If Books Could Kill (23 page)

“Mom, hi,” I said. “Listen, I’ve got to-”

“We went crazy!” Mom said as she dropped all the bags on the carpet, then opened one up and whipped out a bright red Royal Stewart plaid skirt. “Matching kilts for your father and me! Kilt, jacket, sporran, shoes, socks, sash, the whole enchilada.”

“Oh, my God,” I said, momentarily stunned by all that plaid. “Dad, you sure you want to be seen wearing a skirt around Dharma?”

“I think the whole thing’s a gas,” he said, always up for a challenge.

“We’ll have everyone wearing kilts within six months,” Mom predicted.

“Right on.” Dad grinned. “Let’s go put this stuff away and hit the pub.”

“I can’t right now,” I said. “I need to go to St. Margaret’s Chapel up at the castle.”

“You’re going to church?” Dad asked, baffled.

“No, it’s a… a meeting, up at the castle, and I’ll be late if I don’t leave right now.”

“Let’s all go,” Mom said merrily.

I started to protest. “That’s probably not-”

“Groovy,” Dad said, ignoring me. “We’ll leave everything with the bellman.”

I sent Robin a pleading look. “Will you come, too?”

“More the merrier,” she said, then added more quietly, “What’s going on?”

“Looks like we’re going to church.”

As we walked quickly up Castle Hill toward the ancient fortress, I thought it might be just as well that my family was along for the ride. There was safety in numbers, after all.

I pulled Robin close. “Do you have Angus’s phone number?”

“Yeah, should I call him?”

“I left him a message and another two for Derek, but I’d feel better if you tried Angus again.”

“What’s going on, Brooklyn?”

I pulled the note from my pocket. “Got this from Helen.”

She read it and frowned. “Weird. Did she call the police?”

“That’s what I wondered. It might be a trap, or Helen might be in trouble.” I turned and saw Mom and Dad straggling half a block behind us. “Maybe we can drop them off somewhere and you and I can head over to the chapel.”

“Good idea. Your mom might like to see the doggy cemetery.”

“Perfect.”

She pulled out her cell and got hold of Angus immediately. Hmm, guess she had his personal number.

After explaining the note to Angus, Robin held the phone away from her ear and looked at me. We could both hear him yelling. After a few seconds, she brought the phone back to her ear. “We appreciate your concern, Angus. So I guess we’ll see you soon. Okay. Bye-bye.”

He was still yelling as she disconnected the call. She looked at me and shrugged. “Guess we’ll have backup.”

“Good.” I was glad to know not only that Angus would be there, but also that I was not the only one being lectured to lately.

Since it was teatime, there weren’t many tourists wandering around. The air had turned bitterly cold, and the Scottish cadets walking the perimeter had to be shivering in their sporrans. Gray clouds huddled just overhead, and the drone of the wind across the stones sounded mournful.

We crossed the wide esplanade, passed the elegant bronze statues of Robert the Bruce and William Wallace, and walked briskly through the gatehouse. After paying the entry fees, we hurried through the Portcullis Gate and turned to face the treacherously steep and curving Lang Stairs that would lead to the Upper Ward and St. Margaret’s.

“These may be too much for you to climb,” I said.

“It’s good exercise,” Mom said.

“Yeah, let’s go,” said Dad.

We didn’t speak as our boots scuffed against the rough stone stairs. To take my mind off what I might find at St. Margaret’s, I counted steps and finally hit seventy. I knew now why they were called the Lang Stairs, as
lang
was the old Scots word for long. I’d made it to the top but hardly in triumph. I had to grip my stomach as I bent over, huffing and puffing and wheezing like an asthmatic smoker.

I was somewhat relieved to see Robin and my parents do the same, although Mom and Dad recovered quickly. What was up with that? Maybe there was something to all those purging and cleansing tonics they swilled.

Once we’d caught our breaths, I led Mom and Dad past St. Margaret’s Chapel on the left, to the low wall that looked out over the lower levels of the castle and much of the New Town. I pointed out the lovingly tended pet cemetery on a small plot of lush green land that covered a lower terrace twenty feet below where we stood. Small headstones lined the curved wall, with colorful flowers planted alongside them.

“This is where the faithful companions of the castle’s commanders are given their final resting places,” Robin said softly, sounding just like the tour guide she was.

“How wonderful,” Mom said, leaning both elbows on the thick parapet. “I want to read every miniature tombstone.”

“That’s a great idea,” I said. “I’ve got a meeting in that little chapel right over there.” I pointed to the small, ancient stone building just across the wide walkway.

“Oh, it’s as small as a dollhouse,” Mom said.

“Have fun,” said Dad.

