If Books Could Kill (4 page)

“What in the hell are you doing here?” I said.

He grinned. “There’s that little ray of sunshine I’ve missed so much.”

I felt my cheeks redden. “Sorry, it’s still a little early and you’ve caught me by surprise.” To say the least.

“I know, so I forgive you your pique.”

“Thank you, I think.”

“You’re welcome.” He threw his coat over the seat, then opened his briefcase. “Won’t we have a lovely flight together.”

“You’re sitting here?”

“I most certainly am,” he said with an amused smile. He pulled a newspaper out of the briefcase, then stowed the case and his coat in the overhead luggage compartment and sat down next to me.

The flight attendant hurried over and Derek ordered coffee, which she brought immediately.

I continued to stare stupidly at him. Despite the aroma of freshly roasted coffee, it was Derek’s scent that permeated my brain. I imagined a rain-washed forest mixed with spicy citrus and a hint of-oh, dear God-leather. Was I really going to have to fly halfway around the world with those smells assaulting me every time I inhaled? I wanted to bury my face in his soft wool sweater. He was the sexiest, most masculine creature I’d ever met. And the most annoying. What was wrong with me?

“Isn’t this cozy?” he said, grinning as though he could read my admittedly transparent mind.

“You could’ve warned me we’d be on the same flight.”

“And deny myself the pleasure of seeing your expression of stunned joy? Never.”

“I plan to sleep for the next eight hours or so.”

“Cozier and cozier,” he murmured.

A few minutes later, the flight attendant cleared away the coffee service and the plane pulled away from the gate. Derek grabbed my hand and held it securely as we taxied down the runway.

“I’m not a nervous flier,” I said.

He shifted closer so we were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, then gazed into my eyes. “I am.”

I shut off the shower and just as sternly shut off the memories. Grabbing a towel from the wonderfully warm towel rack, I dried off. I pulled a can of Pepsi from the minibar and popped it open, hoping the caffeine would help perk up my system. I blew my hair dry, put on some makeup and dressed for the chilly evening outdoors in warm tights, jeans, boots and my short down jacket.

I left my room and stepped into the empty lift to go downstairs. Despite much mental protesting, my recalcitrant mind dragged me back to earlier that day.

We landed at Heathrow and disembarked. Derek and I walked down the breezeway toward customs, holding hands. I was slightly disoriented from the flight but happy and laughing at his droll commentary. When we reached the long line, he wished me good luck at the book fair, then warmly kissed my cheek and said good-bye. A British citizen, he didn’t have to wait in the long passport section with us poor tourists. I waved as he walked away, then watched him stop, think for a moment and turn back.

“This is unacceptable,” he said as he came up close, tugged me even closer and kissed me for real. My brain shut down and my senses took over. All I could feel was heat, pressure, electricity. The kiss was hot, thorough, openmouthed. My heart stumbled in my chest as I dropped my bag and wrapped my arms around him.

I vaguely heard a passing woman whisper, “Oh, my.”

“Damn it, I’ll miss you,” Derek muttered, his forehead pressed against mine.

“Mm.” I was too stunned to say anything intelligible.

He gently ran his finger along my jaw, then chucked my chin. He grinned, kissed me once more, fast and hard and meticulously. Then he turned and left me for good. I watched him go, sighed a little, and picked up my bag and joined the line for customs, while he strolled down the European Union members’ ramp and out of the airport.

I emerged a mere twenty minutes later and headed for the next terminal to catch the shuttle flight to Edinburgh.

Imagine my surprise when I saw Derek still waiting curbside forty or so yards away. I smiled with delight and hurried over to him, just as a darkhaired woman jumped out of a shiny new silver Jaguar and rushed to hug him. Derek laughed as he grabbed her and kissed her, then tossed his bag in the Jaguar’s trunk. They chatted companionably as the woman opened the rear door to allow Derek to greet an adorable toddler who bore a striking resemblance to him. Derek then helped the woman into the car and jogged around to the driver’s side, jumped in and whisked his little family away.

The hotel elevator stopped and my memories jolted to a halt. The doors opened but I had to take a minute to breathe and settle myself. I refused to feel devastated by Derek’s betrayal, but I could go with livid. Or pissed off, or furious, not to mention being completely embarrassed and annoyed with myself.

Stepping out of the elevator, I managed a few steps but had to stop again. I leaned against the wall and tried to find my composure.

