"If Books Could Kill" - читать интересную книгу автора (Carlisle Kate)

Chapter 2

“That’s not one bit funny.”

“Tell me about it,” Kyle muttered.

I rubbed his arm consolingly, hoping to get him to spill the whole story. Kyle had a tendency to dole out information in bits and pieces, as control freaks often did. I could relate. “What happened?”

He breathed in deeply, as though the extra air might give him courage. “I was crossing the street in front of the hotel. There was no traffic, and suddenly this car gunned its engine and aimed straight for me. I barely made it back to the sidewalk when the driver veered the car right at me. I knew I was a dead man. But then he swerved back and took off.”

“I don’t suppose you could see who was driving.”

“No.” Frustrated, he raked his hand through his hair.

“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?

Back at the hotel, I went straight to the front desk and asked for a safe-deposit box. Once Kyle’s book was safely tucked away and I had the key zipped securely inside my purse, it was time to head for my room. I was beyond tired and starting to see double as I crossed the lobby and turned down the wide hall to the bank of elevators.

“Oh, no, they’ll let any piece of trash in here these days.”

I recognized that shrill, grating voice. Heat flared up my neck like a bad rash, and my stomach twisted in a knot as I turned.

“Minka,” I said through clenched teeth.

Minka LaBoeuf, my archenemy and worst nightmare, approached me slowly, her hips gyrating alluringly-if you were a water buffalo. I grew concerned for the fragile antique furniture nearby. One wayward thrust of those hips could destroy any one of the elegant Georgian side tables that lined the wide hall.

Back in college she’d tried to incapacitate me by stabbing my hand with a skiving knife. She’d been a pain in my ass ever since.

Of all the hotels in all the world, she had to walk into mine.

“What are you doing here?” I asked before I could stop myself.

“Working,” she said proudly. Her leopard-skin spandex top emphasized her hefty breasts along with several rolls of stomach fat. “For one of the most brilliant men in Scotland.”

“A pimp?”

“Do you see me laughing?” she asked frostily. “You’re not funny.”

“You’ve never had a sense of humor,” I said, pounding the button to hurry the elevator along.

“Perry McDougall is the top expert in Regency and Georgian-”

“Wait, you’re working for Perry McDougall?”

“Yes,” she said smugly, apparently mistaking my horror for admiration. “He specifically requested me to be his assistant this week.”

I was speechless. Knowing Perry actually thought this Goth twit was capable of even a smidge of competence in the workplace lowered my estimation of Perry even further, if that was possible.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she said.

“Wowie?”

She smiled tightly. “You’re just jealous.”

“Better not screw up,” I said. “I’ve heard that Perry stuffs incompetent assistants into his haggis and eats them for breakfast.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“I’m just telling you what I heard.” The elevator doors opened and I gratefully walked inside alone.

“I’m warning you right now,” she said, slapping her hand against the side of the door to keep it from closing. “Stay out of my way.”

I held up both hands in surrender. “I’m trying, but you can’t seem to let me go.”

“Bitch,” she said viciously.

“Ouch,” I said as the doors closed. I couldn’t believe I’d run into her before I’d had time to recover from jet lag. I sagged against the wall as the lift climbed to the third floor-second floor, to those in the UK -and dropped me off.

I’d requested the lowest floor available for two reasons. First, I could always take the stairs if the lifts were too busy, as they invariably were during a crowded event like the book festival. And second, living in San Francisco had given me a healthy respect for earthquakes. The last one I went through wasn’t even that powerful, but my sixth-floor loft apartment had felt like it would topple over if the rumbling and shaking had lasted much longer. I had no idea when the last earthquake had hit Scotland, if ever, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

A housekeeping cart was set up next door to my room and a young blond maid in uniform was knocking on the door.

“Housekeeping,” she announced in a chirpy, high-pitched accent.

I was thankful she was turned away from me, because she seemed like the friendly sort and I was no longer capable of making small talk. I opened the door to my room, slipped the Do Not Disturb sign to the outside of the door, then shuffled inside, kicked off my shoes, set the alarm and was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

Four hours later, the alarm woke me up. I was disoriented and groggy but I knew I needed to get up right then or I’d sleep for another twenty-four hours. I hated jet lag, and the beers hadn’t helped my cause, but if I had it to do over again, I would’ve imbibed anyway.

I turned the spigot in the shower and was shocked to see a healthy stream of water pour down. I’d been steeling myself for the usual dribs and drabs of British showers, but now I hopped in and almost sighed with pleasure. The warm water felt wonderful, and, unbidden, the events of much earlier that day flashed through my mind.

I’d boarded the plane in San Francisco and taken my seat in first class. I’d never flown in the first-class section before, so I’d felt a little self-conscious. But now that I had some extra money, thanks to Abraham, I’d decided to live large and upgrade.

Settling into the wide leather seat, I’d pulled a magazine out of my bag and shoved the bag under the seat in front of me. The cheerful flight attendant asked me if I would like coffee, tea, juice or champagne, plus a croissant or muffin. I placed my order for coffee with cream and she brought it in a real cup and saucer. With real cream in a porcelain creamer.

