Kate Carlisle - If Books Could Kill

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?

“So… you want my help?” I ventured.

He smiled brightly. “Aye, now you’ve got the right of it.”

I took a deep breath and channeled my mother, trying for one of her cheery Sunny Bunny smiles. I would’ve succeeded were it not for the sudden nervous tic in my cheek. “Okay, sure. Of course I can help. What would you like to know?”

He asked questions and I answered, telling him everything that had taken place from the beginning of the tour until the police arrived on the scene. I tried to remember everyone’s comments, every room we walked into, Helen’s first screams, then mine, then me racing out of there and straight into Derek’s arms.

“You can imagine my shock,” I said, “when Derek Stone appeared out of the blue, just as the body was discovered.”

I hastened to add, “Not that I’m accusing him of murder or anything.”

He barked out a laugh. “Of course not.” He was remarkably boyish and cute when he smiled. Nevertheless, he didn’t take the bait and rush off to arrest Derek. Instead, he sat back in his chair, folded his hands together and asked, “What was your relationship with the deceased?”

“Kyle and I were old friends,” I said. “Good friends. Okay, we used to date. But it’s been almost four years since we broke up.”

“I see.”

“We stayed friends, though,” I said quickly. “I ran into him this afternoon and we had a beer together.”

“Where was this?” he asked as he wrote notes in a small tablet.

“The Ensign Ewart.”

He excused himself and left the room but was back a minute later. I assumed he must’ve sent someone to check out my Ensign Ewart story.

“What did the two of you talk about?” he asked.

“Books, of course,” I said. “And also, Kyle was in some trouble and asked me to help.”

MacLeod leaned forward. “Trouble? What sort of trouble?”

There was a knock on the door and MacLeod swore under his breath. He jumped up and opened it, listened to his man, then closed the door and returned to his chair behind the desk. He folded his hands together and stared at me through narrowed eyes.

“What?” I finally demanded.

He shook his head. “It’s nothing. We have a witness who saw you and the victim at the Ensign Ewart earlier today.”

“I just told you I was there,” I snapped, then exhaled heavily. “Sorry. I’m a little stressed out.”

“No harm done,” he said, and probably meant it. He seemed a cheerful sort. He checked his notepad, then said, “You were saying that Mr. McVee thought he was in some bit of trouble?”

I debated how much to tell him and decided on the whole truth, since he’d be checking up on everything I told him anyway. “Kyle said someone had tried to kill him. Tried to run him down with a car. It happened right outside the hotel.”

“Which hotel would that be?”

“Oh, sorry. The Royal Thistle, we’re all staying there for the book fair.”

He wrote it down in his notebook. “And ‘we’ would be the antiquarian book fair people.”

I nodded and he continued to write, then asked, “Did Mr. McVee tell you why he thought someone was trying to kill him?”

“Yes, he did.” And he’d been right. Someone had been after him and they’d succeeded. My mind flashed back to a picture of Kyle in the pub, laughing and teasing, then flipped to see him curled up on the hearth in that awful, dark room. My stomach clenched in pain and I shook my head to get rid of that dreadful image.

“And…?” MacLeod coaxed. “I know it’s difficult, but please go on.”

“Yes, it is difficult. Sorry.” I gulped in air. I couldn’t lose it now. Not in front of the police. No, I’d have to wait until later to have a nice little psychotic break. “Kyle thought someone was trying to stop him from showcasing a…” I hesitated, asking myself how much I was willing to reveal about the Burns book. Would anyone believe it? Did that matter? I owed it to Kyle to tell the whole truth. I inhaled, exhaled, focused, became one with the Bodhisattva warrior within, as my upbringing on the commune had taught me to do, and said, “Kyle had a special book he was going to present at the fair. There was some history behind it, and some dispute over-”

Somebody knocked on the door and blew my whole inner-warrior pretense to hell.

“Enter,” MacLeod called.

One of the police investigators opened the door. He was dressed in a white jumpsuit with disposable white cloth booties over his shoes. In his hand he held a large manila envelope. “Sir, we believe we’ve found the murder weapon.”

MacLeod gave his subordinate a severe frown as he jumped out of his chair. “Outside, McGill.” To me, he said politely, “Pardon me, won’t you, Ms. Wainwright? I shouldn’t be long.”

“No problemo.”

The door closed and I muttered, “Don’t mind me. I’ll just sit here and envision my life in a Scottish brig.”

Would they force-feed me haggis? I wondered. Would there be portions of rum for the condemned? Oh, God. Rum always gave me a headache.

With my elbows resting on my knees, I rubbed my face. I was frustrated and scared, and really wished I’d brought the bag of chocolate with me. How had I gotten myself involved in another murder investigation? In a foreign country, no less? Should I have called the American embassy before spilling the beans to the chief cop?

And Kyle, my darling Kyle, was dead. My eyes burned as I realized his worst suspicions had come to pass. And as far as I knew, the only person who had as much knowledge of Kyle’s book as I did was Perry McDougall.

Had Perry killed Kyle? It wouldn’t surprise me. Kyle had claimed that Perry threatened him.

Kyle had also said that two other people besides Perry knew about the Robert Burns book, but he’d never told me who. If he and Helen were as close as she insisted they were, he might’ve told her about the book and the story behind it. But I didn’t think Kyle was the type to upset Helen with talk of death threats.

Helen’s reaction to Kyle’s death had been so painful and over-the-top, it convinced me that she really had thought Kyle would marry her. Call me cynical, but I couldn’t believe he would’ve gone through with it. He was an incorrigible player and cute as could be, but dangerous to a woman’s heart. Poor Helen. I knew I shouldn’t talk, but the woman had seriously atrocious taste in men. First she’d married that jerk Martin, and now she thought she’d be marrying bad boy Kyle? Not too smart.

Again, I didn’t have a whole lot of room to criticize, especially since I’d been led on by Kyle, too. But I never would’ve fallen for Martin, so as far as I was concerned, that made me a genius compared to my friend.

I shifted in my chair, wondering where MacLeod had run off to. Was Helen being interrogated somewhere nearby? If so, was she telling the cops that she and Kyle were to have been married? And had she honestly bought into the fantasy that they would live happily ever after? Apparently, yes.

I rubbed my eyes, feeling more tired than ever. Who was I to judge Helen, just because Kyle had never promised me anything more than a good time? Why wouldn’t he propose marriage to Helen? She was sweet and smart and very pretty. And very rich. Couldn’t forget that. But Kyle was rich in his own right, so I didn’t think money would be much of a motivator for him.

Of course, Martin had money, too, so that probably hadn’t been a consideration when he asked Helen to marry him. I’d always thought Helen appealed to Martin because he’d mistaken her easygoing nature for subservience.