If Books Could Kill (10 page)

The murmuring grew to comments and gasps and a few laughs as people got into the story. I looked over the crowd and spotted a frown on the detective inspector’s face while Derek was giving me his piercing, narrow-eyed look.

Was he reacting to the crowd or to my story? I hesitated, but then plunged ahead. “The question is, is the story true? Or did the seller, looking for a way to jack up the price, spin an alluring tale of a king’s daughter giving birth to a child of the Scottish-”

“Stop!”

The crowd turned to see who had yelled, but Perry McDougall was already stalking toward me, his fisted hand raised up in angry protest.

Before anyone could stop him, before I even had a chance to react, he grabbed the book from me and shouted, “You’ll not besmirch the monarchy, ye Yankee bitch!”

Without a thought to my personal safety, I snatched the book back from Perry and ran for the door-and crashed straight into the substantial chest of Angus MacLeod. He threw his arms around me instinctively, a protective gesture against Perry, who lurched to a stop right behind me.

“Give me the book,” Perry demanded.

“No,” I shouted back, my fervor muffled somewhat by MacLeod’s wool jacket.

“You haven’t the right to-”

“Enough!” MacLeod bellowed, and the entire room fell silent. The man had a way of controlling a crowd; I’ll give him that. With a snap of his fingers, he gestured to one of his men to take hold of Perry, who struggled briefly but then walked away, all dignified and huffy, with the cops following close behind him. Only then did MacLeod let me loose. But not for long.

“You’ll come with me now, Miss Wainwright.”

“When do we get to see the fake book?” a lady piped up in the front row.

I tried to shake off the adrenaline rush as I composed myself and turned to the audience. “I’ll try to post information on the bulletin board with the time and place I’ll be showing the books I discussed today. Thank you all for coming.”

The room burst into enthusiastic applause and I wanted to take my bows, but MacLeod had other ideas. His meaty hand clutched my arm as he led me out of the room.

“I’ll be here all week,” I cried, waving to my people.

“You sound like a stand-up comic in Vegas,” Robin said heatedly as she sidled up beside me. “‘I’ll be here all week?’ What was that all about?”

“Hey, I was a hit.”

“You almost
were
hit,” Robin hissed. “Your parents are going bananas.”

I whirled around and saw Mom beaming at Derek, who seemed to be distracting both Mom and Dad with a story of his own. I would thank him later. “Mom looks fine. Everything’s fine. I’ve got the book. That’s all that matters.”

“I’ll be the judge of what matters, Ms. Wainwright,” MacLeod grumbled.

“Hey,” Robin defended, “she’s the one who was attacked.”

The detective beamed at Robin, but didn’t let go of my elbow.

“Where are we going, anyway?” I asked, but MacLeod didn’t seem inclined to answer.

So I went along quietly, studying the Burns book as we walked. It looked so small and defenseless for having caused so many problems.

“That’s all that matters to you,” Robin said, shaking her head in resignation. “You really are mental.”

“I had to save the book,” I said as I tucked it inside my jacket pocket. That was what my mentor taught me: Books were sacred.

“I know,” she said, conceding the point. She was well aware of my philosophy. I’d been binding books since I was eight years old, and she’d been my best friend the whole time.

“I thought the workshop went well,” I said as MacLeod continued down the hall with all of us in his wake.

Robin laughed. “The audience won’t forget it anytime soon.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“Depends on your definition of
good.”

“Memorable?”

“Most definitely.”

“We’ll go in here,” MacLeod said gruffly, after checking that the conference room was empty.

“We’re right behind you, honey,” Dad said staunchly. A child of the sixties, Dad still had issues with “the Man” and wasn’t about to let his little pumpkin be led off to some airless interrogation room to be brutalized by the police. Not if he had anything to say about it.

“Thanks, Dad.” I waved to him over my shoulder, noting that Mom and Derek were right behind Dad. Two policemen followed in their wake. Oh, boy, the gang was all here.

“We’re staying with her,” Robin said to MacLeod. A look passed between them. He considered her for a long moment, then nodded.