Then she handed me a menu and asked me to select my breakfast, which would be served once we were in the air.

Okay, I’ll say it: First class is really nice. Besides all the amenities and great seats, the flight attendants are a lot perkier.

“Ah, you’ve beaten me to it, I see,” said a man with a British accent. I would’ve known that smooth voice anywhere.

Derek Stone? Here? On my plane? Impossible.

I looked up and stared into his gorgeous blue-eyed gaze. I had to stifle a ridiculously immature sigh.

“Don’t you look fresh and pretty?” he said. The simple words sounded unbelievably sexy when spoken in that debonair British accent of his. I’d managed to grow rather fond of that accent during Abraham’s murder investigation. Despite the fact that Derek had first accused me of the crime, he’d changed his tune and we’d become quite friendly by the time the killer’s identity was discovered.

“What in the hell are you doing here?” I said.

He grinned. “There’s that little ray of sunshine I’ve missed so much.”

I felt my cheeks redden. “Sorry, it’s still a little early and you’ve caught me by surprise.” To say the least.

“I know, so I forgive you your pique.”

“Thank you, I think.”

“You’re welcome.” He threw his coat over the seat, then opened his briefcase. “Won’t we have a lovely flight together.”

“You’re sitting here?”

“I most certainly am,” he said with an amused smile. He pulled a newspaper out of the briefcase, then stowed the case and his coat in the overhead luggage compartment and sat down next to me.

The flight attendant hurried over and Derek ordered coffee, which she brought immediately.

I continued to stare stupidly at him. Despite the aroma of freshly roasted coffee, it was Derek’s scent that permeated my brain. I imagined a rain-washed forest mixed with spicy citrus and a hint of-oh, dear God-leather. Was I really going to have to fly halfway around the world with those smells assaulting me every time I inhaled? I wanted to bury my face in his soft wool sweater. He was the sexiest, most masculine creature I’d ever met. And the most annoying. What was wrong with me?

“Isn’t this cozy?” he said, grinning as though he could read my admittedly transparent mind.

“You could’ve warned me we’d be on the same flight.”

“And deny myself the pleasure of seeing your expression of stunned joy? Never.”

“I plan to sleep for the next eight hours or so.”

“Cozier and cozier,” he murmured.

A few minutes later, the flight attendant cleared away the coffee service and the plane pulled away from the gate. Derek grabbed my hand and held it securely as we taxied down the runway.

“I’m not a nervous flier,” I said.

He shifted closer so we were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, then gazed into my eyes. “I am.”

I shut off the shower and just as sternly shut off the memories. Grabbing a towel from the wonderfully warm towel rack, I dried off. I pulled a can of Pepsi from the minibar and popped it open, hoping the caffeine would help perk up my system. I blew my hair dry, put on some makeup and dressed for the chilly evening outdoors in warm tights, jeans, boots and my short down jacket.

I left my room and stepped into the empty lift to go downstairs. Despite much mental protesting, my recalcitrant mind dragged me back to earlier that day.

We landed at Heathrow and disembarked. Derek and I walked down the breezeway toward customs, holding hands. I was slightly disoriented from the flight but happy and laughing at his droll commentary. When we reached the long line, he wished me good luck at the book fair, then warmly kissed my cheek and said good-bye. A British citizen, he didn’t have to wait in the long passport section with us poor tourists. I waved as he walked away, then watched him stop, think for a moment and turn back.

“This is unacceptable,” he said as he came up close, tugged me even closer and kissed me for real. My brain shut down and my senses took over. All I could feel was heat, pressure, electricity. The kiss was hot, thorough, openmouthed. My heart stumbled in my chest as I dropped my bag and wrapped my arms around him.

I vaguely heard a passing woman whisper, “Oh, my.”

“Damn it, I’ll miss you,” Derek muttered, his forehead pressed against mine.

“Mm.” I was too stunned to say anything intelligible.

He gently ran his finger along my jaw, then chucked my chin. He grinned, kissed me once more, fast and hard and meticulously. Then he turned and left me for good. I watched him go, sighed a little, and picked up my bag and joined the line for customs, while he strolled down the European Union members’ ramp and out of the airport.

I emerged a mere twenty minutes later and headed for the next terminal to catch the shuttle flight to Edinburgh.

Imagine my surprise when I saw Derek still waiting curbside forty or so yards away. I smiled with delight and hurried over to him, just as a darkhaired woman jumped out of a shiny new silver Jaguar and rushed to hug him. Derek laughed as he grabbed her and kissed her, then tossed his bag in the Jaguar’s trunk. They chatted companionably as the woman opened the rear door to allow Derek to greet an adorable toddler who bore a striking resemblance to him. Derek then helped the woman into the car and jogged around to the driver’s side, jumped in and whisked his little family away.