I started to walk away, then turned to face my parents. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back here in ten minutes.”

“Okay, sweetie.”

“You don’t want them coming in the chapel?” Robin said.

“No way.” When I realized Robin had followed me across to the chapel, I turned and glared at her. “What are you doing? You need to stay with them.”

“I’m coming with you,” she said, her boots scuffing against the cobbled walkway. “They’ll be fine, while you, on the other hand, scare the shit out of me.”

St. Margaret’s Chapel, the most ancient of all the buildings on the castle grounds, was covered in rough stone that masked the pristine jewel within. I remembered from my last visit that the chapel nave was minuscule, barely ten feet across and maybe fifteen feet in length, with a deep, wide archway that separated the nave from the tiny vaulted altar area.

“Aren’t you going inside?” Robin asked.

“In a minute,” I said, scanning the castle grounds. “Where the hell are the police?”

From where we stood at the railing outside the door leading into the chapel, the view was spectacular. We could see the entire city and surrounding hills from this point at the top of the castle grounds. White clouds scudded across a sky so blue it might’ve been a Boucher painting.

“Wow, it’s beautiful up here,” she remarked.

A scream pierced the air.

I raced up the ramp, yanked the chapel door open and stepped inside.

“Helen?” I called.

“In here!” she cried. She had to be behind the wide arch. There was nowhere else to hide in here. The place was literally the size of a kid’s playhouse.

I hesitated inside the nave. If this was a trap, I didn’t want to be caught without an escape route. “Helen, the police are on their way.”

“Fuck that!” a man yelled. “Get over here or she’s going to die.”

“Martin?”

I wasn’t surprised. I’d never really believed that fake apology of his. What a snake.

“Move it!” he shouted.

I looked at Robin, who shook her head madly. “Don’t.”

“What else can I do?” I whispered.

“Who’s there with you?” he shouted.

“No one,” I said. “I talk to myself when I’m nervous.”

“She’s lying,” a chirpy voice sang out from behind us.

Serena stood a few feet away, pointing a gun at us.

“Serena?”

“Surprise,” she said.

Serena and Martin, accomplices? Curiouser and curiouser.

“Move it.” She jerked the gun toward the altar, and we took that as a sign to get moving.

Robin grabbed my arm and we approached the altar, which was separated from the nave by a velvet rope extended across the archway. The small altar area was painted white and the ceiling was low and vaulted. I felt as if I were walking inside an igloo. Stained-glass windows illuminated the space, throwing blue and green shards of color across the stone floor. A font of holy water was suspended on the far wall, and covering the altar were layers of elegantly braided and embroidered blue, gold and white silk runners.

A body was sprawled under the altar.

“Royce?” I said.

Robin whispered, “Is he dead?”

“Not yet,” Martin said menacingly. “But the day’s not over yet. Now shut up and come over here where I can see you.”

I unhooked the velvet rope and peeked around the arch. Martin had one arm around Helen’s neck in a choke hold and was pressing a knife to her throat with his other hand.

“Martin, what are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m pouring tea, you stupid bitch. What do you think I’m doing?”

“I thought you loved Helen,” I said. “Why are you hurting her?”

Helen squirmed and he struggled to adjust his grip. “This seems to be the only way to get my darling wife to cooperate.”

“Really?” I said. “Because that technique never works for me.”

“That’s because you’re a bitch whore.”

“Well, that explains it,” Robin whispered.

I turned to glower at her but met Serena’s gaze instead. She didn’t look so willowy and wrung-out now. She looked skinny and mean and surly.

“Helen’s not like you,” Martin said with a sneer, and tightened his hold. Helen began to gag and he let up slightly. “She can be taught to obey.”

“Of course she can,” I said, watching Helen, who stared back at me with wide eyes. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and I knew she was scared to death. So was I. But to get us out of here, I was going to have to placate a psycho. Been there, done that. Hoped I’d learned something.

“She just needs to remember who’s in charge,” he said, emphasizing each word by jerking his arm against Helen’s throat. “Am I right, Helen? There won’t be any more talk of divorce, will there, Helen?”

Helen’s eyes goggled.

“Stop,” I said frantically. “Threatening her with a knife is not what love’s all about.”

“Shut up,” he said. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know Helen still loves you,” I said, pushing the truth, but desperate to make him reconsider his actions. “She, um, told me. And you told me you loved her, too.”

He swallowed, then shook his head and grumbled, “I said shut up.”

“Okay.”

He didn’t seem to know what to do next. Helen looked utterly terrified.

“So you killed Kyle,” I said slowly, since I wasn’t ready to shut up entirely.

“Yeah,” he snarled. “And good riddance.”

“Why?”

