I would’ve slammed right into Derek in the hall, but he managed to escape being steamrollered by simply grabbing hold of me and crushing me to his chest.
I was still screaming.
“What is it?” he demanded. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s dead!” I cried.
“Who?” He shook me a little, and ordinarily I would’ve smacked him for that, but this time it stopped me from screaming and forced me to breathe.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered. “Why does this keep happening to me?”
“Show me,” he said. He took my hand and led me back into the conference room where I pointed a shaky finger toward the front of the room.
“Under the table.”
“Stay here.”
“No problem.”
He walked over to see what the fuss was all about while I stood in the back sniveling like a scaredy-cat.
Derek stared at the foot, then knelt down and stared at the body for a good minute. Then he stood, pulled his cell phone out and made a quick call as he walked back to me.
“Who is it?” I asked. “Whose body is it?”
“You didn’t see?” he asked.
I shook my head vigorously as he pulled me by the hand out of the room and shut the conference room door.
Out in the hall, he held my shoulders as he said, “It’s Perry McDougall.”
I gaped at him. “No way.” I moved away to pace up and down the empty hall, muttering and swearing to myself.
“You do have a proclivity for finding dead bodies,” Derek said. “It’s almost as though somebody knew you’d be here.”
“Damn it,” I said for the tenth time. Was I being set up again?
“My sentiments exactly,” Derek said. “Guess we know where Perry McDougall disappeared to.”
“Yes.” I should’ve felt bad for Perry, but I confess I felt worse for myself. Perry had been the best suspect we had for Kyle’s murder. Now what? Or more precisely, who?
“And why me?” I asked myself for the hundredth time.
Within five minutes Angus was running down the hall toward us like a wild-eyed Highlander, followed by a small phalanx of constables.
Seconds later, inside the conference room, Angus stared down at the body. He pursed his lips, then glanced across at me and Derek and said, “Curiouser and curiouser.”
Without his warm Scottish accent, he never would’ve gotten away with using that silly Alice in Wonderland phrase. He looked around for his second in command and in a much more grim manner said, “Terrence, clear the outer hall area. We’ve got ourselves another crime scene.”
As Terrence took off, Angus muttered, “We’re going to bloody run out of tape.”
The crime scene people made quick work of closing off the doorway to interested passersby and dusting every last surface in the room. Then several men picked up the heavy wood table and moved it to the side of the room.
Perry’s body lay uncovered on the platform, ignored by the technicians who worked the scene, taking photographs and combing the carpet for possible clues.
I stared at Perry’s exposed neck and saw for the first time the knotting awl sticking out of it.
“Oh, shit.” Fumbling for the nearest chair, I slid down and sat with my elbows resting on my thighs, breathing deeply, trying not to look at poor dead Perry. Or the bloody knotting awl.
I knew it was a knotting awl because I used one all the time to pierce holes in paper before sewing them together to make books.
By now I should’ve been used to finding dead bodies, but I wasn’t. And it wasn’t even Perry’s body that freaked me out as much as it was the blood that was pooling beneath his neck and spreading out into a tiny lake-or maybe it was a loch-around his head.
The sight of blood has always been an issue for me. I don’t mind needles. Even spiders don’t freak me out as much as blood. I’m kind of a wimp that way. And hey, that was how Derek and I met, which should’ve made it all touchingly romantic. But not even the fond memory of me fainting and waking up in Derek’s arms as he smacked me back to consciousness could help relieve the wooziness I was feeling.
“What have we here?” MacLeod said, and knelt down next to Perry to study the apparent murder weapon stuck in his neck.
I had a really bad feeling about that knotting awl.
Clearly, so did he. Looking up, he said, “Miss Wainwright, can I ask you to come here?”
I grimaced. “No, thank you.”
Derek sat down next to me. “I’ll help you.”
I looked at him beseechingly. “Please don’t make me go over there. Remember that little issue I have with blood?”
Derek looked across the room at Angus. “She faints at the first sign of blood. You won’t want to deal with that.”
“Thanks a lot,” I muttered.
“I’d like her to identify this weapon.”
I frowned at Derek. “It’s a knotting awl.”