The hotel elevator stopped and my memories jolted to a halt. The doors opened but I had to take a minute to breathe and settle myself. I refused to feel devastated by Derek’s betrayal, but I could go with livid. Or pissed off, or furious, not to mention being completely embarrassed and annoyed with myself.

Stepping out of the elevator, I managed a few steps but had to stop again. I leaned against the wall and tried to find my composure.

This was me, facing the well-established fact that I had lousy taste in men. My family was so right about that. Maybe I would just hire a matchmaker or some other third party to choose for me, since I was utterly incapable of making healthy choices. Or better yet, maybe I’d give up men altogether. Who needed this kind of grief?

Forcing a smile I didn’t feel, I walked to the lobby.

“ Brooklyn, here we are,” Helen cried out gaily from halfway across the large space. She was standing with four other women and I recognized one, Kimberly, a book history teacher we’d met in Lyon. We gave each other hugs as Helen introduced the others. Then the whole group walked out of the hotel and headed for the High Street. Another group of six was already waiting in front of St. Giles’ for the ghost tour to begin.

A lanky young man wearing a garishly striped wool scarf and matching skullcap introduced himself as Liam and announced that he would be our guide for the evening. He began with a bit of the condensed history of how Edinburgh was established and told us some cringeworthy facts about the place we’d be touring tonight, just a few hundred yards away down a narrow passageway between two tall buildings.

“Now gather close,” Liam said, his tone turning somber. “Take a good, long look at your friends and loved ones here with you tonight. Study their faces, for you may not see them ever again once we’ve stirred up the ghosts of Mary King’s Close.”

Everyone laughed and he scowled. “’Tisn’t a thing to scoff at. We’ve already had reports of a missing couple tonight.”

Lost to a pub, no doubt, I told myself. In good humor, we all descended the steep, narrow steps of Mary King’s Close. I shivered as we huddled around a narrow doorway while Liam fumbled for his keys. The thick wood door opened with an eerie screech and he led us into the bowels of an ancient building set against the slopes of the Old Town.

We walked single file down a dark, narrow hall, then through a low archway into a tiny room, maybe eight feet square. The only light came from Liam’s dim flashlight, and we gathered close around him. He held the light under his chin so that his face was distorted and the shadow of his head was projected onto the low ceiling above him.

It was an old trick but effective. A few women giggled as Liam explained that this small space was once home to a family of six. He waved his flashlight at the far wall, where a narrow counter held a small bucket and various dry goods, indicating the family’s kitchen area.

A female mannequin stood by the counter, dressed in what I assumed was typical servants’ clothing in seventeenth-century Scotland. A roughly hewn wooden baby’s cradle sat on the floor next to her feet.

I noticed one of the men in our group was too tall to stand upright, and I was beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic myself.

Liam turned and ducked his head to get through a small doorway that led down another passageway. As we followed, he told us that in 1645, after many years of people dumping raw human waste and sewage out the windows to trickle down the steep narrow stairways and collect in Nor’ Loch at the bottom of the Old Town, bubonic plague finally hit Edinburgh.

His voice was grave as he related grisly tales of wealthy homeowners above stairs bricking off the lower floors, trapping and suffocating the sickly servants below in an attempt to stop the plague’s spread.

“Thousands died throughout the city,” he said dolefully. “And ghosts still haunt the dark, cramped spaces, such as the one in which we stand tonight.”

I shuddered as I ducked my head to enter yet another oppressively dark, airless room. Here, pallets were laid on the straw-strewn floor to indicate the family’s cramped sleeping area. Two pint-sized mannequins dressed as children lay on the lumpy bedding. Liam explained that the pallets were pulled up during the day and the space became the family’s sitting room.

I heard something skitter across the floor and gasped.

“What was that?” a woman asked.

Somebody else whispered, “Shut up.”

I wrapped my arms around my middle in an effort to bring back some warmth. My hands were as cold as ice cubes.

Liam aimed his flashlight around the space and I could see a rickety rocking chair near the compact hearth. Sitting in the rocking chair was a dummy dressed like a woman, holding an infant in her arms while her husband lay sleeping near the hearth.

The smell of mildew filled the air, and I couldn’t understand how anyone had managed to live in that cramped little room. My feet stuck to the moldy straw on the floor as Liam explained that the straw was used to soak up the moisture that seeped from the walls and low ceiling.

Fabulous. I was beginning to feel trapped, and was wondering if I was courageous enough to make my way back out to the street by myself, when Helen screamed.

I jumped. The shrill sound echoed off the thick walls and reverberated in my ears.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, grabbing her arm.

But she couldn’t stop screaming, so I shook her. Then another woman screamed.

“What the hell is wrong?” I shouted, then followed the direction of Helen’s gaze. Liam’s flashlight beam rested on the mannequin lying in the straw by the hearth.

But it wasn’t a mannequin. I recognized the man’s elegant gray cashmere jacket and the sweep of dark hair.

It was Kyle McVee. His head lay in a puddle of dark liquid, and I had no doubt it was blood. He was dead.

I let out my own piercing scream. The flashlight went off and the room was plunged into blackness.