This was me, facing the well-established fact that I had lousy taste in men. My family was so right about that. Maybe I would just hire a matchmaker or some other third party to choose for me, since I was utterly incapable of making healthy choices. Or better yet, maybe I’d give up men altogether. Who needed this kind of grief?

Forcing a smile I didn’t feel, I walked to the lobby.

“ Brooklyn, here we are,” Helen cried out gaily from halfway across the large space. She was standing with four other women and I recognized one, Kimberly, a book history teacher we’d met in Lyon. We gave each other hugs as Helen introduced the others. Then the whole group walked out of the hotel and headed for the High Street. Another group of six was already waiting in front of St. Giles’ for the ghost tour to begin.

A lanky young man wearing a garishly striped wool scarf and matching skullcap introduced himself as Liam and announced that he would be our guide for the evening. He began with a bit of the condensed history of how Edinburgh was established and told us some cringeworthy facts about the place we’d be touring tonight, just a few hundred yards away down a narrow passageway between two tall buildings.

“Now gather close,” Liam said, his tone turning somber. “Take a good, long look at your friends and loved ones here with you tonight. Study their faces, for you may not see them ever again once we’ve stirred up the ghosts of Mary King’s Close.”

Everyone laughed and he scowled. “’Tisn’t a thing to scoff at. We’ve already had reports of a missing couple tonight.”

Lost to a pub, no doubt, I told myself. In good humor, we all descended the steep, narrow steps of Mary King’s Close. I shivered as we huddled around a narrow doorway while Liam fumbled for his keys. The thick wood door opened with an eerie screech and he led us into the bowels of an ancient building set against the slopes of the Old Town.

We walked single file down a dark, narrow hall, then through a low archway into a tiny room, maybe eight feet square. The only light came from Liam’s dim flashlight, and we gathered close around him. He held the light under his chin so that his face was distorted and the shadow of his head was projected onto the low ceiling above him.

It was an old trick but effective. A few women giggled as Liam explained that this small space was once home to a family of six. He waved his flashlight at the far wall, where a narrow counter held a small bucket and various dry goods, indicating the family’s kitchen area.

A female mannequin stood by the counter, dressed in what I assumed was typical servants’ clothing in seventeenth-century Scotland. A roughly hewn wooden baby’s cradle sat on the floor next to her feet.

I noticed one of the men in our group was too tall to stand upright, and I was beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic myself.

Liam turned and ducked his head to get through a small doorway that led down another passageway. As we followed, he told us that in 1645, after many years of people dumping raw human waste and sewage out the windows to trickle down the steep narrow stairways and collect in Nor’ Loch at the bottom of the Old Town, bubonic plague finally hit Edinburgh.

His voice was grave as he related grisly tales of wealthy homeowners above stairs bricking off the lower floors, trapping and suffocating the sickly servants below in an attempt to stop the plague’s spread.

“Thousands died throughout the city,” he said dolefully. “And ghosts still haunt the dark, cramped spaces, such as the one in which we stand tonight.”

I shuddered as I ducked my head to enter yet another oppressively dark, airless room. Here, pallets were laid on the straw-strewn floor to indicate the family’s cramped sleeping area. Two pint-sized mannequins dressed as children lay on the lumpy bedding. Liam explained that the pallets were pulled up during the day and the space became the family’s sitting room.

I heard something skitter across the floor and gasped.

“What was that?” a woman asked.

Somebody else whispered, “Shut up.”

I wrapped my arms around my middle in an effort to bring back some warmth. My hands were as cold as ice cubes.

Liam aimed his flashlight around the space and I could see a rickety rocking chair near the compact hearth. Sitting in the rocking chair was a dummy dressed like a woman, holding an infant in her arms while her husband lay sleeping near the hearth.

The smell of mildew filled the air, and I couldn’t understand how anyone had managed to live in that cramped little room. My feet stuck to the moldy straw on the floor as Liam explained that the straw was used to soak up the moisture that seeped from the walls and low ceiling.

Fabulous. I was beginning to feel trapped, and was wondering if I was courageous enough to make my way back out to the street by myself, when Helen screamed.

I jumped. The shrill sound echoed off the thick walls and reverberated in my ears.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, grabbing her arm.

But she couldn’t stop screaming, so I shook her. Then another woman screamed.