“She says it’s a knotting awl.”
“Can she describe it for me?” Angus asked.
“I can hear you,” I snapped.
“Steady, love,” Derek murmured close to my ear.
“Sorry, Angus,” I said quickly. I was starting to shake but took some deep breaths and managed to stay upright.
“It’s cherrywood,” I began. “Very hard. Pear-shaped, with lines carved in waves. It’s used to pierce holes in the folds of the pages of a book before they’re sewn to linen tapes. It fits nicely in my hand. I’ve had it for years.” My throat was closing up, so I stopped talking.
MacLeod grunted. He didn’t have to say anything. I knew it was mine, knew someone had used my tool as a murder weapon in order to implicate me again.
I forced my hands to relax by splaying them on my knees. I imagined the awl in my left hand. I’d used it hundreds of times. It was an old favorite tool, an old friend. One of the woodworkers at the Fellowship had handcrafted it for me a long time ago. Over the years, I would occasionally hone the shaft to a perfect point, but that probably wouldn’t help my case if I mentioned it now.
I had all different shapes and sizes of awls for use with paper and leather and boards, but this knotting awl was my favorite. It was actually designed to thread the knots in string between beads, thus the name, knotting awl. The shaft was narrower and more tapered than a typical bookbinder’s awl, and that was why I liked it.
Evidently, the killer had liked it, too.
I was frustrated and angry. What was MacLeod going to do now that a second murder had been committed? There probably weren’t that many murders in Scotland in a whole year, so I figured his superiors would be clamoring for an arrest. And I was looking better and better for it. And why not? Not only had my awl been used to kill Perry, but the police could make a case for motivation, as well. After all, with Perry dead, there was no one else to challenge my version of the Robert Burns book mythology.
Except for the killer.
Whoever that was.
I almost moaned in aggravation. Why couldn’t Perry have been Kyle’s killer? It would’ve been so much more convenient all around. I rubbed my face in frustration. I was all about convenience, damn it.
I’d racked my brain to figure out who would benefit from Kyle’s death, and my only conclusion-before this moment-had been Perry. Perry had wanted Kyle to shut up about the Robert Burns legend. He’d attacked me almost before I’d made it through the door of the hotel. He was the perfect suspect. Damn it, I wanted to cry.
Now I had to start over, studying my suspect list for someone with enough motivation to kill twice and set me up to take the fall. And I had to find someone quickly, because there was no way I wanted to go to prison for someone else’s crime.
I had a sudden thought: Maybe Perry had killed Kyle. Then somebody else killed Perry. And now someone else would kill that someone else and pretty soon everyone in Edinburgh would be dead.
Oh, yeah. That was plausible.
There was a hair-raising shriek out in the hall. Then the door banged against the wall and someone pushed through the guards.
“She killed him!” Minka screamed, pointing at me in an alarming case of déjà vu. “She killed Perry! She’s a murderer, and it’s not the first time!”
“Oh, jeez,” I said, shaking my head in disgust. If I ever did decide to kill somebody, guess who my target would be?
Angus rushed over and took hold of her arm. “Ma’am, you’re not-”
“Let go of me, you big oaf!” She managed to shake him loose, which was a testament to her frenzy, because Angus was a really big guy.
“Bloody hell,” Derek said, and instinctively shoved me behind him for protection, then tried to cage me as I attempted to move around him and confront Minka. I’m not sure why I wanted to. She scared me to death. But Derek’s caveman routine was too much. Maybe he thought I was going to kick the crap out of her. And what was wrong with that? She’d thrown a screaming fit once before, then smacked me in the face. I would’ve liked to have returned the favor, just once.
“She’s like the angel of death,” Minka cried. “Wherever she goes, someone dies!”
“Not fair,” I countered. True, but not fair.
“Stay back,” Derek commanded.
“No.” I twisted around and managed to escape Derek’s protective shield, then went for payback. “Angus, she was working for Perry. She had plenty of opportunity to kill him.”
“Liar! I’ll kill you!”
“I don’t think so.” But I knew the woman packed a wallop, so I threw my hands up to protect my face. Sure enough, Minka charged. As I prepared to take her down, Derek pulled me back.