He stretched his neck and shoulders. “He thought he could fuck around with my wife. I warned him to stop, but he just laughed at me.”

“You warned him?”

Helen’s eyes met mine and I knew she was hearing this for the first time, her own husband verifying that he had killed her lover.

“Yeah, and he wouldn’t stop.” Martin waved his knife defensively as he spoke. “Said she was filing for divorce so she’d be free to go with him. Wrong!”

“What did you do, Martin?”

His chuckle was raw and evil. “It was so friggin’ easy. What a posh ass. I got him into that room as easily as I got you to come here.”

“You called his cell while we were at the pub,” I said. “You told him you had Helen.”

He laughed smugly. “Yes, and he came running, didn’t he?”

Robin edged closer to me, obviously as creeped out by him as I was.

“So he must’ve loved Helen very much to go with you,” I reasoned.

“No! He didn’t love her. I love her, and no one else can have her.”

I watched as Helen absorbed the words. Her face crumpled as she began to cry, began to realize that maybe Kyle had loved her, after all. I couldn’t say that he had or hadn’t, but if it helped in the moment to ease some of her pain, then it was worth it to say that yes, he’d loved her.

But oh, God, Angus MacLeod was right: Kyle’s murder wasn’t about a book at all. It was about Martin being insanely jealous of his wife’s relationship with Kyle McVee. Martin had killed the man to get his wife back. I’d always known Martin was emotionally abusive, but I’d never really suspected he could be a killer.

My mistake.

I glanced behind me, considering the possibility of distracting Serena and grabbing Martin’s knife. I turned back and focused on the knife and Martin. That was when I realized he was holding
my
knife. My French paring knife with its two-inch-wide, flat, square blade. I’d sharpened it finely enough to split a hair, so even if he barely grazed her, he would draw blood.

I had to breathe, had to center my thoughts. Unfortunately, they were racing around in circles. “Why me, Martin? Why did you use my tools?”

“I saw you with him,” he said, his eyes like lasers honing in on me. “On the street. I was following him, trying to trap him, and I saw him grab you. You kissed him. I knew you were a whore bitch.”

Okay, that was getting old. Martin was undoubtedly insane. The signs might’ve been there all along, but I’d never seen them.

“He hates you,” Serena explained.

“I get that,” I muttered.

“He’s not exactly speaking in code,” Robin said, a smart-ass to the end.

“You shut up,” Serena warned Robin. To me, she said smugly, “It was my idea to steal your tools. Martin wanted to make you pay somehow. He’s always hated you, from the time he first met you in Lyon. You were so full of yourself. You tried to talk Helen out of marrying Martin. McVee tried to do the same thing, right, Martin? When you were all in Lyon, right? Seems he wanted Helen for himself, even back then.”

Martin pressed his lips into a thin line, so Serena kept talking. “McVee acted like nothing was going on between him and Helen, even pretending friendship, offering to buy Martin a drink on occasion. He tried that a few nights ago when they first arrived. That was the last straw, wasn’t it, Martin?”

Martin leaned against the vaulted wall, dragging Helen with him. Was he growing tired of all the talk? If he reached the end of his rope, would he let Helen go or would he kill her?

“How’d you get into my room to steal my tools?” I asked, not only to stall for time but because I needed to know.

Serena snorted a laugh, then chirped, “Housekeeping.”

“You,” I said, as realization dawned. “You were that hotel maid. The first day I was here.”

“The girls prefer you call them housekeepers,” she said acerbically.

Whatever. “Yeah, sorry.”

“No wonder I could never get any towels,” Robin murmured. She was acting cool, but her eyes darted back and forth between Serena and me. She wore an expression of both worry and revulsion with some impatience mixed in. Not a good combination.

Maybe I should’ve stopped asking questions, but I had to keep them both talking. “So I guess this means you’re not Mrs. Kyle McVee.”

Serena wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Me and that pansy toffer? Fat chance.”

If she thought Kyle was rich and snooty, how in the world did she put up with Martin?

“So what does that make you and Martin?” I asked.

She grinned at Martin with affection, but he didn’t seem to be paying attention. “He’s my baby bro.”

Her brother? I looked from one to the other. Why hadn’t I seen the resemblance? Both tall, both thin, the wispy blond hair and pale blue eyes, same shape of the head. “I see it now. But Helen never met you before?”

“No, Martin was busy playing the toff, weren’t you, bro? Didn’t want his big sis coming around.” She continued to keep a vigilant eye on her brother, but her gaze had narrowed a bit. “But baby bro ran into a little trouble up here.” She shrugged. “So who ya gonna call?”

“Big sister,” I said.