“What the hell is wrong?” I shouted, then followed the direction of Helen’s gaze. Liam’s flashlight beam rested on the mannequin lying in the straw by the hearth.

But it wasn’t a mannequin. I recognized the man’s elegant gray cashmere jacket and the sweep of dark hair.

It was Kyle McVee. His head lay in a puddle of dark liquid, and I had no doubt it was blood. He was dead.

I let out my own piercing scream. The flashlight went off and the room was plunged into blackness.

The room erupted into a chaotic mass of confused wails and more screaming. I felt sick and knew I might pass out if I didn’t escape, so I scrambled in the direction of the doorway and almost slipped on the slick straw. Someone in the crowd pushed me forward and I protested loudly.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Keep going.”

“I’m going.” I managed to find the narrow door and stumbled back along the passage toward the outside. The pounding footsteps and screaming behind me made me fear I’d be trampled at any second.

Liam called out, “Don’t panic.” His flashlight was back on and that helped marginally. He held it high and I could make out the little room we’d come through earlier. I hit my head going through the low doorway, but didn’t care as I recognized the same dank passageway we’d gone through before and knew it led to the outer door.

I wrenched the door open and stepped outside onto the narrow step of the close, where I gratefully sucked in clean air. As more of the group made it outside, I moved up the steps to allow room.

“Ah, this is good timing,” a man said from several steps above me.

I turned and gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” Derek said, coming closer and brushing my hair away from my face. “You don’t look happy, darling. Ghost tour too much for you?”

“You’re kidding,” I said, staring at him in disbelief.

“I never kid,” he said soberly.

“How did you find me?” I whispered.

He might’ve answered. It didn’t matter. I was so relieved to see him, I launched myself into his arms.

“That’s more like it,” Derek said as he caught me, then had to struggle to keep his balance on the treacherously steep stairs. “Hell, woman.”

It took him a moment to realize I was sobbing.

“There, now,” he soothed as he moved to lean against the wall. We clutched each other tightly for a moment before I was able to speak.

“It’s Kyle,” I said, and my eyes overflowed with tears again.

“What’s Kyle?”

“He… he’s dead. I know it. There… there’s a lot of blood.” I pointed to the door. “In there.”

“Wait.” He pulled back. “What’re you saying? There’s a dead body in there?”

I nodded.

“Christ,” he muttered as he pulled out his cell phone to call the police.

I listened as he greeted the person who answered the phone as if they were old friends. I supposed criminal investigator types stuck together. I still didn’t know what Derek was doing here in Scotland, skulking around in Mary King’s Close, but this wasn’t the time to ask. Instead, I rubbed my arms and stared at the open doorway that led into that stifling servants’ quarters.

Derek finished the phone call and put his arm around me. “Tell me again who this person was.”

“An old friend,” I said. “I just saw him earlier today. We went to the pub and… and…”

“A friend?” Derek repeated, pulling me closer.

“Yes,” I muttered, sniffling into his worn leather bomber jacket. I hated feeling safe in his arms, knowing he was a scoundrel and a cheat. I should’ve pushed him away, but damn it, did he always have to smell so good?

It didn’t matter how wonderful he smelled or felt, or how perfect his timing might be. He was involved with someone else, someone with a baby who looked just like him. He had a family. So what the hell was I doing clinging to him like a lovelorn leech?

I pulled back finally, desperate to catch my breath, stop crying and shape up. And focus. Someone had killed Kyle McVee, and other than the killer, I might’ve been the last person to talk to him. I needed to figure out my next move.

“Thank you for the use of your jacket,” I said, self-consciously wiping teardrops off the smooth leather.

“Always a pleasure,” he said. “You’re not going to pass out, are you?”

“No,” I said irritably, knowing I’d come close to it. “How did you find me?”

“The hotel concierge was quite helpful. He made your reservations.”

“Oh, good.” I frowned. “But what are you doing in Scotland?”

“Can I get some help here?” Liam called.

“Helen!” I cried, as Liam and another man struggled to keep a sobbing Helen standing upright.

Derek moved forward and grabbed one of Helen’s arms and helped her up a few steps, then got her to sit down on the cold stone stairs. I sat next to her and put my arm around her. She burst into loud tears and threw herself against me.

