounced and thrown like a dinghy on a raging sea.

“Oof,” Dad said when his head hit the car’s ceiling.

“Oh, dear.” Mom’s voice trembled.

Helen screamed.

My already aching back was wrenched from side to side; then my head struck the headliner hard and I saw stars.

“Damn it!” Robin swore as she hit one last deep pothole.

The car slammed into a haystack with a jarring thud followed by a deafening explosion.

News flash: Air bags are a lot louder and messier than advertised.

I can also report that, contrary to popular belief, a haystack is not the fluffy, puffy fun time it appears to be in the comics. Considering the alternative, though, I had to admit it was a relatively soft landing. Not soft enough to keep the air bags from deploying, however. White powder went everywhere, and my ears were ringing from the blast of the release mechanism.

I pushed open the car door and hay fell on my head as I stumbled from the car. I leaned against the door and shook the hay out of my hair, then noticed white powder all over my hands and arms. As I brushed the air bag residue away, I glanced back at the highway and sighed in relief. Robin had managed to avoid careening through a traffic circle surrounded by shops and houses by a mere few hundred yards or so.

“Everyone accounted for?” Dad asked as he helped Mom out of the car.

“Uhh,” Helen groaned.

“Helen, are you okay?” Mom said.

“I’m okay.” But she rubbed her temple where her head had probably hit the side window.

“That was quite a ride,” Mom said, and staggered around the car to envelop Robin in a hug. “You did a good job, honey.”

“We could’ve died,” Helen said, patting Robin’s arm. “You saved us.”

Robin sank down on the ground, holding her forehead. “I think I hit my head on the steering wheel.”

I walked to the other side of the car as Mom knelt down next to Robin and flicked bits of powder from her hair. “Must’ve been before the air bag blew up.”

“I guess.”

An older man walked toward us from the barn that stood several field lengths away. He wore worn blue overalls, a flannel shirt and work boots.

“Are you all right?” he shouted from yards away.

“We’re fine.” Dad waved. “Just a little banged up. We lost our brakes.”

“I’ve called the constable. Wasn’t sure if there were injuries.”

“Just to your haystack,” I said in apology, assuming he owned these fields.

Closer now, he waved a hand and chuckled. “Och, don’t you be worrying about such a thing.”

We heard a siren in the distance.

“That’ll be our police now,” he said. “Hope you’re not bank robbers making a getaway.”

We laughed dutifully as the siren stopped.

“I’d better show them over here,” the farmer said, and took off, jogging back to the barn.

“Are we going to be arrested?” Robin asked, then buried her head in her arms.

“Of course not,” I said firmly.

Dad rubbed Robin’s shoulder as we watched the farmer lead two policemen on the long trek across the field.

“You’ve had some trouble,” the taller cop said.

“Our brakes gave out,” Dad said.

“Our driver saved our lives,” Helen said staunchly, “and probably the lives of any number of bystanders, by driving off the highway.”

The shorter cop, a skinny youngster who still had pimples, took notes, while the tall cop knelt down next to the rear driver’s-side tire and poked at the ground. I moved closer to see what he was looking at and caught a glimpse of some drops of liquid seeping into the ground.

“Looks like brake fluid,” he said to his partner. Then he gripped the rim of the fender and handily slid himself under the car, somehow avoiding the slimy puddle of brake fluid altogether. How did he do that? Must’ve been a guy-and-car thing.

A few seconds later, he glided out, hopped up and brushed a few flecks of grit off his perfectly pressed black trousers. “Brake line’s been cut clean through.”

“What the hell?” Dad said.

“Does that happen through normal wear and tear on the car?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

The tall cop looked at me warily. “No, ma’am. That happens through mischief.”

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Derek said, glaring at me through narrowed eyes, as though it were my fault my family and friends were almost killed. Hell, maybe it was.

“Yeah, I get that,” I muttered as I paced the floor of the hotel conference room the police once again had taken over as their temporary headquarters.

It was two hours later, after the Edinburgh CID had shown up to take over the investigation and the farmer had generously ferried us back to the hotel in his vintage Land Rover.

“And you’re sure nobody saw anyone at the parking garage?” I asked for the third time. The hotel valets had parked Robin’s rental van in the parking garage a block away from the hotel when she’d arrived two days ago.

