Kate Carlisle - If Books Could Kill

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.

“Amen,” said Reverend Anderson.

“Amen,” murmured the crowd.

I stared at the backs of all the people and suddenly realized the murderer might be in the room. He had to be here, gloating. He wouldn’t miss it. The smug bastard.

The thought made me shudder.

Derek must’ve noticed, because he took hold of my hand and tried to rub some warmth back into it.

Next, Royce stood up and went to the front of the room. His eulogy was banal, but at least he’d known Kyle and could say something from the heart. His speech was mercifully short, and everyone seemed grateful for that.

I watched Royce as he walked back to his seat. He was a few years older than Kyle, about the same height but a bit pudgy and soft around the middle. I wondered if he might’ve killed his more attractive, popular cousin. I’d met Royce once or twice when I was dating Kyle but didn’t really know him. Which meant he probably didn’t hate me enough to steal my hammer and use it as a murder weapon.

Damn, that hammer was a real sticking point.

Winnie returned to the podium, scanned the crowd of three hundred or so and asked, “Would anyone else like to speak?”

She waited a beat, and when no one stood up, she said, “Is Brooklyn Wainwright in the room?”

“Huh?”

Derek was taken aback, too, and frowned at me.

“I didn’t do anything,” I whispered.

Everyone turned and strained to get a look at me. Was she going to point me out to the cops?

“ Brooklyn, dear,” Winnie said kindly, “I know you were one of Kyle’s special chums. Would you be willing to share some memories with us?”

I groaned inwardly. This felt too much like high school, with me in the role of bad student being culled from the herd for purposes of ridicule. I hated high school.

“Come on, dear,” Winnie coaxed.

Derek squeezed my hand. “You can do it, old chum.”

“Oh, shut up,” I whispered. Sucking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, I stood and walked down the long aisle to the podium.

I coughed once to clear my throat. “Kyle was, well, more than a friend,” I said humbly. “He was-”

A door banged open at the back of the room, and some woman shrieked at the sudden noise. That caused a few people to jump to their feet to see what the commotion was all about.

My view was blocked, so I stood on tiptoe to get a look. No luck. The chattering crowd grew louder as more people stood up to watch whatever was going on.

I left the podium and moved toward the aisle and finally saw what was causing the disturbance.

Minka LaBoeuf.

Why was I not surprised?

We all watched in amazement as she half dragged a sobbing woman down the aisle with her. Minka’s face alternated between apprehension at the crowd’s disapproval and disgust with her sniveling companion. But I detected a gleam of triumph in her beady eyes.

I didn’t recognize the woman with her. She was taller than Minka but wispy, as though a soft breeze would knock her off her feet. She was blond and her face was pale and thin. Her gray raincoat was buttoned up tight and she wore a pink pashmina over her head and around her neck as though she’d been grabbed on her way to church. She looked fragile and frankly terrified, like a lamb being led to slaughter.

Minka, on the other hand, looked like a derelict Goth in frayed, tight black leather pants and matching way-too-tight vest over a purple mock-turtleneck sweater. And too much makeup, as usual. Wait. Were those pants pleather ? Oh, dear God.

Minka marched right up to me and snarled, “Am-scray.”

I held my hand over the microphone and whispered, “Are you nuts? Get out of here. I’m not finished.”

Heck, I hadn’t even started.

She elbowed me out of the way and leaned into the microphone. “Everybody sit down and shut up. I have an announcement to make.”

“Wait a minute,” I said.

Minka snapped her fingers. “Serena. Stand over here.” She pointed to the other side of the podium.

Before the wispy woman could move, I grabbed Minka’s arm and pulled her away from the podium.

“You can wait until I’m through talking,” I said.

“Fuck off, Brookie .” She wrenched her arm away, then tried to push me again, but before she could do it, I caught her hand, twisted it and shoved it away from me.

“Ow! You bitch!” she shrieked. “That hurts.”

“Yeah?” I gave her hand another rough twist. “Well, don’t call me Brookie.”

She yanked her hand away and darted back to the microphone.

I got hold of her slimy pleather vest and hauled her farther away from the podium as three hundred people-some of them potential clients, damn it-attempted to watch every move and hear every word.

“Let go of me!” she wailed. “I have a right to talk!”

“After me,” I said through clenched teeth as I clutched her arm tightly. I hadn’t even wanted to talk before, but now I was determined not to let Minka push me off the stage. Kyle had been my friend, damn it. Minka didn’t have the right to talk about him.

“We take our turns,” I said. “It’s how civilized society operates.”

“Oh, screw you and your civil society.” She struggled to get away. “When I’m finished talking, nobody’ll care what you have to say.”

I still had a tight grip on her arm, so she swung her other arm around and smacked the side of my head.

“Damn it,” I said. “I’m sick of you hitting me.” I snatched hold of her oily ponytail and pulled until she was bent backward and bellowing like a farm animal. I continued to pull her down until we were both on our knees. She had both arms free to punch and slap me as I jerked and twisted her head every which way.

Without warning, two strong arms pulled me back; at the same time someone else pulled Minka away from me.

“No!” I protested. “Let me kill her, please.”

“Easy there, champ,” Derek said as he effortlessly hauled me out of harm’s way.

“Son of a bitch,” I grumbled. “I almost had her.”

“Yes, you did,” Derek uttered close to my ear as he scooted me farther away. “We’re all really proud of you.”

“Thanks.”

I noticed with some satisfaction that Detective Inspector Angus MacLeod was the one struggling to hold on to Minka. She wasn’t going meekly.