Derek, meanwhile, corralled everyone in the tour group and warned them to stay close by until the police arrived. Most sat on the stairs of the close, but some stood leaning against either side of the tenement walls. No one questioned Derek’s authority. He sounded very much like the British Royal Navy commander I knew he used to be.

He took Liam aside and assigned him the job of watching the group to make sure nobody left the area. Liam nodded briskly, exceedingly flattered to be of service. Derek took the young man’s flashlight and disappeared back inside the building.

Sirens filled the night air. I continued to try to comfort Helen, but she wouldn’t be calmed down. She was bent over, her head practically in my lap. Every few seconds she moaned and her body shook in agony. All I could do was rub her back and feel helpless.

“Helen, the police are going to be here in a minute,” I said. “You should try to sit up.”

She groaned but managed to pull herself into a sitting position, then leaned heavily against me and rocked.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, God.”

Kyle was my old beau and I’d loved him once upon a time. I still did, I guess, and I’d like to think he loved me, too, in his own way. We’d spent a warm, comfortable hour that afternoon talking and reminiscing. He’d shared his troubles and asked for my help and I’d agreed without question or condition.

But there was no way I could’ve reacted to his death with the same intensity of emotion that Helen was showing. Did that make me a cold person? Had the two previous murder victims I’d seen up close inured me to violent death?

I didn’t think so. Something else was going on here.

“Helen, were you close to Kyle?” I asked quietly.

She sniffled and rubbed her nose, then whispered, “I can’t tell you.”

I stared at her. What the hell?

The sirens were close enough that I put my hands over my ears to block the noise. The police cars stopped at the top of the stairway leading to Mary King’s Close. Car doors slammed and boots thudded downstairs, just as Derek reappeared and stepped outside.

“Commander,” a deep voice shouted out.

“Hello, Angus,” Derek called. “Down here.”

I watched the two men shake hands and slap each other’s backs. Old friends and possibly colleagues, it seemed. Then Derek turned and said to the group scattered up and down the close, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Detective Inspector Angus MacLeod. He’ll be in charge of the investigation. Please give him your attention.”

“Aye, the commander has the right of it,” the detective inspector said, taking over. “Now, you’ll be wanting to line up along the stairway wall to give my unit as wide a pathway up and down as possible. Each of you’ll speak to one of my men stationed at the top of the close.”

Several of the group jumped into line and made their way up the stairs to get the procedure moving.

MacLeod continued. “We’ll need to see some identification, so if you’ve left your hotel or home without it, we’ll be accompanying you back there to get it.”

“Can’t we bring it by the station in the morning?” Liam asked.

“No,” MacLeod said in a cheery voice.

“Will this take long?” one of the men asked, his voice bordering on petulant. Not a good sign.

MacLeod smiled. “Ah, well, we’re not after keeping you all night, but there are questions that must be asked when foul play is suspected, and these things can’t be rushed. I thank you in advance for your cooperation.”

All I could think was, Angus MacLeod was a hunk. Literally. Big and burly, at least six feet, four inches tall, with boyish, sandy blond hair, the man had muscles on his muscles. I could picture him strutting about in a kilt, brandishing a claymore and looking for trouble.

Derek Stone met my gaze and grinned as if he knew what I was thinking. The man had friends in the strangest places. He and MacLeod began to talk in hushed tones as they stepped inside the building together.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Helen whispered.

“I can help you,” I said, clutching her hand.

“Not yet,” she said. “I… I don’t think I can move yet.”

“That’s okay. There’s no hurry.”

“Oh, God, he’s just lying there in that horrible place, cold and alone.” She buried her face in her hands and wept silently.

“Helen,” I said gently. “You know Kyle and I were old friends, right? We talked this afternoon. I don’t think you’d be betraying any secrets if you wanted to tell me why you’re so upset.”

She blinked away tears to look at me. “He told me he ran into an old friend, and that’s why he was running late.” She sniffled. “It was you?”

“Yes,” I said. “We ran into each other up by the castle, so we stopped at a pub and had a beer together.”

“That sounds wonderful,” she said wistfully. “He was such a loving, friendly person.”

Ah. Friendly, yes. Especially when he was trying to coax you out of your pants. And no, I didn’t think that qualified as speaking unkindly of the dead. On the contrary, Kyle had often said that his skill at removing a lady’s clothing was one of his most admirable abilities.

“You know we used to date, right?” I said cautiously.