The brakes could’ve been tampered with anytime in the last forty-eight hours, but the police were fairly certain someone had done it that morning. Otherwise, the brake fluid would’ve run out completely and the car wouldn’t have made it all the way to Rosslyn Chapel.

Now I remembered Robin pumping the brakes when we first arrived there.

MacLeod sighed. “The garage is a four-story cavernous place with only one security man who doubles as the parking attendant. All the hotels in this part of the Royal Mile share the space. It’s not well guarded, sad to say.”

“No security cameras?”

“None.” Frustrated, Angus raked his fingers through his unruly mop of hair.

Derek stood with his arms folded across his chest, watching the goings-on. He was dressed in an elegant black pin-striped business suit and deep blue silk tie that brought out the blue in his eyes. He looked almost criminally hot. The whole ensemble probably cost five thousand dollars, and I was reminded again how well the security business paid. Along that same line, I had to wonder just why he’d been here in Edinburgh this week. What was he doing? Besides looking criminally hot, of course?

“Is it our Miss Sherlock Holmes that’s causing you to pull your hair out, Angus?” Derek asked, coming over and putting his arm around me. I leaned against him. He even
smelled expensive.

The detective glanced at me, then Derek. “No, ’tis this case that’s driving me to drink,” he admitted.

“Not much of a drive there,” Derek said with a wry grin.

“You’ve got the right of that, mate,” he said with a rueful chuckle.

Derek tightened his grip on me as the two men talked and more was revealed about our close call with the haystack.

My life had been threatened, my family had almost been killed, and yet I couldn’t seem to concentrate on any of it.

All I could process was the weight of Derek’s arm around my shoulder and the warmth of his solid body against mine. For one insane second or two, I breathed him in, absorbing that all-male, autumn-and-leather scent and reveling in the warm security of his powerful muscles.

Oh, dear God.

Appalled by my pathetically needy reaction, I was nevertheless incapable of moving away from the heat of his touch. In a day or so, they would find my body completely melted in a pool of lust on the floor of this conference room. I hoped they would give me as nice a service as Kyle had received. With better music, please.

“You’d be right about that,” Derek said, his head cocked as he gazed at me with curiosity.

I blinked. “What?”

“Where did you go, love?” he whispered.

I tried to speak, but my throat had dried up.

“Angus was saying you’ve made a formidable enemy,” he said. The breath from his words tickled my ear.

I smiled up at him as I gently pulled away. My heart could no longer handle the spike in blood pressure, and my self-esteem wasn’t doing much better. Sheesh, way to lose my cool in front of the head cop on the case.

“Uh, yeah,” I said, pacing a few steps away until I could finally breathe again.

Derek was watching me with suspicion, and I could feel my cheeks heat up. It just wasn’t fair. I was in a weakened state or I would’ve stared him down.

“ Brooklyn, Angus said you’re no longer a suspect,” Derek said.

I felt my mouth open, then close. Finally, I said, “Oh, is that what you were talking about? Sorry, my brain’s going off in ten different directions.”

“That’s understandable,” Angus said.

I could breathe again-in more ways than one. I was off the hook as a suspect in Kyle’s murder, because after all, why would I cut the brake line in the car I was driving in with my family and friends?

“Did your men interview Perry McDougall about the brake line?” Derek asked.

Angus looked at me briefly before deciding it was all right to discuss the case in front of me. “He left his booth at the fair this morning and hasn’t returned.”

“Really?” I said. “That’s suspicious, isn’t it?”

“Aye, but witnesses say he was on his way to present a three-hour seminar on…” Angus checked his notes. “Appraising rare British ephemera.” He gave me a puzzled look.

“Ephemera are printed items that weren’t supposed to be worth anything but now they are,” I explained. “Like a ticket to a Beatles concert at the Hollywood Bowl in 1964, for instance.” I mentioned that because my mother still had hers in a scrapbook. The ticket price was five dollars, but she’d paid twelve dollars to a scalper. Those were the days.

“Rare British ephemera usually has to do with the monarchy,” I continued. “Or the Beatles, as I said, or World War Two posters and brochures, baseball cards, that sort of thing.”

“Ah,” Angus said. “Well, he never showed up for the seminar.”

“Any word on his whereabouts?” Derek asked.

“Nothing yet.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. If Perry had cut our brake line, then skipped town, he could be anywhere. Or he could be hiding somewhere in the hotel, waiting to attack again.

