If Books Could Kill (3 page)

“Sounds exciting.”

“Doesn’t it just,” he said wryly. “According to some accounts, the princess spent the season in Edinburgh in 1785, then returned to London and, shortly thereafter, gave birth to a son.”

“Okay, wait, jet lag must be catching up to me.” I took a sip of beer as though it would help me concentrate. “Are you seriously talking about George the Third, The Madness of King George George? That George?”

“That’s the one.”

“You’re saying his daughter had an affair with Robert Burns?”

“So it would seem.”

I thought about it, then nodded. “So what’s the problem?”

“What’s the-” he shouted, then hushed himself. “We’re talking about Robert Burns, for God’s sake. They called him Rab the Ranter. He was a poor farmer and a troublemaker, and he appealed to the same class of people. He wrote a poem called ‘The Fornicator.’ Another he devoted ‘To a Louse.’ He would’ve been booted out of Holyrood on his ass.”

I waited for his rant to finish, then said, “So you’re saying he didn’t have an affair with the princess?”

“No,” he whispered. “I’m saying he did and the news was squelched at the highest levels of power.”

I squinted at him. “I admit I’m a little slow today, but are you implying that the monarchy frowned on the bad boy of Scotland diddling the pure English rose?”

He laughed. “Exactly. It’s highly titillating stuff.”

“Especially in that time.” I sat back. “The English must’ve hated that rumor.”

“Oh, indeed, because they made sure there was never a whisper of controversy.”

“Really?” I turned the book in my hand. “Well, that’s fun, isn’t it?”

“That’s one way to put it.” He pointed to the book. “I’ll guarantee they won’t be happy to know this book is still in circulation.”

“But that’s silly. Who cares?”

He sat back with his pint. “Ah, my naive Yankee love.”

“You’re saying they would care?”

“Most greatly.”

“Two hundred years later? Why?”

“It’s a stain on the monarchy. If nothing else, it’s bad PR.”

“Well, I understand that,” I said, nodding. “So you think they hushed it up? Paid Burns to stay away?”

“At the very least.”

“And at the most?”

He ran his finger dramatically across his neck.

I slapped his knee. “That’s ridiculous.” I opened the book, felt the paper. The pub was too dark to study it closely, so I couldn’t conclude much. And before I got too wrapped up in the book and the history, I had to remind myself that Kyle had been known to flirt with the truth in more than just his love life. He could flatter and cajole and twist the truth if it meant making an extra buck in bookselling, as well. I wanted more information before I would agree to work on the book.

“So who’s ‘they’?” I asked finally.

He folded his arms across his chest. “My guess would be Queen Charlotte, George’s wife. History has it that she watched those princesses like a mother hen.”

“So God forbid one of her darlings might bring home a scruffy Scottish lad who called himself a poet.”

“Exactly.”

“And this book…”

“Could blow the lid open.”

I sighed. “And you figured I’m always up for bringing shame and embarrassment to the British royal family.”

“It’s what makes you my favorite girl.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. “Look, Kyle, I don’t know squat about Robert Burns or the history of that era. I can help you authenticate the book itself, verify that it’s a genuine Cathcart, maybe even find a way to validate the inscription. But you’re on your own as far as the content goes.”

“I thought as much.” He downed the last of his pint, took the book from me and studied it. “I just wanted you to be aware of what you’re getting yourself into if you agree to help me with this project.”

I rubbed my forehead, trying to brush away the fuzzies from my brain. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged. “There may be some people who would rather the book weren’t authenticated.”

I leaned back to look at him more carefully. “You’re saying they wouldn’t want the specific mythology of the book to be known.”

“
Exactement
,” he said in a perfect French accent, then signaled the barmaid over to order another round.

“None for me,” I said.

“You’re sure?” Kyle asked.

“Absolutely.” When the barmaid left, I wrapped the book back in the tissue paper and slipped it into my purse. “I guess I should ask how much trouble I could get into over this book.”

His mouth curved in a frown. “I hope you won’t live to regret that question.”

“I was kidding,” I said, “but you’re not. What is it?”

He waved off my concern but I knew him, knew he was hiding something.

“What are you not telling me?” I asked.

He pursed his lips. “I suppose there is a bit more to the story.”

I sat back with a thud. “You’re killing me.”

“Yes, well, this is where it gets a bit sticky.”

“Sticky?” All sorts of alarms went off in my foggy brain. “Okay, spill it.”

Kyle avoided eye contact by grabbing my hand and playing with my fingers. “I was thinking of presenting a paper on the book this week.”