“Hey!” I cried.
Angus caught Minka in a headlock at the same time. She squeaked like a bat and her arms flailed around as Angus held up his free hand and snapped his fingers. Two constables dashed over to grab Minka and lead her out.
“No! Not me,” Minka griped. “She’s the one.”
“She’s crazy,” I said. As far as accusations went, it was weak, but I was wiped out. However, seeing Minka dragged out by the police went a long way toward making my day brighter.
Derek gave me a warning glance as he took my arm and drew me closer.
Minka saw the move. She whipped around and faced Angus, her lip curled in a sneer. “Oh, my God, you’re going to let her go, aren’t you?” She wiggled to escape the cops’ grasp, but they held firm. “Dumb-shit cops are always swayed by blondes.”
Really? Then why was I always the prime suspect? “That’s enough,” Angus snapped.
“Fine, I’ll go,” Minka said, “but don’t you dare release her! You’ll be sorry. I’ll report you!”
“Get her out of here.”
The door banged shut behind her and there was a sudden silence.
“Well, she’s an angry one,” Angus finally said, brushing his hands off.
“Thank you for intervening,” I said. “And I hope everyone noticed she threatened to kill me. Shouldn’t you make a note somewhere?”
Derek chuckled.
Angus sighed. “She was just overwrought.”
“She’s a raving loon,” I said pointedly. “And dangerous. It’s not the first time she’s attacked me.”
“Yes, I saw you both tangling the other day.”
“No, before that,” I said. “Back in San Francisco. Never mind. Anyway, thanks.”
“My job,” he said, holding out his hands. “Besides, she’s got no business in here. This is a crime scene.”
“She really will try to report you.” Minka wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box.
“She’s welcome to try.” Angus shook his head. “She seems more and more unbalanced every time I see her. We’ll hold her for questioning.”
“Good,” Derek said.
Minka had blamed me for another death after Abraham was killed last month. She’d attacked me and accused the police of playing favorites. I was getting a little tired of it.
A little? I slumped into my chair as the adrenaline rush wore off. I felt like an idiot for behaving so wildly, but nobody in the world ticked me off like Minka did. Would I ever be free of her maddening presence in my life? I truly wished her dead.
Okay, erase that. My mother would call that tempting karma. I wasn’t cynical enough to disagree, so I shook my head and quickly erased that thought. If only it were that easy, as if my brain were an Etch A Sketch and the screen were now blank.
So maybe I didn’t want her dead, but I did want her to go away and leave me alone.
I considered that new change in thinking a sign of personal growth.
The crime scene investigators took over the room, and Angus moved our little group to the far corner. He grilled me again, implored me to search my mind for any other people Kyle might’ve spoken to about the Robert Burns book.
“And more important,” he added, “who’s most likely to have stolen your bookbinding tools for the purposes of implicating you?”
“Exactly,” I said emphatically. “That’s the key to this puzzle.”
I pulled out the book fair program and went down the list of exhibitors, pointing out the names of experts who might’ve given Kyle some feedback.
“I would’ve thought his cousin Royce would have an opinion of the book,” I said, “but he seems completely uninvolved in that side of the business.”
Angus flipped through his notebook. “Royce McVee was interviewed and had a strong alibi for the night his cousin was killed. He was speaking to a group of underwriters that afternoon, and everyone proceeded directly to a cocktail party and dinner that evening.”
“Shoot,” I muttered.
As he continued to read his notes, I stood and paced. It helped me think.
I felt a twinge of guilt but finally said, “Have you talked to Helen Chin’s husband, Martin?”
“Martin?” He skimmed back over his notes. “Martin Warrington? I’ve got his name listed, but I didn’t talk to him.” He called Terrence over and asked him to track down whoever interviewed Martin. It turned out Martin had a number of people who’d vouched for his whereabouts the night Kyle died.
“Helen Chin was with you on the ghost tour,” Angus said.
“Yes,” I said. “But there’s no way she could’ve dragged Perry under the table. And she was in our car on the way back from Rosslyn Chapel.”
“Yes, it’s doubtful she’d get in the car after sabotaging it,” Angus said, frowning. I couldn’t blame him, as we were running low on suspects.
