Kate Carlisle - If Books Could Kill

MacLeod shook his head. “So you think Perry McDougall killed Kyle McVee.”

I opened my mouth but quickly shut it. Who was I to accuse someone of murder?

“Miss Wainwright?” he coaxed.

“Kyle said he talked to three people about the book. Perry was one of them.”

“You were another.”

I grimaced. “Maybe. I guess so.”

“Who is the third person?”

“I don’t know. Kyle rushed off before he could tell me.”

“Bummer,” Mom said.

“Indeed.” MacLeod checked his notes. “So when you began besmirching the monarchy during the workshop, were you goading Mr. McDougall?”

“I wasn’t besmirching anybody, and no, I wasn’t goading Perry.”

His eyes narrowed. “Honestly?”

“I wasn’t besmirching anybody,” I repeated impatiently. “I was just making a point about slightly improper bookselling practices. I wasn’t going to reveal the whole King George connection to the workshop participants.”

“You were skirting a bit close, though.”

Jeez, whatever. “Maybe. I didn’t think so.”

“I’ve got to go with the Man on this one, sweetie,” Mom admitted.

“Mom! Not helpful.”

She pointed to the middle of her forehead, to her third eye. “Justice is blind and the truth hurts, Pumpkin.”

Huh? I caught Derek grinning and I glared at him.

“Okay.” I waved my hands in defeat. “I just didn’t think it would be that big a deal. I mean, the Scots aren’t all that enamored of the British monarchy, are they?”

“To most Scots,” MacLeod surmised, “it would be more of a killing offense to besmirch the memory of the beloved poet Rabbie Burns than the English monarchy.”

“I know, right?” I said, grinning, but the grin was not returned and I groaned inwardly. It would help if I remembered whom I was talking to, namely, a cop who might want to drag me off to jail. Nice.

With some reluctance, I said, “Okay, I suppose I might’ve gotten an eensy bit too close to the real story, and that must’ve upset Perry.”

“You think so?”

I exhaled resignedly. “Okay, it definitely maybe did.”

He tipped his head, accepting my answer, however much I’d tried to obfuscate it.

“But,” I added quickly, “the only reason I mentioned the Burns book in the workshop was that it was a perfect example of a story that could be exploited in order to raise the price of the book.”

Dad gave me two thumbs-up, as though I’d made a wickedly smart move in a game of checkers. Dad’s standards were overly generous where his kids were concerned.

“Yes, so you’ve said,” MacLeod said.

“Well, it’s true.”

“That’s all well and good for the purposes of your presentation,” MacLeod said philosophically, shutting his notebook and sitting back in his chair. “But who’s to say your words didn’t inflame a killer? You might want to consider that, and perhaps think before you speak next time.”

I bristled at first, hearing only his insult-which was so unfair. I often thought before I spoke. Then a chill speared my shoulder blades at the thought that at this very minute, Kyle’s killer might be roaming the book fair, looking for me.

It took another beat before the meaning behind his words hit me. He thought the killer was still out there. “Wait. Does this mean I’m no longer a suspect?”

“No.” He shoved his notebook in his pocket and handed me the Burns.

“Uh, no, I’m no longer a suspect?” I asked hesitantly. “Or no, I’m still a suspect?”

He smiled indulgently. “You own the murder weapon and you have no alibi, Miss Wainwright. What do you think?”

My shoulders slumped. “Right.”

“You’re free to go for now,” he said, then stood and held out his hand to help me up. “But don’t leave town.”

“I think that went well,” Mom said as we walked down the hall to the escalators. Dad and Derek were trailing behind, deep in conversation.

“He thinks I’m capable of murder, Mom.”

“Oh, no,” she said, waving her hand to dismiss my fears. “His sixth chakra was practically glowing indigo, which means he’s highly intuitive and clear-sighted.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“And in combination with his rather stunning Martial essence, he’ll make a passionate lover for some lucky woman.” Mom winked at Robin, who made a strange gargling sound.

“Do you need a Heimlich?” I asked her.

“Stop looking at me,” Robin said between gasps.

I grinned and turned back to Mom. “I’m happy for that lucky woman, whoever she may be. But the fact remains, he still thinks I’m guilty.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Mom said with perky assuredness. “He let you go, didn’t he?”

“He knows where to find me,” I muttered, stepping onto the escalator. When we reached the lobby, Mom and Robin went to the pub, Derek left to take care of dinner reservations and Dad went off to talk to the concierge to get directions for their trip tomorrow. I headed for the front desk to put the Burns book back in the hotel safe.

As I crossed the lobby to join Mom and Robin in the pub, I saw Perry talking to three other men near the entrance to the shopping arcade. So I guessed the police hadn’t detained him, either. He didn’t see me, and I planned to keep it that way.

Mom and Robin had already grabbed a table and ordered our beers, so I sat down and filled them in on some of the details about the murder, such as why I was the prime suspect. When I mentioned the bloody hammer, Mom shrank in horror.

“Honey, you’re attracting some awfully bad juju lately,” she said in a worried voice. “I recommend a spleen wash PDQ.”

“Mom,” I started, just as the waitress brought our beers. I guzzled mine down as Mom studied me.

“Or maybe you should get a cat,” she said finally.

“Cats fix bad juju?”

“No,” she said with a smile. “But they make such sweet companions.”

I glanced sideways at Robin, who looked as baffled as I felt. I took another sip of beer. “Thanks for the suggestions, Mom, but that’s a big ‘no way’ on the spleen wash.”

“You say that now, but it’s obvious that your chi is stagnating, and nothing clears that up like a good old-fashioned spleen wash followed by a granola enema.”

“Ouch,” Robin said. “Granola?”

“It’s a finely ground blend of oats, crisp rice and sesame seeds infused with mineral oil,” Mom assured us.

It was a miracle I didn’t choke on my beer. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

She shrugged. “Or you can always get a cat.”

The next morning I dressed in jeans, boots and a forest green turtleneck sweater, then went downstairs to meet Mom, Dad and their stalwart spirit guide, Robin, in the hotel restaurant. I slid into the booth next to Mom and gratefully accepted a cup of coffee from the passing waitress.

As I poured cream into my coffee, I said, “Wasn’t that a great dinner last night?”

“Oh, yes,” Mom said. “Derek is the perfect host, isn’t he?”

“He was too generous,” Dad said.

I took a sip of coffee. “So, are you all packed up and ready to go?”

No one responded. Robin wouldn’t make eye contact with me. Dad busily stirred honey into his tea. That was when I knew something was wrong. Dad hated tea.

“What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“I knew she’d make a fuss,” Mom said with a flustered wave of her hands.

“What fuss? Who’s making a fuss? What aren’t you telling me?”

“We’re not going anywhere, sweetie,” Mom said defiantly. “And that’s final.”

Dad reached across Mom and patted my hand. “How can we leave you when you’re going through such trauma?”