“That’s cool.” I nodded encouragingly. “I’ll try to be there.”

The barmaid brought his pint and he took it eagerly. After a long drink, he said, “I’m not doing it.”

“But this would make an awesome presentation.”

“I thought so, too,” he said. “But it seems someone disagrees.”

“Who?”

“I’ve no idea. But since I first mentioned the book, I’ve received a number of strange phone calls and several poison-pen letters.”

“Poison-pen letters? How weird.”

“Yes, quite.” He glanced anxiously around the pub. “Some are fairly brutal, in fact. You might even say life threatening.”

“Oh, my God.” I grabbed hold of his fidgety hands. “Did you show them to the police?”

“No.” He hesitated, then added, “I threw them away.”

“Kyle!”

He held up his hand to stop me from saying more. “I know it was stupid, but I figured it was all a sick joke.” He chuckled without mirth. “But then yesterday…” He shook his head.

The fact that he’d actually bothered to call the police was alarming in and of itself. “What, Kyle? What happened yesterday?”

His smile was nearly apologetic. “Seems someone tried to kill me.”

“That’s not one bit funny.”

“Tell me about it,” Kyle muttered.

I rubbed his arm consolingly, hoping to get him to spill the whole story. Kyle had a tendency to dole out information in bits and pieces, as control freaks often did. I could relate. “What happened?”

He breathed in deeply, as though the extra air might give him courage. “I was crossing the street in front of the hotel. There was no traffic, and suddenly this car gunned its engine and aimed straight for me. I barely made it back to the sidewalk when the driver veered the car right at me. I knew I was a dead man. But then he swerved back and took off.”

“I don’t suppose you could see who was driving.”

“No.” Frustrated, he raked his hand through his hair.

“What kind of car?”

“A Mercedes. Big. Probably S-Class. Black, with darkened windows. The hotel uses them to chauffeur people in from the airport.”

“Someone might’ve stolen it from the hotel,” I murmured.

“Quite possibly.”

“So it would be impossible to track down.”

“Exactly,” he said, slumping back against the padded banquette.

“And you talked to the police.”

“They can’t do anything.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “One of the valets saw everything, thank God. He was more shaken than I was. He called the cops and told them as much as he knew, which was about as much as I knew.”

“Did you tell them about the book?”

He snorted in disgust. “Oh, that’ll go over well. Someone’s trying to kill me because I dared suggest that Rabbie Burns shagged a Sassenach princess back in the day. I’d be laughed out of the city.”

“What did you say? Saucy what?”

He chuckled. “Sassenach. It’s what the Scots call the English when they’re riled up. It’s from the word
Saxon, I believe.”

“Saxon? Like the ancient Saxons?”

“That’s right.”

“Wow, some people know how to hold a grudge.”

“We British seem to excel at it,” he said.

I shifted in my seat to face him. “Okay, so the police don’t know about the book. Now, what if this whole thing with the car was just a mistake? Maybe they accidentally hit the gas instead of the brake. It happens.”

“You’re suggesting coincidence?”

I shrugged helplessly.

“So I just happened to discuss this admittedly controversial book with a few scholarly experts, and within hours, someone happens to aim his car at me? Oh, I like that.”

I smacked his knee again. “Maybe you pissed someone off for a different reason. Are you sleeping with someone’s wife? Did you cheat on your taxes?”

“Now you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

I laughed, as he’d expected me to.

He gulped the last of his beer. “Perhaps walking around with this book in my bag is making me paranoid.”

“Not to worry,” I said. “Because now it’s in
my
bag.” As soon as the words left my mouth I could feel the paranoia shifting from his shoulders to mine.

He smacked his forehead. “That was shortsighted of me. I don’t want to put you in any danger. Give it back.”

“No, no,” I said, shaking off my anxiety. “I’m not worried. No one knows I have it, right? It’s you I’m concerned about.”

“Thank you, darling,” he said, squeezing my hand before letting it go. “But it’s not necessary. I’ll be careful.”

“You’d better be.”

The bartender walked over and asked if he could refill our drinks. Kyle ordered a third pint. I passed.

“Suppose we go at this from another angle,” I said when the bartender left. “Who are these scholarly experts you discussed the book with?”

“I’ve shown it to only three people. Perry McDougall was the first.”

“Perry?” The guy who’d cut me off in the store. “Why’d you show it to Perry?”

He was taken aback by my antipathy. “Because he’s a scholarly expert,” he said defensively. “If anyone can verify such rumors, it would be Perry.”

