Kate Carlisle - If Books Could Kill

“Ms. Wainwright?”

“What? Sorry.” Jet lag was turning me into a zombie. “Yes, when I travel on business, I bring my tools with me.”

“Including a hammer?”

“Yes. I usually teach a workshop on bookbinding, so I always need my entire set of tools with me.”

Didn’t everyone? I was willing to bet Detective Inspector MacLeod didn’t go anywhere without his claymore or his.45 Magnum or whatever his weapon of choice was.

“And by the entire set, you mean…”

I pictured my portable tool set and named off the contents. “I’ve got my hammer, files, knives, a couple of awls, nippers, brushes, bone folders, some polishing irons, needles and thread, of course, and glue, linen tape, binder clips, rubber bands. Oh, and more tools and supplies for the students.”

“Rubber bands?”

“Sometimes the best way to hold a book together is the simplest.”

“Ah. And all these tools are in your hotel room?”

I frowned at the incriminating manila envelope still lying conspicuously between us on the desktop. “I thought they were.”

He followed my gaze. “Perhaps we should check your room.”

“Absolutely. Let’s go.”

“Please stay seated, Ms. Wainwright. I’ll send two of my men to your room to take a look around.”

“Oh, right. Okay. Great.” Yeah, just great. They’d be looking for more bloody evidence, I supposed. And what if there was some? If someone had sneaked in before, they could probably do it again to plant more evidence and set me up even further. This was so unfair.

There was another knock on the door and I groaned inwardly. Bad things seemed to happen whenever someone knocked at that door.

Derek Stone stuck his head inside the doorway. “You haven’t arrested this lady yet, have you, Angus?”

“No, no, just asking a few questions,” Angus said, then added reluctantly, “Come in, Commander. We still have some details to hash out.”

Derek walked in and closed the door. He looked around at the small space, then leaned his hip against the two-drawer filing cabinet and smirked. “She makes a damn fine suspect, doesn’t she?”

“Aye, she does, if you must know,” Angus said in a more serious tone than I was comfortable with.

“I was afraid you might think so,” Derek said, eyeing MacLeod. “That’s why I’m here to spring her.”

“Is that so?” Angus sat back in his chair. “We’re not quite finished.”

“Can’t it be wrapped up tomorrow?”

MacLeod folded his muscular arms across his barrel chest. “Questioning can continue tomorrow, but I’ll still need to accompany her back to her hotel room tonight.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “For God’s sake, why?”

Was he playing dumb? MacLeod seemed to be thinking the same thing but didn’t want to say so. I took pity on the cop and said, “My bookbinder’s hammer is the murder weapon.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Derek said, then noticed the envelope on the desk. He glanced at MacLeod as he reached for it. “May I?”

“You might as well, Commander,” MacLeod said resignedly, as though he were used to Derek Stone interfering in his cases on a regular basis.

Derek unhooked the envelope’s brass fastener and peeked inside, then shook his head at me as he resealed it and put it back on the desk. “You are impossible.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I insisted.

He folded his arms across his chest. “You’ve sufficiently antagonized someone to the point that they’re setting you up to take the fall for murder.”

“I’ve never antagonized anyone.”

“If you only knew.” He shook his head again.

“This is so unfair.”

“Yes, it is.” Derek extended his hand to me. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to vouch for her innocence, Angus.”

I grabbed hold of his hand and he pulled me up from the chair. Once I was on my feet, I whacked his arm. “You’re afraid?”

“It’s just a manner of speech. Do you want to come with me or not?”

“I do.” I looked at MacLeod. “Am I free to go?”

“No, you’re not.”

“I didn’t think so,” I said, forlorn.

Derek raised an eyebrow. “What’s the holdup?”

“I’ve told you, her room must be searched.”

“Tonight? Is that necessary?”

“Of course it’s necessary,” MacLeod said, exasperated. “You know very well I can’t let her go back to her room and possibly destroy evidence.”

“I don’t have any evidence to destroy,” I said.

“She didn’t do it, Angus,” Derek said.

MacLeod was unwavering. “I follow the evidence.”

“It won’t do you any good in her case,” Derek said in mock resignation. “She’s just not capable of killing anyone. It’s too bad, because she’s rather a chary sort, don’t you think?”

I elbowed him. “Shush.”

“Hey.” He grabbed his side. “I’m just trying to help.”

“You’re making it worse,” I whispered.

“Me?”

“Just let the man do his job.”

Angus eyed us both warily. “Have you thought to take this show on the road?”

“I tell you what, Angus,” Derek said companionably. “We’ll wait in the hotel bar while your men do their searching. If you find something incriminating, she’s all yours. In fact, I’ll help you lock her up.”

“Help me, will you?” MacLeod said. “You’re a fine friend, Derek, but you’re a pain in my rear nonetheless.”

“You’re welcome,” Derek said.

As MacLeod opened the door to the hallway, he sighed. “I’m truly not getting rid of you, am I?”

“You know me better than that,” Derek said, his amiable grin belying his resolve.

“Come along, then, both of you.”

I hustled my butt out the door to freedom.

My hotel room was absent any bloodstained rags or additional bloody weapons or whatever smoking gun MacLeod had hoped to find. He’d called me in the bar where Derek had been sipping Scotch while I’d nursed a cup of tea, trying to stay awake. Derek and I arrived in time to see a rubber-gloved investigator carefully lifting my heavy cloth tool carrier from my open suitcase.

I immediately wondered if they’d gone through my underwear. I couldn’t help worrying. Maybe it was a girl thing, but those rubber gloves gave me the heebie-jeebies.

Derek and I squeezed our way farther into the room where Detective Inspector MacLeod, two crime scene guys and the police photographer were working. The first thing I was asked to do was sit down at the desk in the corner and submit to fingerprinting by one of the technicians.

“You may find black residue on some of the surfaces of your furniture,” MacLeod explained after I’d washed my hands. “We tried to wipe it off but we might’ve missed some spots.”

“That’s okay,” I said, knowing that as soon as they left, I’d get out my travel wipes and scrub down everything.

I didn’t know what to do with five men cramped inside my little hotel room. It was like a party, only not much fun.

“We assumed this was the bag that holds your tools, Ms. Wainwright,” MacLeod said, waving a hand at the investigator who was holding the navy blue cloth bag.

“Yes.” Whenever I traveled, I wrapped everything up in the bag I’d made myself out of sailcloth and white grosgrain ribbon. Each tool had its own snug pocket, and the whole thing folded up and tied and fit inside my suitcase.

The investigator placed the tool bag on the queen-size bed.

“Someone has fiddled with it,” I said. “The ribbon is tied in a knot and I always tie it in a bow.”

“Open it up, Richie,” MacLeod said.

Richie carefully spread the cloth out on the green brocade bedspread. Fully opened, the tool bag was two feet long by one foot wide.