If Books Could Kill (7 page)

I fiddled with my pen as I stared at Helen’s name, then crossed her name off the list. It was ridiculous to think she could be a cold-blooded killer. I was better off suspecting that asinine husband of hers, Martin. Now, there was a logical murder suspect if I’d ever met one-and I had.

I wrote his name down, just because it felt good. And because he had the oldest motive in the world for killing Kyle: jealousy, pure and simple.

But why would he implicate me? That was the million-dollar question. Yes, I was sure he despised me, but honestly, we barely knew each other. My only connection to Martin was the book fairs we both attended once or twice a year. And even then, I rarely ran into him. His bookstore specialized in more contemporary works than the books I dealt with. We did have Helen in common, but I hadn’t seen her in two years.

No, I believed this killer had to be someone who knew me. And furthermore, I knew in my gut that Kyle’s death had something to do with the Robert Burns book.

Now, how could I connect those dots?

I stared at the next name on my list. Minka. Of course, Minka was always on my suspect list. She hated me, and vice versa. I didn’t know if she even knew Kyle, but she was always up for throwing me under the bus.

Then there was Perry McDougall. Besides threatening Kyle, he’d threatened me yesterday in the hotel store. Did he storm out of the hotel store and go directly to my hotel room and steal my tools?

Thinking of that scene with Perry, I took a sip of coffee and wallowed in embarrassment. What had I been thinking, throwing a fit like that? I chalked up my reaction to a combination of jet lag, two beers, and my recent bout of melancholy. I felt as though I’d lost control of my life, and Perry showed up to make me feel even worse. Naturally, I opened up a can of whoop-ass on him, as my dad would say.

But was that any reason to frame me for murder?

I sat back in my chair, glanced around the restaurant and thought about Perry. What had turned him into such an angry man? I’d heard he was living off a family trust fund, so he was apparently wealthy. He couldn’t use lack of money as an excuse to behave badly.

Well, he could, but he shouldn’t. I know money can’t buy happiness, but still, shouldn’t wealthy people be grateful they weren’t living in a cardboard shack?

Maybe he’d been an abused child. That would explain a lot. Or maybe he was dying of something and it pissed him off. But that didn’t make sense. He’d been a cranky-pants for years. Maybe he had a vindictive wife or a crazy mother-in-law. Whatever the reason, he was one mean sucker.

And if that weren’t enough, he’d hired Minka the Dimwit to assist him this week. He had to be tweaked in the head to do a thing like that.

So, to summarize, Perry was a malicious son of a bitch and a bad judge of character. But did that make him a killer?

I took another slug of coffee and pondered my puny suspect list. Kyle had told two others about the history and secrets hidden within the Robert Burns book. Once the book fair began, it would be easier to track down the booksellers and collectors who’d had relationships with Kyle. Maybe there were a few who didn’t think he was the darling some of us believed he was.

But again I came back to the real question: How did I fit into the puzzle? Whom had I pissed off so badly? Who wanted to see me hang for murder?

The waitress arrived with my breakfast and I pushed the notebook out of the way, picked up a fork and began to systematically devour the beautiful stack of thick, fluffy French toast sprinkled with powdered sugar and slathered in butter and warm maple syrup.

I took a sip of coffee between bites and stared out the wide bay window at the lovely view of the ancient rooftops and chimneys that seemed to cascade down the steep hill toward the New Town. Billowy clouds drifted across the blue sky. Small puddles of rainwater collected on the rooftops and reflected the sparkling sunlight. I had another urge to get out and walk around the city, as I’d planned to do yesterday before I was so rudely interrupted by darling Kyle.

Unbidden, tears filled my eyes.

“Oh, great,” I muttered, and grabbed for a tissue in my purse. I still couldn’t believe Kyle was dead. I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. What had he done to deserve such a cruel fate? It seemed impossible and unfair that the secrets inside one small book could lead someone to kill another human being. But how else could I explain it? Kyle had told someone about the book and it had cost him his life. I rarely saw him more than once a year, but I missed him terribly now that he was gone.