“The cousin was also the partner, wasn’t he?” Derek said.
“Yes, partner in a very lucrative company,” Angus added.
“He had a lot to gain by Kyle’s death,” I mused aloud. “I would talk to him again. He might’ve started out at the meeting, then sneaked out, then returned for the cocktail party.”
I looked up to see both Derek and Angus staring at me with some apprehension. Angus turned to Derek. “You did warn me.”
“What?” I asked.
Derek shook his head. “It sounds like you’re running your own investigation, darling. It almost got you killed once before, remember?”
“I’m just helping,” I said defensively, then thought, Screw it. “In case you didn’t notice, I’ve got a stake in the outcome here. Some clown is trying to frame me for murder.”
Derek’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “She has a point.”
Angus scowled.
I felt tears of self-pity sting my eyes and sniffled and blinked a few times to get rid of them. But it wasn’t fair. I’d just wanted to teach my book-arts class this afternoon. It would’ve been an easy, fun way to distract myself and forget my worries for two hours. I’d always loved teaching the craft. Showing someone how to take a few scraps of cloth and ribbon and paper and turn them into a tangible piece of art was immensely satisfying. The students’ excitement and pride in their finished work were always a great high for me.
Besides, the Edinburgh Book Fair was supposed to be about books. Not murder.
Wherever she goes, someone dies.
I shivered and zipped my down vest as Minka’s words played over in my head. Damn her for saying that. Even if it was true, it was so unfair. And in my precarious-okay, whiny-state, I wasn’t quite capable of breezing over it.
I used my mental Etch A Sketch again to wipe away the thought that any of this was my fault. It was ridiculous and untrue, not to mention destructive to my psyche. After all, wherever Minka went, people died, too. It wasn’t just me.
Still, it was disturbing to once more find myself in the middle of a murder investigation. Why? Was there something in my auric field that was attracting all this nastiness to me? Was I somehow paying for past sins by becoming a witness to violent death?
Maybe I needed a high colonic, after all.
Oh, hell, maybe I just needed a drink.
My book-arts class was postponed until tomorrow afternoon, so I took an hour and strolled through the book fair to relax. Derek was kind enough to walk with me, possibly afraid I might cause a scene or accuse somebody of murder if left to my own devices.
As we walked, I was surprised to realize I was starting to chill out.
Was it wrong of me to enjoy being in the hustle and bustle of book land with a gorgeous British commander holding my hand? Maybe I should’ve been off hiding in my room after discovering another body, or maybe I should’ve been in church praying for poor Perry, but the truth was, he just hadn’t been a very nice man.
Strangely enough, even with the gruesome news of Perry’s murder, the book fair was thriving. We passed booths where people talked in hushed tones, then stopped as I approached. I could only figure that Minka had spread the word about my finding the body, probably adding that I was about to be arrested for murder. The possibility should’ve annoyed me but it didn’t.
No, for some reason, despite stumbling over yet another dead body, I felt good. Calm. I didn’t think I could blame it on Derek’s presence, because I rarely felt calm around him. More like fired up and ready to go. So maybe it was simply because I was in my element, surrounded by books.
I spied an illustrated Alice in Wonderland and rushed over to examine it. It was a 1927 edition in spring green leather, mint condition, with heavy gilding around the edges and on the spine. Ornate dentelles decorated the inside front and back covers. There was a wonderful gilt-tooled White Rabbit on the center of the front cover, checking his pocket watch, and a scolding Queen of Hearts on the back. It was delightful. Expensive, but worth it.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” I said to Derek, grinning as I repeated Angus’s words. “I have to buy this.”
“Interesting how staring at books and paper seems to soothe your nerves,” Derek noted.
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
“I’d thought it was only food that perked you up this much.”
“Food always helps.” And since he’d mentioned it, I reached into my purse for the small bag of Cadbury Clusters I’d brought with me. I held out the bag to him, but he just rolled his eyes.
“More for me,” I said, and popped one in my mouth.