She hesitated, then let out a tiny sob. “I’d forgotten.”

I persisted. “I’m going to assume from your reaction to his death that you two were involved?”

She choked back a sob. “We were in love. We were going to be married.”

It was my turn to choke. Was she kidding? Sure, I loved Kyle, but I’d suspected all along that he was a total player. Of course, I’d thought at the time that I was special enough to be the exception, so I was in no position to judge Helen.

“Kyle asked you to marry him?” I asked. “He proposed?”

“We were in love,” she repeated softly, as though that were all anyone needed to know. It wasn’t.

“Ladies,” Detective Inspector MacLeod said from directly behind us.

Helen clutched my hand.

Damn. I’d been so wrapped up in Helen’s shocking disclosure that I hadn’t noticed him sneaking up on us. For such a big guy, he sure moved quietly. Thank goodness we were whispering. How much could he have heard?

“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.”

Crap. I rubbed Helen’s cold hand, hoping I hadn’t gotten her into too much trouble.

“Miss?” he said, looking at me.

Why was he looking at me?

“I heard you say you met with the deceased this afternoon.”

Oh, crap again. “Yes, sir?”

“I’ll speak with you now, if you please.”

Me? What did I do? I had to pry my hand away from Helen’s before I could stand. MacLeod helped me up as if I weighed almost nothing. Once I was standing, I still had to lean back to look up at him. The man was extra large. His eyes were the type that twinkled when he talked, but I doubted he’d be jolly enough to let me slide simply because I happened to know his old buddy Derek.

And speaking of his old buddy, where was Derek? Figured he’d disappear when I needed him most. It wasn’t the first time he’d left me to fend for myself with the cops.

MacLeod allowed me to go before him up the stairs of the close, but he kept his hand on my elbow the entire time. It should’ve been comforting but felt more like he was coaxing a turkey to the chopping block.

When we reached the area at the top of the close, I saw Derek talking to one of the investigators. As I walked past in MacLeod’s wake, Derek shook his head in resignation. Hey, it wasn’t my fault I seemed to find dead people on a regular basis.

Angus MacLeod led me inside a nearby office building where, apparently, a few offices had been commandeered for the investigation. We walked down a short hall to an open office and he indicated a chair in front of a mahogany desk. “Please do have a seat, Ms…”

“Wainwright. Brooklyn Wainwright.”

“Ah, yes, Ms. Wainwright. You know our Commander Stone, I understand.”

“Yes, I do,” I said, starting to sit. “We’re acquaintances from-”

“A previous murder investigation in which you were also the prime suspect.”

My butt had barely hit the chair before I bounced back up and blurted, “Also the prime suspect? What’s that supposed to mean?”

And what kind of stupid question was that? I knew exactly what he was insinuating, and I wasn’t happy about it. How had I become the prime suspect again? It was so unfair. This probably wasn’t the best time to throw a tantrum, but I wanted to pout and kick something.

“It simply means that you have some experience with murder,” he said a little too cheerfully.

My inner alarm meter rose quickly. “No, I don’t. I mean, yes, I’ve been unfortunate enough to have come across a few victims of murder, but I have no experience with murder personally. I mean, I’m not a… Well, I would never…” Oh, God, I just needed to shut up.

“Please sit down, Ms. Wainwright,” he said again.

I stared at the threadbare visitor’s chair, then glanced at him. He had already seated himself in the deluxe boss’s chair behind the intimidating desk, clearly in charge. This wasn’t looking at all friendly. Good thing he wasn’t really carrying a claymore.

Did he think I did it? That this was a slam dunk? Was he picturing this investigation all wrapped up with a bow on top? I pulled my jacket a little tighter around me, feeling a distinct chill in the air.

“Fine.” I sighed as I sat. I could learn to hate the police, despite my sincerest efforts to love my neighbor and all that.

“Thank you,” he said. “Now, what I meant by experience was that you, Ms. Wainwright, of all people, may be the most accommodating of witnesses, having been on both sides of a similar situation in the past, and thus able to shine a clear light on the sad events of this evening.”

My eyes narrowed. His dialect was almost lyrical, his words were lovely and I should’ve been charmed, but I had this twitchy feeling that it was all a bunch of smoke he was blowing up my kilt. Not that I was wearing a kilt, but really, wasn’t he just flattering me before his henchmen showed up and dragged me away in shackles?