I sighed, then slowly turned from staring out the window to finish my breakfast-and shrieked.

“Hello, love.”

Derek Stone was sitting across from me. He snagged a piece of bacon from my plate, broke off a chunk and popped it into his mouth.

“Where did you come from?” I demanded.

“ Cambridge, originally.”

“Very funny.”

“I thought so.” He grinned, reached for my small glass of orange juice and took a sip. Then he looked around. “Nice place.”

“I like it.” It was lucky I’d already swallowed my coffee or I would’ve choked when I saw him. “What are you doing here?”

“I might ask the same of you,” he said. “There’s a perfectly decent restaurant in your hotel and yet you’re eating here, all by yourself. Seems a rather desperate move. Are you avoiding someone?”

“Maybe,” I said, looked pointedly at him.

“You mean me?” He waved the idea away. “No, I don’t believe you. The fact is, I was in the hotel restaurant and saw you talking to your friend Helen. Then you rushed out so quickly, I assumed you were up to some mischief. So I followed you here.”

“How clever you are.”

“I know.” He signaled the waitress for a cup of coffee. She rushed over and filled his cup. As she walked away, he said, “I would’ve joined you here sooner, but I was intercepted by a former associate downstairs.”

“Oh, darn.”

“Yes.” He picked up his coffee cup and sipped. “When I finally broke free, I was afraid I’d lost you. I was determined to pound on every door of the hotel, but then I remembered your peculiar obsession with food and I came directly here.”

“That’s a ridiculous story.”

He raised an eyebrow. “But it was well told, I think.”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “You have a theatrical way of spinning a tale.”

“Do you think?” He took another sip. “I’ve always loved drama. I had aspirations of joining the circus at one time.”

“As a clown?”

“No, tightrope walker, you see. Drama.”

“I can see you wearing stretchy pants.”

He studied me. “I think that’s a compliment.”

“Of course it is.” I dredged the last bit of French toast through the syrup and finished it off, then pushed my plate toward him. “More bacon?”

He pondered the plate, then patted his stomach. “Thank you, but no. My girlish figure, you know.” He saw my notebook, absently picked it up and started flipping through until he landed on the page with my notes and scratchings.

“That’s nothing,” I said, reaching to grab it from his hands. “Just doodling.”

He whipped the book out of my reach. “Just doodling, you say.”

“That’s right,” I said, maybe a touch too defensively.

He studied the notebook page for a moment, then stared at me so long that I started to fidget.

“What?” I said finally.

His dark blue eyes held mine for another beat before he said, “When will you get it through your lovely head that playing these sorts of games can get you killed?”

My fists bunched up under the table. “I’m not trying to get myself killed. I’m trying to figure out who set me up.”

“That’s for the police to handle,” he said rigidly, drumming his fingers on my notebook. “If you’d let them do their job-”

“They’ve done their job,” I whispered irritably. The whole restaurant didn’t need to know I was a suspicious character, did they? “If Angus MacLeod had his way, I’d be languishing in a jail cell right now. The only reason I’m wandering around a free woman is because of you. And it’s not that I’m ungrateful, but that doesn’t give me a whole lot of confidence in your pal Angus’s ability to be objective.”

He paused a beat too long before saying, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“That was not convincing,” I declared. “Which means you agree with me. This can’t be good.”

“I’m not agreeing with you,” he hedged. “Not exactly.”

“My confidence is soaring.”

“Now, look, don’t worry about Angus. He’s simply a stubborn Scotsman.” He paused, then said, “Now, that’s something to worry about.”

“Oh, great.”

“I’m teasing you.”

“This isn’t a good time.”

He smiled and reached for my hand. “Don’t worry, love. Angus is a reasonable man.”

“I’m buoyed by your optimism,” I said. Despite his claims, I could tell Derek was worried about how Angus was investigating this murder. In other words, I was screwed.