“Bingo,” she said, waving the gun at me. “I hopped the train and got here in two hours. I’ve been here all week. Had plenty of time to play housekeeper. That’s how I got those love letters inside Kyle’s room.”

“Love letters?” I asked.

She relaxed her grip on the gun and exhaled heavily, perhaps annoyed that I was so dense. “I suppose you’d call them poison-pen letters. Just wanted to pull his chain a bit, you know.”

Kyle’s poison-pen letters. I’d forgotten about them until now.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Robin whispered under her breath. “They’re both nuts.”

Luckily, only I heard her and I squeezed her arm in commiseration. Serena saw the move and aimed the gun back at me.

“I thought people in England didn’t use guns,” I said.

Serena’s laugh was harsh. “You haven’t been in my neighborhood, have you?”

Mentioning her neighborhood reminded me of something that had bothered me from the very beginning. “How do you know Minka?”

Serena chuckled malevolently. “I needed a shill. She was in the right place at the right time and bought my sad-widow story, hook, line and sinker.”

“Figures,” I said.

“She has a good heart but not many brain cells,” she added.

Out of the mouths of criminals.

“So, you’re from a bad neighborhood?”

“It was all right,” she said, and tossed her hair in a defensive gesture.

“It’s just that I always thought Martin was wealthy.” She snorted a laugh. “There’s a good one, eh, Martin?”

“But he owns a bookstore.”

She winked. “He’s a clerk. But the owners trust him, let him take care of the business. He wormed his way into their hearts, didn’t you, darling?” She smiled widely. “No, he’s not the toffer, but he knew how to look the part well enough to snag himself a rich bride. And our Helen’s just the girl. Lets him take care of the finances, don’t you, dear? We don’t want to lose her, now, do we?”

She winked and I stared warily at Helen. She looked more than terrified now. She looked furious.

Serena continued to talk, but Martin was the one I watched. He hadn’t loosened his grasp on Helen, whose eyes were completely focused on him. What was she thinking? Was she looking for the right moment to attack him somehow? She had nothing to lose. Martin seemed more than willing to kill her.

“Taking your tools was a piece of cake,” Serena went on. “Martin told me he’s always stealing things at these book fairs because people don’t pay attention.”

“That’s enough, Rena,” Martin said abruptly. “Just shut up and kill them.”

“Me? What about-”

“Now!”

“In a church?” she said, taken aback. “And go to hell?”

Serena had standards all of a sudden?

“Do it!” he shouted.

“Wait,” I cried, frantically stalling for time. “You… you cut our brake line. Um, how did you know we were going for a drive?”

“What?” He stared at me. He seemed to be losing focus. Maybe he was starting to realize the trouble he was in. Or maybe he was just nuts, as Robin had said.

“Are you okay, Martin?” I asked.

“He’s fine,” Serena said heatedly.

I turned to her. “He seems kind of spaced-out.”

“He gets tired. He’s not been well, worrying about things.” Then she flipped her hair back in a contemptuous move. “Besides, what do you care, anyway?”

True. I didn’t care about him at all, except that he was a murderer and was holding Helen at knifepoint.
My knifepoint.

Martin shook his head like a wet dog, coming out of whatever daze he’d been in. “Everybody heard you,” he snapped.

I looked at him. “Heard me what?”

“You and your people, making plans to go to Rosslyn Chapel the other night.”

Oh, great. He’d overheard that freaky conversation with Mom and Dad outside the hotel pub, before they went off to do the conga. “So you cut the brakes in Robin’s car yesterday morning.”

“Yeah,” he said.

“I guess it was quite a shock when you found out Helen was in the car, too.”

“I blame you for that,” he said, glaring at me. “She could’ve been killed.”

Yeah, duh. “What happened to Perry?”

He frowned. “Perry saw me coming out of the auto garage, and later, when word got out that you’d crashed, he tried to blackmail me.”

“Yeah,” Serena said offhandedly. “He had to go.”

“So you killed him,” I said flatly.

“We did it together,” Serena said, beaming. The family that kills together. Jeez.

“A shame,” Martin said. “I always liked Perry.”

He would.

“And you broke into my room last night. Why?”

He looked puzzled. “You’re mad.”

Now I was the puzzled one. “Are you saying you didn’t break into my room last night?”

“Hell, no,” he insisted, then looked at Helen. “I wasn’t in her room, I swear.”

The fact that Helen obviously couldn’t care less didn’t faze Martin, but I believed him. But if it wasn’t Martin, then who broke in? Whom did Gabriel chase away from my room last night?

I had another realization. “You followed me to the National Library.”

Martin chuckled. “Now, that was fun. That shelf fell like a big tree, and you never even saw me.”