I paid for the Alice and waited while the bookseller wrapped it for me. Then we continued walking. I stopped and introduced myself to a few booksellers I’d never met and handed out my business card. Derek ended up purchasing a small, leather-bound edition of The Enchiridion by the Stoic philosopher Epictetus. It was a handbook of aphorisms, he explained.
“Yes, I know,” I said. “My parents have one at home.”
“Ah, yes, no spiritual commune is complete without one.”
“Right.” I smiled. “Guru Bob gets all his best lines from the Stoics.”
“I’ll bet.” He studied the book more closely.
“It’s a beautiful binding,” I said, admiring the rich, golden brown calfskin cover and matching cloth slip-case.
“Yes, it is.”
“Sangorski and Sutcliffe does excellent work.”
“I was given a paperback version of The Enchiridion by a favorite professor in school,” he said softly. “I always admired its philosophy and practical application to daily life.”
“Figures a former intelligence officer would find pleasure in Stoic philosophy.”
“Indeed, looking inward to find truth and justice never gets old.”
“That must be why my mother likes you so much. Careful, or she’ll sign you up for one of her colon cleansings.”
He actually shuddered.
I grinned. “So you’ve purchased a philosophy book while all I’ve got is Alice, a children’s story. You’re trying to make me feel shallow, aren’t you?”
“Is it working?”
“Yes, but I should warn you, I’m perfectly comfortable with my superficiality.”
He laughed and I quivered with some kind of joy at that sound. I was happy, I realized.
“You don’t really believe Alice in Wonderland is a children’s story,” he said as we continued walking. “All that symbolism?”
I smiled. “Guru Bob believes that every character in the book is a different part of man’s psyche.”
“Ah, I knew you had a method to your madness.”
I laughed again as we passed the large glass cabinet that displayed all the entries in the bookbinding contest. Derek stopped to look. I’d forgotten all about the contest and the fact that I had a book entered.
“Which is yours?” Derek asked.
I pointed it out, taking a moment to admire the work I’d done. Win or lose, I was proud of that book. Then I realized that tomorrow night was the annual dinner and awards ceremony. The week had gone by quickly.
“That’s lovely work,” he said, giving me a smile that dazzled my brain.
“Thank you.”
“Did you design the cover yourself?”
“Of course.” I had designed a stylized W and had sculpted it into the leather cover, then inlaid thin bands of gold and tiny amber stones to form the letter, and gilded the edges. It had taken me hours to get it right.
“It’s stunning,” he said after studying it for another few moments. “Well done.”
My eyes widened. It was the first time Derek had truly complimented me on my bookbinding skills, and surprisingly, it meant a lot. “Thank you.”
“But Waverley?” he said, staring at my navy blue, leather-bound version of Walter Scott’s epic work. “I’m surprised. Not Rob Roy or Ivanhoe?”
“It wasn’t my choice,” I admitted. “I was going through some old books, looking for ideas, and this old, beat-up edition of Waverley called out to me.”
“Did you read it, as well?”
“If I say yes, will you be impressed?”
He looked appalled. “Of course not. Horrible book.”
“I read it,” I said, laughing. It had taken me three long weeks. Slow going, to say the least. There wasn’t a lot of action, but the story was romantic and the writing was lyrical. And by lyrical, I meant convoluted and wordy, but in a good way, really.
“Not as shallow as you appear,” he said, eyeing me with suspicion.
“Don’t be silly, of course I am.”
Tucking my arm through his, Derek gazed back at the entries and pointed to another book on the lower shelf.
“Is that our own Minka’s entry?”
“Yes.”
Minka had chosen to bind a copy of Robinson Crusoe in padded black leather with palm trees embossed on the front and spine. I understood the use of palm trees based on the subject matter, but black leather? And padded? It suited Minka, but I wasn’t sure it suited Defoe’s classic work.
“Interesting choice,” Derek murmured.
“Mm-hmm.” What else could I say? I was feeling too good to go for the meow moment.
We were walking down one aisle, then up another, when I stopped and grabbed his arm.
“What’s wrong?”
I angled my chin in the general direction of the nearby booth where Serena and Helen stood talking and laughing. What was even weirder was that the booth belonged to Kyle McVee’s company. I wondered if Royce was somewhere in the vicinity, seething. Or maybe he was whooping it up with them. Stranger things had happened lately.