“Look,” I continued, “why should the police go to any trouble trying to figure out who set me up for murder? As far as they’re concerned, I’m the perfect suspect. The murder weapon belongs to me and I knew the victim. I was probably one of the last people to see him alive. End of story. Throw her in jail.”

“You’re being overly dramatic.”

I laughed. “Oh, please. You think this is dramatic? This is nothing. Wait’ll I get rolling.”

He waved his arm. “Check, please!”

“Very funny.”

The waitress came running and I handed her my credit card. A few minutes later, we were out on the street. Derek took my hand and we walked back to the hotel, passing pubs and charming shops. One drew my attention and I stopped to stare in the window. I needed a minute to think before I got caught up in the book fair activities back at the hotel, and shopping for tacky souvenirs for my family was a perfect diversion. And better to buy them now before I got locked away in a dungeon somewhere.

I dragged Derek into the store and bought the plaid shot glasses I’d spied through the window. Plaid shot glasses. The perfect gift for my dad and three brothers. While I was in there, I found cute plaid socks for my sisters and Mom. This place was a treasure trove of tartan madness, and I knew my peeps would appreciate my thoughtfulness. Plus, shopping took my mind off the whole pesky, being-railroaded-for-murder thing.

Derek browsed while I paid for my gifts and then we headed back to the Royal Thistle.

“It occurs to me I didn’t finish telling you about the woman at the airport,” he said.

“Didn’t you?” I said, not sure I wanted to know the truth. I braced myself.

“No, I believe we were interrupted.”

“Were we?”

He put his arm around me and I realized it was going to be bad news. He was married. I knew it. How stupid could I get-again? I should’ve pushed him away but I couldn’t. I would savor the warmth for a few more minutes, then never see him again.

“Her name is Delia,” he said. “She’s my brother’s wife.”

I stopped and stared at him. “You’re having an affair with your brother’s wife?”

He laughed as he shook his head. “No, you daft woman. She was doing me a favor, coming to Heathrow. I hadn’t seen the baby in months, so she picked me up and I took them to lunch.”

“Oh.” Was my face red? “Did your brother join you?”

“No.” He reeled me back to his side and we continued walking arm in arm. “He’s a general with the Royal Army, stationed in Afghanistan. He won’t be back for six more months.”

“Ah.” I felt stupid and small for reacting so badly.

“But thank you for reacting so badly,” he said.

I drew back. Could he read my mind?

“It makes me think you might care for me,” he said.

I stopped again. “Well, of course I care for you,” I said crossly. “Are you blind or something?”

He laughed again as he wrapped his arms around me. “There’s that sweet disposition I’ve missed so much.”

“Sorry.” Maybe I was going nuts, but I really wanted him to kiss me.

And maybe he was psychic, because he reached out and stroked my cheek. “Your eyes make me crazy,” he said, brushing a strand of hair away from my face.

“Crazy?” I whispered. “Really?”

“Really.” Then he kissed me, right on the street. Well, on the mouth, actually, but we were standing on the street. Oh, hell. The man turned my brain to mush.

But what a mouth he had.

Eventually, we started walking again. He stayed by my side as I stopped at the front desk and asked them to hold my bag of souvenir goodies. Then we crossed the lobby and stepped onto the crowded escalator to go downstairs to the memorial service.

“You don’t have to go to this thing,” I said, giving him an out but hoping he wouldn’t take it. Among other reasons, I wanted Derek to be close by in case Angus MacLeod was in the vicinity.

“I don’t mind tagging along for a bit,” he said, and wrapped his arm around my waist as we rode down the escalator. At the bottom, he nudged me off.

“I know how to get off an escalator,” I mumbled.

“Just being helpful.”

“Or not.”

He grinned at me. For some perverse reason, that made me smile.

We followed the crowd to the hall where the service was to take place. Several hundred chairs were lined up in rows, facing a podium at the front of the room. The place was filling up fast. He prodded me into the fourth row from the back while he took the aisle seat.

