If Books Could Kill

I continued to chuckle, but Royce was no longer amused. Instead, he chewed his lip as his eyes narrowed. He looked as if he were contemplating murder. Not mine, I hoped.

“Look, Royce,” I said quickly, “I just meant that Helen and Serena’s becoming friends is odd because they both claimed to be Kyle’s… well, not really, but, you know… hmm.”

Oh, God, I needed an exit strategy.

“Oh, look, here’s my workshop,” I said brightly. “Guess I’ll see you later.”

“Indeed you will,” he murmured, and walked off.

The quietly observant Constable McKenzie watched Royce walk all the way back down the hall until he reached the escalator and disappeared. Then the good constable opened the door to the conference room and was kind enough to check around for dead bodies under the worktable, finally declaring the room dead-body-free. He said he’d wait outside and left me to arrange my supplies and tools for the class.

I made a conscious decision not to think about Royce McVee until the workshop was over.

The class filled up quickly and we went to work. I had to laugh at one point when an older woman named Millie glued her decorative cloth book cover to the worktable.

“Oopsie-daisy,” she said.

“No problem, Millie,” I said, prying open my supply case and pulling out an extra piece of Japanese cloth so klutzy Millie could start over.

Even with all the pieces precut and the instructions easy enough for a six-year-old to follow, there were always one or two people who just didn’t get it.

But most of them did.

“Ooh, it’s so pretty,” one woman said, smiling. She’d finished the project and was tying the small album together with the purple grosgrain ribbon I’d provided.

“Beautiful job, Maureen,” I said as I walked up and down along the tables, observing everyone’s work.

The long day and the strange appearances of a possible killer and Gabriel during the night started to catch up with me, and I had to keep myself from yawning more than once.

Finally, the two hours were up and the class began to file out with their treasures as a young woman waded through the wave of departing students. She approached and handed me a small envelope.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“You’re Ms. Wainwright?” she asked as she straightened the royal blue vest she wore as an official book fair volunteer. She was breathing heavily.

“Yes. Are you okay?”

“I just ran from the castle? Anyway, that’s for you?” She pointed to the small envelope she’d just handed me.

I absently noted her thi

I know who killed Kyle. Meet me at St. Margaret’s Chapel at 16:30. Be careful. Tell no one.

I shook the note at the volunteer. “Who gave this to you?”

She cowered at the demand in my voice. “Some lady up at the castle?”

“What did she look like?”

The volunteer screwed up her face as though I were an evil headmaster with a whip.

I took a deep breath and said calmly, “Can you describe her for me? It’s really important.”

“I don’t know?” she whined. “Oriental? Dark hair? Short? Nice jacket?”

Helen.

“Thanks very much.” I didn’t want to make her cry by pointing out that the politically correct term was Asian, not Oriental. She hurried off and I was left alone in the small conference room with Helen’s note and no clue what to do next.

I stared at the note.

I know who killed Kyle.

Had Helen called the police? Why would she take a chance and send a note about the killer to me?

Meet me at St. Margaret’s Chapel at 16:30.

I assumed that meant four thirty. Helen had been born and raised in California, which was one more reason we’d bonded during that summer in Austin, Texas, when we decided that earthquakes were easier to live with than hurricanes. But she’d spent the last few years living with Martin in London, so maybe she’d acclimated to the British method of using the twenty-four-hour clock. Maybe.

More than likely, though, the note was a hoax and not from Helen at all. Which meant Helen was in trouble.

Unless Helen had killed Kyle. No, I would never believe that. But if she’d sent the note, then someone close to her was the killer. Martin? Serena? A dozen other people? Oh, hell.

I checked my watch. My workshop had officially ended at three thirty so it was now three forty. It would take me twenty minutes to walk up to the castle and another ten or fifteen minutes to reach St. Margaret’s Chapel on the castle grounds. I figured I’d be perfectly safe in the middle of the afternoon at Edinburgh Castle, surrounded by hundreds of tourists, not to mention the Scottish Guard.

Besides, I wouldn’t be going alone. I wasn’t a complete idiot, despite my recent gaffe with Royce.

Royce.

Had he gone after Helen? But why? Why would he care if Helen and Kyle had been engaged? I could understand if he went after Serena. She stood to inherit Kyle’s portion of the business, but Helen?

And what did Helen have to do with the Robert Burns book? Had Royce killed Kyle to keep him from presenting the book to the world, and now realized he would have to kill Helen to keep it quiet? But wait, he already knew I had the book.

I was driving myself crazy and wasting time wondering about Royce. I needed to find Helen. But first, I needed to find the police.

I stuck the note in my jacket pocket and rushed through the room cleaning up, stuffing tools and leftover supplies into my bag. When I walked out of the conference room, the corridor was empty. I wondered briefly where Constable McKenzie was, but figured I’d run into him on my way upstairs.

As I hopped on the escalator, I pulled out my cell phone to call Derek, hoping to convince him to go with me to the castle. He would think I was nuts, I realized, after I’d left a detailed message on his voice mail. Once in the lobby, I found a house phone and dialed his suite. No answer there, either, so I left another message.

I gazed around the lobby, hoping to see Angus or one of his constables. The police had been omnipresent from the begi

As I hung up the phone, I heard someone call my name and turned.

It was Serena standing not more than four feet away from me. Had she been listening to my slightly hysterical message for Angus?

“Hi, Serena.”

“Hi, I thought that was you.”

“It’s me. Listen, I’ve got to get-”

She licked her lips nervously. “I was wondering if you’d seen Helen.”

“Not lately, why?”

She wrung her hands. “You’ll probably think I’m crazy, but I’m a bit worried.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I saw her awhile ago. She was arguing with Royce and he was yelling.”

“Arguing about what?”

“I don’t know, but then that other man pulled her away and started yelling at Royce.”

“What other man?”

“I think it’s her boyfriend or something?”

“Do you mean Martin? Her husband? Tall? Blond? Kind of ski

“That’s him. He’s her husband?” She looked embarrassed. “Ah.” She shook her head, gave me a look of befuddlement, then waved off her words with both hands. “In that case, I’m sure everything’s fine then. Well, he was mad and all, but as long as they’re married, it’s probably not-”

“Serena, what exactly did Martin do with Helen? And where’s Royce?”

She went back to wringing her hands. The woman really was a basket case. “I overheard Helen tell her husband that she needed to go to the castle, so they left together. But they didn’t look happy. In fact, he was practically dragging her out of here and she kept trying to pull away.” Her chirpy voice rose higher and higher. “I called to her and she looked at me in complete and utter terror. I didn’t know what to think. But if he’s her husband, well, then maybe it’s all right. Sometimes I worry too much. Maybe they were simply in a hurry to get somewhere. But then Royce ran after them. That was odd. But perhaps I misread the whole event. I tend to overdramatize things.”