The chills were back. I rubbed my arms briskly, but it didn’t help.

I suddenly realized it was getting late. “I’ve got to run. I’m supposed to do a three-o’clock workshop.”

“Where?”

I had to think. “It’s on the D level. I don’t know the room number.”

“I’ll drop by,” Derek said.

“Yes, I may do the same,” Angus chimed in.

I would’ve felt warm and fuzzy with all the attention from the cute guys, but I figured their consideration had more to do with my possibly getting another unwelcome visitor than with their wanting to be near me. “Thanks.”

They walked with me down the hall to the elevator.

“Will you be stirring up the crowd again?” Derek asked, his lips pursed in a smirk. I wished I didn’t find that look so damned attractive.

“No, this is a book arts class.”

“Sounds interesting,” Angus said, clearly lying.

“It’s arts and crafts,” I explained. “Everyone gets to make a small, accordion-style album.”

“Are there weapons involved?” Derek asked.

I thought about it. “If you consider X-Acto knives and bone folders weapons, then yes. Oh, and glue sticks.”

“Ah, then I’ll be there,” he said.

I laughed. “Oh, good times for you.”

“Be careful, Brooklyn,” Angus said as the elevator door opened. “You’ve an enemy here who’s growing more reckless by the hour.”

With that happy thought, Derek and I stepped into the elevator and rode it up to my floor.

Once inside my room, he watched as I gathered my supplies and materials for the twenty participants who’d signed up for the class to make their own small, accordion-style album. I’d packed everything in one satchel: forty four-by-four-inch pieces of neutral book board; the acid-free paper used for the book pages, already scored; twenty sets of decorative Japanese papers for the covers, already cut to size; and ribbon to tie each album closed. In addition, I would supply all the tools necessary to complete the project, including twenty sets of glue sticks, X-Acto knives and bone folders, which were lightweight tools usually shaped like tongue depressors and often made from bone, that were used for folding and scoring paper and to give the fold a sharper, more professional crease. I also had plenty of scrap paper, pencils and rulers.

If the police didn’t know I was teaching a bookbinding class, they would think I was carrying a small arsenal. I supposed a glue stick could be considered a dangerous weapon if you used it to poke somebody’s eye out.

We rode back down to D level and Derek held the door to my workshop conference room open, then left me to my task. Alone in the room, as I set up individual places at the worktables with tools and supplies, I worried about Perry. Where was he hiding? Did he really have a legitimate alibi or had Minka been lying to the police?

And who else besides Perry and Jack had Kyle talked to? The number of experts in British history and Scottish poetry at this book fair probably ran in the hundreds. On a hunch, I pulled out my book fair program and checked the back pages, where the exhibitors were listed by their specialties. A number of names appeared under both categories, including Perry McDougall and Royce McVee.

Royce. It stood to reason that Kyle would’ve asked his own cousin for advice on the Burns book.

Had he killed Kyle to stop him from discussing the book? Had he wanted to gain control of the lucrative McVee businesses? If so, then finding out Kyle had a wife would really put a crimp in his style. And he’d been so angry about Serena, the “lying tart.” I wondered if I should warn Serena that Royce might come after her. But did I honestly think Royce was capable of murder? He was so bland.

What did I know about Royce, really? During the blissful six months Kyle and I were dating, we’d had drinks with Royce a few times. He was a big man, not overbearingly big like Perry, but at least six feet tall. Realistically, he was probably strong enough to bludgeon a grown man with a hammer, but he seemed weak and insubstantial.

I hadn’t seen him in a day or so and wondered if he had indeed stayed in Edinburgh. Had he had more words with Serena? Had he accused her to her face of lying?

And speaking of Serena, was she a lying tart or not? Something about her really bothered me. It probably wasn’t
her
, specifically, but the simple fact that Kyle had had a wife all this time and I never knew. Either way, I didn’t get a feeling of connection between her and Kyle. That bothered me, too.

I munched on chocolate buttons as I arranged each student’s workspace with decorative papers and book boards. As I laid out tools and supplies on the third table, I had a sudden sick thought: If Kyle had been “promised” to Serena when he was dating me, had she known about me? Had she arrived in town and followed him to the castle? Had she seen him greet me with kisses and hugs, then watched as we popped into the nearest pub?