“You’re being helpful again,” I said.

“Yes, now sit.”

Before I could sit, I spotted Royce McVee standing just across the aisle. I knew I had to tell him about the Robert Burns book. He would probably want it back, since it belonged to his family, but maybe I could convince him to let me keep it for a while. I edged my way to the aisle and called his name.

He turned, saw me, and walked over. “ Brooklyn.”

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered as I gave him a hug.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said.

Kyle always said that Royce’s sphincter made him the perfect business partner. While Kyle was the front man, the glad hand, the schmoozer, Royce never took his eye off the bottom line. Kyle would say that combination made for the perfect partnership.

But Royce McVee was more than Kyle’s business partner. They were cousins. They’d inherited the family business from their fathers, two brothers, both of whom had been knighted for their loyalty to the crown. Kyle was the public face, the upbeat personality who had built up the clientele and made the money Royce counted in the back room. Royce was a nice enough guy but bland. He had pale skin, his hair was thinning and his chin was slightly too small. He was hardly the dynamo his cousin Kyle had been, and I wondered what would happen to the business now that he was top dog. I assumed Royce would inherit everything.

And wasn’t that a nice motive for murder?

Royce’s eyes were red and his shoulders were more slumped than usual. He appeared awkward and self-conscious as he glanced around the room. “Everyone loved Kyle.”

“Yes, they did,” I said. “He was one lovable guy.”

“Always the life of the party,” he said with a tinge of resentment. When he finally met my gaze again, he managed a thin smile. “I should go find the committee members. Perhaps we can speak later.”

“Sure.” I squeezed his arm in sympathy and he walked away. This was clearly not the time to tell him about the Robert Burns book after all, but I knew I’d have to do it eventually.

Feeling even more depressed, I took the seat Derek held for me.

“Friend?” Derek asked.

“Kyle’s cousin. I suppose he’ll inherit everything.”

“And you’re thinking motive,” he whispered.

I frowned. “I didn’t say that.”

I heard his snort of disbelief but ignored it as I turned to see who was seated nearby. I nodded to a few familiar faces, then noticed Peter and Benny, two bookseller friends, seated behind us. Peter leaned forward and invited me to their private cocktail party later in the week.

“I’d love to,” I said, feeling a little more buoyant than before.

“Ooh, and bring that one along,” Peter said under his breath as he made eyes at Derek, who paid no attention.

“Pretty,” Benny cooed.

“He wouldn’t miss it,” I said, patting Derek’s knee.

They both giggled.

I turned around in time to see Helen walking past us. I called her name and waved.

“Come sit here,” I said, then took a quick look around to see if Martin was with her. Happily, he wasn’t.

She nodded cautiously to Derek as she slipped past him and sat on my other side. “Thanks. I don’t think I could face this by myself.”

“Isn’t Martin here?” I asked.

She gave me a dour look. “Even if he was, I don’t want to sit with him.”

“Oh.” Well, thank goodness for that.

Peter tapped Helen on the shoulder. “Hey, girl.”

Helen squealed and jumped up. She leaned over the chair and hugged both men, who invited her to the cocktail party, too.

When she sat back down, she was flushed and happy, but she quickly turned serious and grabbed my hand. “I want to apologize for this morning. It was a fluke. Martin happened to come along and I was still feeling vulnerable from last night, so he consoled me. He can be okay when he wants to be.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t stay. I just-”

She held up her hand. “Please, I know he’s a pain. And he wouldn’t take the hint and leave, so I didn’t blame you one bit. Are we still on for lunch?”

“Of course.” I leaned in closer to her. “So Martin knew about you and Kyle?”

“Oh, God, no.” She clutched my arm for emphasis, then whispered, “No one knew about Kyle and me. Please don’t say anything to anyone.”

“You know I won’t. It’s just that you said he was consoling you.”

