Kate Carlisle - If Books Could Kill

Really? Then why was I always the prime suspect? “That’s enough,” Angus snapped.

“Fine, I’ll go,” Minka said, “but don’t you dare release her! You’ll be sorry. I’ll report you!”

“Get her out of here.”

The door banged shut behind her and there was a sudden silence.

“Well, she’s an angry one,” Angus finally said, brushing his hands off.

“Thank you for intervening,” I said. “And I hope everyone noticed she threatened to kill me. Shouldn’t you make a note somewhere?”

Derek chuckled.

Angus sighed. “She was just overwrought.”

“She’s a raving loon,” I said pointedly. “And dangerous. It’s not the first time she’s attacked me.”

“Yes, I saw you both tangling the other day.”

“No, before that,” I said. “Back in San Francisco. Never mind. Anyway, thanks.”

“My job,” he said, holding out his hands. “Besides, she’s got no business in here. This is a crime scene.”

“She really will try to report you.” Minka wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box.

“She’s welcome to try.” Angus shook his head. “She seems more and more unbalanced every time I see her. We’ll hold her for questioning.”

“Good,” Derek said.

Minka had blamed me for another death after Abraham was killed last month. She’d attacked me and accused the police of playing favorites. I was getting a little tired of it.

A little? I slumped into my chair as the adrenaline rush wore off. I felt like an idiot for behaving so wildly, but nobody in the world ticked me off like Minka did. Would I ever be free of her maddening presence in my life? I truly wished her dead.

Okay, erase that. My mother would call that tempting karma. I wasn’t cynical enough to disagree, so I shook my head and quickly erased that thought. If only it were that easy, as if my brain were an Etch A Sketch and the screen were now blank.

So maybe I didn’t want her dead, but I did want her to go away and leave me alone.

I considered that new change in thinking a sign of personal growth.

The crime scene investigators took over the room, and Angus moved our little group to the far corner. He grilled me again, implored me to search my mind for any other people Kyle might’ve spoken to about the Robert Burns book.

“And more important,” he added, “who’s most likely to have stolen your bookbinding tools for the purposes of implicating you?”

“Exactly,” I said emphatically. “That’s the key to this puzzle.”

I pulled out the book fair program and went down the list of exhibitors, pointing out the names of experts who might’ve given Kyle some feedback.

“I would’ve thought his cousin Royce would have an opinion of the book,” I said, “but he seems completely uninvolved in that side of the business.”

Angus flipped through his notebook. “Royce McVee was interviewed and had a strong alibi for the night his cousin was killed. He was speaking to a group of underwriters that afternoon, and everyone proceeded directly to a cocktail party and dinner that evening.”

“Shoot,” I muttered.

As he continued to read his notes, I stood and paced. It helped me think.

I felt a twinge of guilt but finally said, “Have you talked to Helen Chin’s husband, Martin?”

“Martin?” He skimmed back over his notes. “Martin Warrington? I’ve got his name listed, but I didn’t talk to him.” He called Terrence over and asked him to track down whoever interviewed Martin. It turned out Martin had a number of people who’d vouched for his whereabouts the night Kyle died.

“Helen Chin was with you on the ghost tour,” Angus said.

“Yes,” I said. “But there’s no way she could’ve dragged Perry under the table. And she was in our car on the way back from Rosslyn Chapel.”

“Yes, it’s doubtful she’d get in the car after sabotaging it,” Angus said, frowning. I couldn’t blame him, as we were running low on suspects.

“The cousin was also the partner, wasn’t he?” Derek said.

“Yes, partner in a very lucrative company,” Angus added.

“He had a lot to gain by Kyle’s death,” I mused aloud. “I would talk to him again. He might’ve started out at the meeting, then sneaked out, then returned for the cocktail party.”

I looked up to see both Derek and Angus staring at me with some apprehension. Angus turned to Derek. “You did warn me.”

“What?” I asked.

Derek shook his head. “It sounds like you’re running your own investigation, darling. It almost got you killed once before, remember?”

“I’m just helping,” I said defensively, then thought, Screw it . “In case you didn’t notice, I’ve got a stake in the outcome here. Some clown is trying to frame me for murder.”

Derek’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “She has a point.”

Angus scowled.

I felt tears of self-pity sting my eyes and sniffled and blinked a few times to get rid of them. But it wasn’t fair. I’d just wanted to teach my book-arts class this afternoon. It would’ve been an easy, fun way to distract myself and forget my worries for two hours. I’d always loved teaching the craft. Showing someone how to take a few scraps of cloth and ribbon and paper and turn them into a tangible piece of art was immensely satisfying. The students’ excitement and pride in their finished work were always a great high for me.

Besides, the Edinburgh Book Fair was supposed to be about books. Not murder.

Wherever she goes, someone dies.

I shivered and zipped my down vest as Minka’s words played over in my head. Damn her for saying that. Even if it was true, it was so unfair. And in my precarious-okay, whiny-state, I wasn’t quite capable of breezing over it.

I used my mental Etch A Sketch again to wipe away the thought that any of this was my fault. It was ridiculous and untrue, not to mention destructive to my psyche. After all, wherever Minka went, people died, too. It wasn’t just me.

Still, it was disturbing to once more find myself in the middle of a murder investigation. Why? Was there something in my auric field that was attracting all this nastiness to me? Was I somehow paying for past sins by becoming a witness to violent death?

Maybe I needed a high colonic, after all.

Oh, hell, maybe I just needed a drink.

My book-arts class was postponed until tomorrow afternoon, so I took an hour and strolled through the book fair to relax. Derek was kind enough to walk with me, possibly afraid I might cause a scene or accuse somebody of murder if left to my own devices.

As we walked, I was surprised to realize I was starting to chill out.

Was it wrong of me to enjoy being in the hustle and bustle of book land with a gorgeous British commander holding my hand? Maybe I should’ve been off hiding in my room after discovering another body, or maybe I should’ve been in church praying for poor Perry, but the truth was, he just hadn’t been a very nice man.

Strangely enough, even with the gruesome news of Perry’s murder, the book fair was thriving. We passed booths where people talked in hushed tones, then stopped as I approached. I could only figure that Minka had spread the word about my finding the body, probably adding that I was about to be arrested for murder. The possibility should’ve annoyed me but it didn’t.

No, for some reason, despite stumbling over yet another dead body, I felt good. Calm. I didn’t think I could blame it on Derek’s presence, because I rarely felt calm around him. More like fired up and ready to go. So maybe it was simply because I was in my element, surrounded by books.

I spied an illustrated Alice in Wonderland and rushed over to examine it. It was a 1927 edition in spring green leather, mint condition, with heavy gilding around the edges and on the spine. Ornate dentelles decorated the inside front and back covers. There was a wonderful gilt-tooled White Rabbit on the center of the front cover, checking his pocket watch, and a scolding Queen of Hearts on the back. It was delightful. Expensive, but worth it.