I raised an eyebrow at Robin and she gave me a minute nod. Something was definitely going on between those two. Fascinating. I itched to know what had happened but knew I’d have to wait to hear the whole story later. If I wasn’t carted off to jail first, that is.

I hadn’t had much of a chance to tell Robin anything about the murder, but she seemed to have some awareness that I was in trouble. Yes, we were close, but I didn’t think she could read my mind. Had MacLeod told her anything? That seemed like a breach of something, not that I cared if Robin knew. But still, didn’t he have a code of ethics to follow?

The small room was set up with a podium up front and about fifty chairs arranged in rows. MacLeod suggested I take an aisle seat and he turned a chair around to face me. Then he pulled a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket.

Dad, Mom and Robin sat two rows back, within listening range. The two officers stood near the door and Derek prowled the perimeter of the small room, making me more nervous than I already was.

“So, were you besmirching the monarchy, Miss Wainwright?” Angus MacLeod asked right off the bat. His tone was light, but I wasn’t fooled. That question put an end to any thought of presumed innocence.

“Absolutely not,” I said stoutly. “I was giving a book-fraud workshop. This book provided a perfect example of a mythology that could be built up in order to swindle a potential buyer. It had nothing to do with the monarchy, for goodness’ sake.”

“Do you know Perry McDougall, the man who attacked you?”

“Yes.”

He waited, but I didn’t say anything more. Hey, I watched Law & Order. I knew how to play the game.

He sighed. “And how do you know Mr. McDougall?” “Oh, Perry’s been attending the European book festivals for years. He’s got an antiquarian bookstore in Glasgow, and he has an online presence, as well. He’s considered an expert when it comes to books on Celtic history, British and Scottish history, World War Two, guns, all sorts of things.”

“Did he have a particular grudge against you?”

“Not really,” I said, but it was the bad liar in me talking. Everyone in the room knew it.

“Okay,” I said, before anyone else could snort in disbelief. “We had a little run-in the other day, but nothing to get all freaked out about.”

“So what would you say freaked him out, then?”

I pulled the Robert Burns out of my pocket. “It has something to do with this book.”

“That seems clear,” MacLeod said, eyeing the book. “Is it yours?”

“No.”

He nodded. “May I see it, please?”

I gave him the Burns and was pleased to see him handle it gingerly. He opened it, stared at the signature page, then looked at me through wide eyes.

“Is it what I think it is?”

I knew how he felt. I must’ve had the same look of astonishment when Kyle first showed it to me.

“It hasn’t been authenticated,” I said, hedging.

He frowned. “Is it your job to verify an author’s signature?”

“Not usually,” I admitted. “But I’m often hired to authenticate the book itself. Its age, provenance, history, the bookbinder who made it and usually the bindery it came from. But none of that information can actually prove that Robert Burns signed it. For that, we’ll need handwriting expertise, ink testing, and more historical data.”

“You’d test the ink?” MacLeod said. “Wouldn’t that destroy it?”

“Not necessarily,” I said, getting into the topic. “Still, it would have to be done with extreme care, and I wouldn’t want to be the one to do it.”

MacLeod’s fingers moved slowly over the page but avoided the signature itself. I was glad I didn’t have to tell him not to touch it. I didn’t want to antagonize him more than I already had.

“So this book is in your possession in order for you to authenticate it?”

“Yes.”

He turned the book over in his hands. “It’s obviously quite valuable. Who entrusted you with it?”

I swallowed hard. “Kyle McVee.”

He sighed.

I rushed to add, “I told you I ran into Kyle yesterday afternoon. That’s when he gave me the book and asked me to study it.”

“And hours later, he was brutally murdered.”

I bit my lip as my stomach took a dip. “Yes.”

“Over a
book?”

He made it sound like an insult to books everywhere. I folded my arms across my chest, lifted my chin and said, “Maybe.”

“Why didn’t you mention the book when we questioned you last night?”

My mother shot to her feet. “I object!”

I gasped.

MacLeod was clearly taken aback. “What?”

Derek snorted with laughter.

I managed a chuckle. “Mom, it’s okay.”

“Sorry,” Mom muttered, waving away her outburst as she sat again. “Wrong number.”