Her lips quivered and she blinked back tears. “Because he knew I found the body.”

“Ah,” I said, not believing for a minute that Martin had merely been consoling her. He was the ultimate manipulator and would probably do anything to get her back in his life. I wondered if maybe Helen was wrong, that maybe Martin had known about her affair with Kyle. It would make him the perfect suspect for Kyle’s murder. And there wasn’t anyone I’d rather see behind bars. Well, except for Minka, but that dream would probably remain unfulfilled forever.

The problem with Martin being a suspect was that I couldn’t see him taking the time and trouble to sneak into my hotel room and steal my stuff. Not that he wouldn’t enjoy seeing me squirm in front of the police, but Martin was the poster boy for indolence. He simply wasn’t the type to get his hands dirty. And climbing up that old fire escape to my room would’ve been a dirty job.

And for Martin to actually murder someone would mean that blood might spray all over him and those white linen pants he was forever wearing. And what was with those pants, anyway? What was he, the master of the croquet tournament? No guy wore white linen pants every day, did he? I mean, never mind the dirt. What about the wrinkles?

Okay, maybe I was being snotty. I knew this wasn’t about white linen pants, because to be honest, I owned a pair or two myself. It was just Martin. I didn’t like him, in case that wasn’t clear. He was mean and persnickety. Killing someone would mean getting dirty, and I didn’t think he had the guts to do it.

I glanced out at the crowded room. “So where is Martin?”

Helen looked around nervously. “He said he’d be here, but I hope he doesn’t come. I can’t deal with him. Not while everyone’s talking about Kyle.”

Derek’s shoulder was pressed against mine, so I knew he was eavesdropping and I was glad of it. He was the one person who might be able to get me off the suspect list, so I was happy to have him listen in on any conversation that would help the cause.

Winifred Paine walked to the podium to welcome everyone, then began to talk about Kyle. Winnie was the elderly, powerful president of the International Association of Antiquarian Booksellers. I’d known her forever and admired her a lot. She was like the cranky grandmother who sent you to your room, then secretly sneaked cookies up to you.

“He was one of our own,” Winnie said, then sniffled and blew her nose with a lacy hankie. “Simply a darling man. A bookseller of sterling reputation and such a gentleman. So full of life. I’m… oh, dear, I don’t know what I am. Devastated. Utterly… devastated.” She swept her arms up to include the throng. “As many of you are, as well.”

Winnie Paine was a classy, authoritative woman who ruled the organization with an iron fist. I’d never seen her so overwhelmed with emotion, and watching her fumble her words made my throat swell in sympathy. I must’ve made some pitiful mewling sound, because Derek held out his handkerchief for me to use. And that was enough to cause my own tears to fall.

It’s been said before: Nobody cries alone when I’m in the room. As I dabbed my eyes and blew my nose, Winnie cleared her throat and introduced Reverend Anderson, a local Anglican minister, to say a few words of comfort.

A very tall, scrawny, middle-aged man with thinning hair came to the podium, opened a small book and began to recite prayers. “Most merciful God, whose wisdom is beyond our understanding…”

I tuned out, as I tended to do when religious people started praying on my behalf. I admit I could get a little impatient with mumbo jumbo church talk. I’d been raised in a commune with lots of all-inclusive, laid-back, cosmically lyrical preaching. But it wasn’t just about that. The good Reverend Anderson didn’t know Kyle and it was obvious. His generic words weren’t personal, and I wanted to hear wonderful words spoken about Kyle by someone who knew him.

But then, maybe I was being unfair. Perhaps his words were soothing to others in the room.

I glanced around, noticing the dark mustard wallpaper and somewhat tacky burgundy candelabra sconces for the first time. I imagined Kyle would have been appalled to know that his memorial service was taking place here in this generic hall. He probably would’ve preferred to be memorialized at an elegant winery somewhere in the Dordogne Valley, overlooking the vineyards and meandering hillsides dotted with castles and châteaux and old-world villages.