“But he’s such a jerk.” I briefly explained my run-in with Perry at the hotel store.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and gave me a quick hug. “I suppose he is a bit of a boor, but he’s an expert in the field. And he and I get along well. Or we used to, before this happened.”

“Why? What did he say?”

He sighed. “He was outraged, insisted the book was blasphemous and a fake besides. He told me I’d better not show the book to anyone else or I’d find myself in more than a spot of trouble.”

“So he threatened you.” My eyes narrowed. “Now I wish I’d slugged him.”

“There’s my girl,” he said with a grin, then waved my concerns aside. “That’s just Perry. He tends to think the world revolves around him.”

The bartender returned with Kyle’s ale. Kyle thanked him and took a long sip.

“You honestly don’t think Perry was threatening you?” I persisted.

“He’s just Scottish,” he explained.

“Unfair,” I said with a laugh. “I’ve met plenty of happy Scotsmen. He’s not one of them.”

“True,” Kyle said. “I’ve seen him go off on other people, but it was never like this. He turned purple, right before my eyes. Warned me that if I dared discuss the erotic poems or the Princess Augusta Sophia connection, there would be dire consequences.”

“Dire consequences?”

“Yes. He didn’t explain what he meant. Just, well, he threw me out of his room.” Kyle looked more upset by this than by the attempt on his life. I understood his pain. He was considered the golden boy of the British book trade, slick and charming, accustomed to being adored by everyone.

“I’d like to know what he looks like when he’s truly angry,” I said. “Since he basically looks pissed off most of the time.”

“It’s not attractive,” he muttered.

“But you don’t think he was threatening you? Sounds like he was to me.”

“Perry’s volatile, but he’s not generally murderous.” He crossed his arms. “I knew the book would be controversial, but I imagined people would be excited, not furious. I just wanted to stir up some interest from a few key buyers. I certainly never expected to become a target.”

“I say Perry is the most likely suspect.”

He frowned thoughtfully, then threw his arm around me and rested his temple against mine. “Maybe I’m imagining the whole thing, Brooks.”

“It’s not your imagination that someone tried to run you down, Kyle,” I said. “You have a witness. The hotel valet.”

“True,” he allowed.

I patted his chest companionably. “Now, who are the other two you showed the book to?”

A quiet trilling sound erupted from Kyle’s jacket pocket. He looked disoriented for a second, then pulled away and quickly scrambled for his cell phone. “Yes, hello? No. Yes. Damn it. Fine. Right, five minutes.” He hung up the phone and slid it back into his pocket.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Um, yes. No. Yes.” He looked as confused as he sounded. He shook his head, glanced around the pub. “I’m being an ass. Sorry. I’ve got to run.”

Kyle stood up, then leaned over and kissed me on both cheeks and stroked my hair. “You’ll take care of yourself.”

“I will, but-”

“And the book. Look after it for me.”

“Of course. Maybe we can-”

“Yes,” he said with conviction. “Yes, we can. I’ll call your room later and we’ll set up a time to talk some more. Love you, darling. Ta.”

And with that, he rushed off, leaving me alone with the book and the tab.

On the way back to the hotel, I stopped at a bookstore and purchased a paperback copy of Robert Burns’s selected poems, specifically because it included some history of the time and a glossary to help translate Burns’s old Scottish dialect.

Next door was a convenience store, where I bought three bags of Cadbury Chocolate Buttons and two large bottles of water. As I walked back to the hotel, I thought about Kyle. The book fair women I knew had always called him the Bad Boy Bookseller, and yes, the moniker was completely deserved. He was charming and slick and he’d always managed to slip and slide through relationships and love affairs, leaving a trail of brokenhearted women in his wake. And yet, everyone loved him. It helped that he was gorgeous and wealthy.

But today I realized that while he still had that same charm about him, he was right to say that he’d mellowed a bit. I didn’t know if it was because of the attempt on his life or if he was just growing up. Whatever it was, I liked it. I liked him. Then again, I didn’t have to date him, did I?

Back at the hotel, I went straight to the front desk and asked for a safe-deposit box. Once Kyle’s book was safely tucked away and I had the key zipped securely inside my purse, it was time to head for my room. I was beyond tired and starting to see double as I crossed the lobby and turned down the wide hall to the bank of elevators.

“Oh, no, they’ll let any piece of trash in here these days.”

I recognized that shrill, grating voice. Heat flared up my neck like a bad rash, and my stomach twisted in a knot as I turned.

“Minka,” I said through clenched teeth.

