Kate Carlisle - If Books Could Kill

“What kind of car?”

“A Mercedes. Big. Probably S-Class. Black, with darkened windows. The hotel uses them to chauffeur people in from the airport.”

“Someone might’ve stolen it from the hotel,” I murmured.

“Quite possibly.”

“So it would be impossible to track down.”

“Exactly,” he said, slumping back against the padded banquette.

“And you talked to the police.”

“They can’t do anything.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “One of the valets saw everything, thank God. He was more shaken than I was. He called the cops and told them as much as he knew, which was about as much as I knew.”

“Did you tell them about the book?”

He snorted in disgust. “Oh, that’ll go over well. Someone’s trying to kill me because I dared suggest that Rabbie Burns shagged a Sassenach princess back in the day. I’d be laughed out of the city.”

“What did you say? Saucy what?”

He chuckled. “Sassenach. It’s what the Scots call the English when they’re riled up. It’s from the word Saxon, I believe.”

“Saxon? Like the ancient Saxons?”

“That’s right.”

“Wow, some people know how to hold a grudge.”

“We British seem to excel at it,” he said.

I shifted in my seat to face him. “Okay, so the police don’t know about the book. Now, what if this whole thing with the car was just a mistake? Maybe they accidentally hit the gas instead of the brake. It happens.”

“You’re suggesting coincidence?”

I shrugged helplessly.

“So I just happened to discuss this admittedly controversial book with a few scholarly experts, and within hours, someone happens to aim his car at me? Oh, I like that.”

I smacked his knee again. “Maybe you pissed someone off for a different reason. Are you sleeping with someone’s wife? Did you cheat on your taxes?”

“Now you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

I laughed, as he’d expected me to.

He gulped the last of his beer. “Perhaps walking around with this book in my bag is making me paranoid.”

“Not to worry,” I said. “Because now it’s in my bag.” As soon as the words left my mouth I could feel the paranoia shifting from his shoulders to mine.

He smacked his forehead. “That was shortsighted of me. I don’t want to put you in any danger. Give it back.”

“No, no,” I said, shaking off my anxiety. “I’m not worried. No one knows I have it, right? It’s you I’m concerned about.”

“Thank you, darling,” he said, squeezing my hand before letting it go. “But it’s not necessary. I’ll be careful.”

“You’d better be.”

The bartender walked over and asked if he could refill our drinks. Kyle ordered a third pint. I passed.

“Suppose we go at this from another angle,” I said when the bartender left. “Who are these scholarly experts you discussed the book with?”

“I’ve shown it to only three people. Perry McDougall was the first.”

“Perry?” The guy who’d cut me off in the store. “Why’d you show it to Perry?”

He was taken aback by my antipathy. “Because he’s a scholarly expert,” he said defensively. “If anyone can verify such rumors, it would be Perry.”

“But he’s such a jerk.” I briefly explained my run-in with Perry at the hotel store.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and gave me a quick hug. “I suppose he is a bit of a boor, but he’s an expert in the field. And he and I get along well. Or we used to, before this happened.”

“Why? What did he say?”

He sighed. “He was outraged, insisted the book was blasphemous and a fake besides. He told me I’d better not show the book to anyone else or I’d find myself in more than a spot of trouble.”

“So he threatened you.” My eyes narrowed. “Now I wish I’d slugged him.”

“There’s my girl,” he said with a grin, then waved my concerns aside. “That’s just Perry. He tends to think the world revolves around him.”

The bartender returned with Kyle’s ale. Kyle thanked him and took a long sip.

“You honestly don’t think Perry was threatening you?” I persisted.

“He’s just Scottish,” he explained.

“Unfair,” I said with a laugh. “I’ve met plenty of happy Scotsmen. He’s not one of them.”

“True,” Kyle said. “I’ve seen him go off on other people, but it was never like this. He turned purple, right before my eyes. Warned me that if I dared discuss the erotic poems or the Princess Augusta Sophia connection, there would be dire consequences.”

“Dire consequences?”

“Yes. He didn’t explain what he meant. Just, well, he threw me out of his room.” Kyle looked more upset by this than by the attempt on his life. I understood his pain. He was considered the golden boy of the British book trade, slick and charming, accustomed to being adored by everyone.

“I’d like to know what he looks like when he’s truly angry,” I said. “Since he basically looks pissed off most of the time.”

“It’s not attractive,” he muttered.

“But you don’t think he was threatening you? Sounds like he was to me.”

“Perry’s volatile, but he’s not generally murderous.” He crossed his arms. “I knew the book would be controversial, but I imagined people would be excited, not furious. I just wanted to stir up some interest from a few key buyers. I certainly never expected to become a target.”

“I say Perry is the most likely suspect.”

He frowned thoughtfully, then threw his arm around me and rested his temple against mine. “Maybe I’m imagining the whole thing, Brooks.”

“It’s not your imagination that someone tried to run you down, Kyle,” I said. “You have a witness. The hotel valet.”

“True,” he allowed.

I patted his chest companionably. “Now, who are the other two you showed the book to?”

A quiet trilling sound erupted from Kyle’s jacket pocket. He looked disoriented for a second, then pulled away and quickly scrambled for his cell phone. “Yes, hello? No. Yes. Damn it. Fine. Right, five minutes.” He hung up the phone and slid it back into his pocket.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Um, yes. No. Yes.” He looked as confused as he sounded. He shook his head, glanced around the pub. “I’m being an ass. Sorry. I’ve got to run.”

Kyle stood up, then leaned over and kissed me on both cheeks and stroked my hair. “You’ll take care of yourself.”

“I will, but-”

“And the book. Look after it for me.”

“Of course. Maybe we can-”

“Yes,” he said with conviction. “Yes, we can. I’ll call your room later and we’ll set up a time to talk some more. Love you, darling. Ta.”

And with that, he rushed off, leaving me alone with the book and the tab.

On the way back to the hotel, I stopped at a bookstore and purchased a paperback copy of Robert Burns’s selected poems, specifically because it included some history of the time and a glossary to help translate Burns’s old Scottish dialect.

Next door was a convenience store, where I bought three bags of Cadbury Chocolate Buttons and two large bottles of water. As I walked back to the hotel, I thought about Kyle. The book fair women I knew had always called him the Bad Boy Bookseller, and yes, the moniker was completely deserved. He was charming and slick and he’d always managed to slip and slide through relationships and love affairs, leaving a trail of brokenhearted women in his wake. And yet, everyone loved him. It helped that he was gorgeous and wealthy.

But today I realized that while he still had that same charm about him, he was right to say that he’d mellowed a bit. I didn’t know if it was because of the attempt on his life or if he was just growing up. Whatever it was, I liked it. I liked him. Then again, I didn’t have to date him, did I?