“I agree, that’s an odd pairing,” Derek said.
“It’s totally weird,” I said. “And it’s not the first time I’ve seen them chatting.”
Helen looked up, saw me and waved. “Hi, Brooklyn! Commander, come meet Serena.”
“Tell her to stop calling me that,” Derek grumbled.
“No way,” I said as we approached the booth. “Maybe I can get her to salute you.”
Helen introduced Derek to Serena, who said a shy hello.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Derek said. It didn’t sound at all lame when he said it.
She clasped her hands at her breastbone. “Oh, thank you, everyone has been so nice.” Her voice was high and breathy, like a little British bird who’d run out of air. “I didn’t think I would stay after Kyle… Well, I’m glad I decided to stay and get to know the people in his world. I’m enjoying the book fair immensely. Royce has made me feel so welcome. Everyone has. Minka and Helen, and you, Brooklyn. You’ve all been so kind.”
Really? Minka? Kind? And Royce? Welcoming? Were we all living on the same planet?
“That’s great,” I said, ill at ease with all the perky, shiny “aren’t we all one big happy family” stuff. “Well, we have to be going. It was nice to see you.”
Helen piped up, “I should probably go, too. But we’ll get together later for a drink, right?”
“Oh, yes,” Serena said, grabbing Helen’s hand and squeezing it a bit too desperately before letting go. “Please, Helen, I would love that.”
“I’ll see you in the pub at five, then,” Helen said.
“Super!”
Helen waved with real enthusiasm as we walked away.
I slipped Helen’s arm through mine. Once we were out of Serena’s earshot, I said, “Helen, isn’t this getting a little awkward?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“You’re acting like you’re best friends with your dead lover’s wife.”
Helen swallowed. “But she’s sweet. It’s not her fault Kyle was a beast.”
“I know, but don’t you think it’s a little odd that she’s still hanging around? Her husband was murdered and she’s here, going around making friends with everyone he knew.”
“But she said she wanted to get to know Kyle’s friends.”
“Including his secret lover?”
Derek nudged my arm.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “Derek thinks I’m being rude. And he’s probably right. But honestly, don’t you find it uncomfortable being around her?”
“You’re so sweet to think of me,” Helen said, and took my hand. “But she’s an interesting girl, Brooklyn. And I know it sounds odd, but I feel like I’m connected to Kyle when I talk to her.”
So Helen still wanted that connection to Kyle. Did she even realize what she’d just said? And what did that say about her future with Martin? I bit my tongue to keep from asking her.
Helen kept talking. “You and I didn’t have a chance to hear Serena’s eulogy at the memorial service, but everyone’s been telling me it was heartbreaking. Did you know they’ve loved each other since grade school?”
“She mentioned something about that before.”
“Right. Doesn’t that just break your heart?”
“Not really. It seems kind of creepy.”
She smacked my hand. “I’m serious. By the time they married, Kyle was traveling so much, and she’s a kindergarten teacher, so she never got a chance to meet his friends. This weekend was supposed to be her entrée into his world; then they were going to have a long, romantic Scottish honeymoon. But then he was… you know. Killed.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“She’s being very brave,” Helen said, getting a little choked up.
“And so are you,” I said staunchly. “Don’t forget, you are the injured party through all of this.”
That brought fresh tears to her eyes. “Your loyalty and friendship mean so much to me.”
“Helen, please don’t cry.”
Derek stepped back a foot at the threat of tears, and I shot him an evil look.
“I’m okay,” she said, sniffing back the emotion. “But I’m going to keep trying to get you two to be friends. She’s really a dear, and I think you’ll like her once you get to know her.”
“You think?”
“Definitely.”
“Well, good luck with that.” As we passed a booth specializing in horror posters, I asked, “How did you meet her, anyway?”
She smiled. “The first time I met her in the hotel store, we both reached for the same package of mints. Then we laughed and introduced ourselves and she said she loved my hair, which was endearing, don’t you think?”
Helen unconsciously played with the ends of her hair. She did have great hair, but good grief, here was a big secret: If you ever want to get a woman to do anything for you, just compliment her hair.