Minka LaBoeuf, my archenemy and worst nightmare, approached me slowly, her hips gyrating alluringly-if you were a water buffalo. I grew concerned for the fragile antique furniture nearby. One wayward thrust of those hips could destroy any one of the elegant Georgian side tables that lined the wide hall.

Back in college she’d tried to incapacitate me by stabbing my hand with a skiving knife. She’d been a pain in my ass ever since.

Of all the hotels in all the world, she had to walk into mine.

“What are you doing here?” I asked before I could stop myself.

“Working,” she said proudly. Her leopard-skin spandex top emphasized her hefty breasts along with several rolls of stomach fat. “For one of the most brilliant men in Scotland.”

“A pimp?”

“Do you see me laughing?” she asked frostily. “You’re not funny.”

“You’ve never had a sense of humor,” I said, pounding the button to hurry the elevator along.

“Perry McDougall is the top expert in Regency and Georgian-”

“Wait, you’re working for Perry McDougall?”

“Yes,” she said smugly, apparently mistaking my horror for admiration. “He specifically requested me to be his assistant this week.”

I was speechless. Knowing Perry actually thought this Goth twit was capable of even a smidge of competence in the workplace lowered my estimation of Perry even further, if that was possible.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she said.

“Wowie?”

She smiled tightly. “You’re just jealous.”

“Better not screw up,” I said. “I’ve heard that Perry stuffs incompetent assistants into his haggis and eats them for breakfast.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“I’m just telling you what I heard.” The elevator doors opened and I gratefully walked inside alone.

“I’m warning you right now,” she said, slapping her hand against the side of the door to keep it from closing. “Stay out of my way.”

I held up both hands in surrender. “I’m trying, but you can’t seem to let me go.”

“Bitch,” she said viciously.

“Ouch,” I said as the doors closed. I couldn’t believe I’d run into her before I’d had time to recover from jet lag. I sagged against the wall as the lift climbed to the third floor-second floor, to those in the UK -and dropped me off.

I’d requested the lowest floor available for two reasons. First, I could always take the stairs if the lifts were too busy, as they invariably were during a crowded event like the book festival. And second, living in San Francisco had given me a healthy respect for earthquakes. The last one I went through wasn’t even that powerful, but my sixth-floor loft apartment had felt like it would topple over if the rumbling and shaking had lasted much longer. I had no idea when the last earthquake had hit Scotland, if ever, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

A housekeeping cart was set up next door to my room and a young blond maid in uniform was knocking on the door.

“Housekeeping,” she announced in a chirpy, high-pitched accent.

I was thankful she was turned away from me, because she seemed like the friendly sort and I was no longer capable of making small talk. I opened the door to my room, slipped the Do Not Disturb sign to the outside of the door, then shuffled inside, kicked off my shoes, set the alarm and was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

Four hours later, the alarm woke me up. I was disoriented and groggy but I knew I needed to get up right then or I’d sleep for another twenty-four hours. I hated jet lag, and the beers hadn’t helped my cause, but if I had it to do over again, I would’ve imbibed anyway.

I turned the spigot in the shower and was shocked to see a healthy stream of water pour down. I’d been steeling myself for the usual dribs and drabs of British showers, but now I hopped in and almost sighed with pleasure. The warm water felt wonderful, and, unbidden, the events of much earlier that day flashed through my mind.

I’d boarded the plane in San Francisco and taken my seat in first class. I’d never flown in the first-class section before, so I’d felt a little self-conscious. But now that I had some extra money, thanks to Abraham, I’d decided to live large and upgrade.

Settling into the wide leather seat, I’d pulled a magazine out of my bag and shoved the bag under the seat in front of me. The cheerful flight attendant asked me if I would like coffee, tea, juice or champagne, plus a croissant or muffin. I placed my order for coffee with cream and she brought it in a real cup and saucer. With real cream in a porcelain creamer.

Then she handed me a menu and asked me to select my breakfast, which would be served once we were in the air.

Okay, I’ll say it: First class is really nice. Besides all the amenities and great seats, the flight attendants are a lot perkier.

“Ah, you’ve beaten me to it, I see,” said a man with a British accent. I would’ve known that smooth voice anywhere.

Derek Stone? Here? On my plane? Impossible.

I looked up and stared into his gorgeous blue-eyed gaze. I had to stifle a ridiculously immature sigh.

“Don’t you look fresh and pretty?” he said. The simple words sounded unbelievably sexy when spoken in that debonair British accent of his. I’d managed to grow rather fond of that accent during Abraham’s murder investigation. Despite the fact that Derek had first accused me of the crime, he’d changed his tune and we’d become quite friendly by the time the killer’s identity was discovered.