Kate Carlisle - If Books Could Kill

“Oh, my God, don’t remind me. That waitress was trying to terrify me on purpose.”

I laughed at the memory of Robin’s expression when the waitress suggested tatties and neeps on the side, then gave her a break and explained that it was the local name for potatoes and parsnips. We figured she did that to all the tourists. At the end of the meal, Robin asked for the recipe and the chef himself came out to recite it, basically mashed root veggies with a touch of this and that-and tarragon, the secret ingredient.

When Robin invited him to move to San Francisco to cook for her, I knew it was time to leave.

“Look, puppets!” Robin cried, and hurried over to a storefront display of numerous stringed puppets in intricate costumes, all standing and ready to perform. There was a bagpiper, a ballerina, a golfer, three soldiers, all in different uniforms, a harlequin clown and a pirate. Their oversize faces were carved from wood and their cheeks were splotched with bits of red paint-to make them appear happy and healthy, I supposed.

“Kind of creepy, huh?” I said, struggling to keep a steady foot on the wily cobblestones after having shared a bottle of wine with Robin.

“I think they’re pretty,” Robin said.

“Oh, sure, until they come alive in the middle of the night and try to kill you.”

She frowned. “I hate when that happens.”

“Should we start back?”

“Do you want to walk up to the castle?” Robin asked as we headed west. “I still need to walk off dinner.”

“Sure.” It was a beautiful night, cold but not unbearable, and I didn’t want to go back to the hotel just yet.

“We can stop at a few pubs for a nightcap or two,” she added.

“That’s why I love you,” I said, weaving our arms together and pulling us to a stop at the red light.

“Well, we are in Scotland, after all,” Robin said. “Home of the best pubs in the world, filled with hardy, handsome hunks in kilts who drink Scotch all night and play rugby all day. That takes balls, you know. Big ones, made of leather.”

“And we’re back to our theme of the night,” I said with a laugh, then shivered from a cold waft of air that swept up South Bridge.

Robin continued singing the praises of hunky Scotsmen, but I tuned out as a sudden stinging awareness told me that someone was watching us. I’d felt that same eerie sensation once before, in San Francisco after Abraham was murdered. I’d brushed it off then, to my detriment. Now, after another murder and a day of near misses, I wasn’t quite ready to dismiss it.

I glanced around but couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. People walked the streets, going from here to there, minding their own business. A group of college boys whooped it up outside a record store across the street. None of them cast a menacing scowl my way.

But there were shadows and dark alleyways everywhere along the Royal Mile. Was someone hiding, waiting, planning?

Beside me, Robin was humming and swaying to some internal groove, daydreaming of men in kilts, oblivious to any danger lurking nearby.

So okay, maybe it was my imagination. Let’s face it, I was slightly tanked and still on edge from the attack at the library earlier. And these narrow, cobbled streets of Old Town naturally conjured up ghosts and spirits and evildoers where there was really nothing, nothing but the whispers and sighs of the soft winds that wafted up the myriad lanes and passageways leading to the High Street.

Uh-oh. I was waxing poetic, and that was never a good sign. I shivered again, grabbed my gloves and put them on, then rubbed my hands together to warm up.

When the light turned green, I breathed a sigh of relief and stepped off the curb. A black car came screeching toward me.

“No!” Robin screamed, and yanked my arm. I fell backward and landed right on my ass. Again. Pain shot up my spine and I groaned as I lay back on the sidewalk.

The car roared away down North Bridge toward the New Town and disappeared. He never even slowed down.

“Damn, that hurt,” I muttered, staring up at the sky, trying to figure out why this kind of thing kept happening to me.

“ Brooklyn?” Robin called out. Seconds later, her face appeared in my line of vision. “Are you okay? Did you see that? The guy didn’t even stop. Are you hurt? Can you talk? Oh, my God, please say something.”

“I’ll live,” I managed to say. But my butt was going to be bruised.

I heard footsteps running toward me. “Are ye all right, miss?”

I tried to focus as another pair of eyes stared down at me.

“Tommy?”

“Aye, it’s me,” said my cute, would-be kidnapper from this afternoon. “And the slightest bit too late coming, I see.”

“Excuse me, but who’re you?” Robin demanded, then looked back at me. “Who is he?”

“Long story,” I muttered.

“Are ye all right then, love?” Tommy repeated.

“Have you been following us?”

He ignored my question as he crouched down and slipped his warm hand behind my neck. “Let me help you up, miss.”

“We haven’t met,” Robin interrupted, holding out her hand to the handsome gunman.

Tommy, always polite, pulled his hand out from under my neck and stood to shake Robin’s. That was okay; my head barely bounced more than once on the hard cobbled surface.

“Tommy, meet Robin,” I said, waving in the air to introduce them. “Robin, Tommy.” It was about all I could manage between moans, what with my head reverberating from hitting the pavement.

“Pleasure to meet you, Robin,” he said with enthusiasm, then remembered his duty and knelt down on one knee, attentive once more. “Did you happen to get a good look at the car, miss?”

“My name’s Brooklyn, by the way.”

He smiled and took my hand in his. “’Tis a lovely name.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“The car, dear,” he reminded me gently. “Did you see it?”

“It was big and black, with tinted windows. Looked like a Mercedes.”

“No particular markings?”

“You mean, besides the creep driving it?” Robin pointed out, fiercely protective.

I had to think. Focus. I’d been in this position before, unfortunately. I should’ve been getting better at it. “No. In fact, it was conspicuously free of markings. I don’t think there was a front license plate. It was very plain, dark, almost somber. Then I fell, so I didn’t see a back license plate when it took off.”

“Okay, that’s good.”

Good? How was that good?

A dim lightbulb in my brain flickered on. “It was like one of the cars they use at the hotel to chauffeur people around.” Like the one Kyle had described when he was almost run down. My shoulders bunched up as I shivered. “I’m cold.”

“Can we get you up off the walk, then?” he asked, again wedging his hand under my neck to support my head.

“Um, ow, not just yet,” I said, trying not to groan as my lower back sent a spasm of pain up my spine.

“Jeez, Brooklyn,” Robin said, leaning over me. “Should we call an ambulance?”

“No, I just need a minute.” And a pillow. And an aspirin. Or twenty.

“Take your time, Brooklyn, love.”

“Robin,” I said feebly, trying to make conversation, “Tommy was one of the men I was telling you about in the cab this afternoon.”

“Ah, you’re a Freemason,” she said, and demurely touched his shoulder. “I’d love to discuss some of your secret handshakes sometime. I find them oddly arousing.”

Ah, jeez. Was there anyone she wouldn’t flirt with?

Tommy whipped his head around to assure himself that no one had overheard her utter the name of the esoteric society. Then he frowned down at me. “Did you tell her, then?”

“She’s my friend,” I explained, giving Robin a warning glance. “She won’t say a word.”