Was I being a bitch for suspecting that there might be an ulterior motive for Serena’s complimenting her dead husband’s lover’s hair?
Maybe I was just jealous that Helen had a new BFF.
I thought about that for a few seconds but concluded that Helen’s having a new BFF had nothing to do with it. The truth was, I was concerned that this Stepford person in front of me had done something with my friend Helen. I’d always admired her well-honed sense of humor, but that part of her was completely missing this time around. Maybe the trauma of Kyle’s death had pushed her over the edge. Or maybe the last few years spent with Martin had dulled her ability to recognize irony when it stuck its tongue out at her.
“Well, Serena sounds like a peach,” I said finally, trying for lightness. “I hope you have fun at the pub.”
“Why don’t you join us?”
I touched her arm. “Thanks, but Derek and I are having an early dinner. After that, I have to prepare for my workshop.”
“Okay, but if you get free, come on by.”
“I will.” Not.
“So,” Derek said when she was gone. “Where are we having dinner? Do we have a reservation?”
“Okay, I lied. But you were a good excuse, so thanks.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the commanders.”
We both watched Helen as she made her way down the wide aisle of book vendors.
“Derek,” I said after a moment, “have you ever noticed that women can be really stupid?”
He put his arm around my shoulders. “And yet, they’re generally smarter than men.”
“That’s a sad, sad statement.”
Derek had to run off to some royal business function at the Palace of Holyroodhouse, and tonight was the night Robin had planned to take Mom and Dad on the ghost tour.
I had wanted to study the Robert Burns book in depth, in hopes of gleaning some clue from it, and it seemed I now had the time to do so. I stopped at the front desk and the clerk led me to the small, secure safety-deposit room, inserted the hotel key in the box, then left me alone. I inserted my key in the second keyhole and pulled the box down. Alone in the secure cubicle, I felt a chill along my spine. I glanced around. I was indeed alone. There were no two-way mirrors where someone could see what I had in the box. I attributed my nerves to finding Perry’s body earlier and fought to shake off the feelings.
I pulled the book out of the long steel box and unwrapped it. I needed to see it, needed to touch the leather binding and assure myself that despite the furor circling around me and the book fair, the Robert Burns book was perfectly safe and unharmed. I hadn’t taken a good look at it since before the attack in the National Library, and that seemed like ages ago.
It had all started with this book. The murders, the attacks, the questions. Could it possibly hold the answers to any of them? Was that putting too much pressure on one little book? But books didn’t kill people. They didn’t steal tools from your hotel room or try to run you off the road.
Pulling away the parchment paper, I gazed at the book and marveled all over again at the beautiful condition of the leather. The deeply etched gilding shone like new. Thistle and heather, Solomon’s wheels, everything indicated that William Cathcart’s own hand had created this masterpiece. His bindery’s name was stamped on the leather lining of the inside back cover. So why was I suspicious of it?
Maybe because I was seeing it in the harsh light of the small room. In the bright light, I had to wonder, was it really a Cathcart? It would’ve been easy enough for a master bookbinder to duplicate Cathcart’s work.
I’d once copied a rare Dubuisson binding, right down to the one-o’clock birds the revered seventeenth-century French bookbinder was famous for. I’d done a good enough job that the head curator of the Covington Library was completely fooled. Of course, he was my fiancé at the time, so maybe he’d been a bit prejudiced.
Had someone pulled off the same trick with this William Cathcart edition? There were a few ways to tell if this book was made over two hundred years ago or within the last year. I’d given the class in forgery just two days ago, so if anyone could find out the truth about the book, it would be me. Right?
With a deep sigh, I wrapped the book up and slipped it into my bag. I was still nervous. Taking the book with me was probably dangerous. After all, someone had been able to gain access to my room as easily as if it had a revolving door to it. The book would be safer in the lockup, but then I might never have the chance to determine whether it was the real deal or an excellent forgery.
Earlier, knowing I’d made no plans for tonight, I’d felt at loose ends and a little sorry for myself. Now, the thought of spending the evening alone in my room with a good book, a rare steak and a decent bottle of wine was extremely appealing.
Especially if I uncovered a forgery.