Kate Carlisle - If Books Could Kill

“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.