“Oh, God,” Robin whispered, then covered her face with both hands, but I could see her shoulders were shaking with laughter.

MacLeod stared at me in disbelief. Hey, it wasn’t my fault my mother lived in a parallel universe.

The “wrong number” reference came from Mom’s belief that everyone had a sort of tape recorder inside their brains that played the everyday phrases people used. According to Mom, each phrase on this imaginary tape recorder was numbered, and, at appropriate times, our brains pushed a button to allow us to say something appropriate. It took very little conscious thought to say, “How are you?” or, “Fine, thanks,” “I’m sorry for your loss,” “You’re not wearing that,” “Because I’m the mother,” and so on.

Apparently, “I object!” was also one of Mom’s catch-phrases. And why not? She was a Law & Order junkie, too. Not to mention she had six kids. That gave her plenty to object to on any given day.

So Mom was apologizing for playing the wrong number on her “tape recorder.” In essence, it all had to do with cosmic consciousness and being present in the moment, but I wasn’t about to go there with MacLeod.

I blew out a breath. “I tried to tell you about the book, but we kept being interrupted and I forgot to bring it up again.”

MacLeod thumbed through his notes, then tapped a page with his pen. “Ah, I do remember you starting to tell me something, when my investigator came to the door.”

“That was it.” My stomach twitched at the memory of the investigator walking in with my bloody hammer.

MacLeod put down his notebook and picked up the Robert Burns again. Resting his elbows on his knees, he studied the book some more. Then, almost under his breath, he said, “I dinna ken why anyone would murder someone over a bleedin’ book.”

Was that another book insult? I told myself not to pursue it, but when was the last time I listened to my own good advice? “People have killed for much less than a rare, priceless book, Detective Inspector.”

Oh, why didn’t I just shut up and stop provoking him? I glanced at Derek, whose firmly set jaw indicated he was wondering the same thing.

But MacLeod just nodded and said absently, “Yes, of course they have.” Still holding the book, he said, “Excuse my ignorance, but what did you mean in your lecture when you talked about mythology as it pertains to a book?”

I settled back in my chair, finally comfortable with a question. “A less than scrupulous bookseller will occasionally take a book’s history and provenance and embellish it in hopes of stirring up interest and raising the price of the book.”

“So they lie to get a better price.”

“Basically, yes,” I said, though my terminology sounded classier. “They don’t see it that way, of course. Anyway, that’s why I included this book in my fraud workshop. It’s got a truly bizarre and exciting mythology to go with it.”

“Something about star-crossed lovers and a secret baby?”

So MacLeod had actually been paying attention to my workshop talk. It made me smile. “Yes, something about that.”

“What else?”

“It’s just a theory,” I said hesitantly, moving back into my discomfort zone.

“It’s obvious that something you said set McDougall off,” he said. “So let’s hear the whole story.”

I could’ve lied. I was getting better at it. I peeked at Derek’s frown and realized that, no, I wasn’t. Fine.

I took a deep breath and said, “This book is supposed to contain love poems by Robert Burns never before seen anywhere else, poems dedicated to an English princess. In theory, one of King George the Third’s daughters, Augusta Sophia, came to Scotland and had an affair with the poet Robert Burns. She went back to England and soon gave birth to a son. That young son took his place in the line of English succession and was never acknowledged to be the child of Robert Burns. But he was, according to some, and the proof is in the extremely graphic, never-before-seen poems in this book.”

I sat back, feeling a little dizzy with all that I’d divulged in one breath.

There was stunned silence for a few brief seconds; then Robin whispered, “Cool.”

MacLeod burst into laughter. “You’re pulling my leg, Miss Wainwright.”

Not the reaction I’d expected, but it was better than a poke in the eye, as Dad would say.

“No, I’m not,” I said. “That’s exactly what Kyle told me. Now, whether it’s true or not, I can’t say. I’m not an expert in British and Scottish history. But Perry is, so that’s why Kyle asked him about the history behind the book. Perry went ballistic, and the next thing Kyle knew, someone was trying to kill him. And they succeeded.”

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.