I felt strangely disappointed by his upstanding British accent. Weird. But I also had a feeling he’d stand guard on the fire escape himself, if he had to.
I thanked him for his trouble, then asked, “What’s your name?”
“It’s Gregory,” he said, with just a touch of a lilt in his voice. It sounded like gray-gree. He was so cute.
Meanwhile, I was stuck with my same room off the fire escape.
I thought briefly about changing hotels, but that would take me away from my friends and colleagues and the book fair ambience. If the hotel management was serious about fixing my windows and stepping up security, that would have to be good enough. But I’d be sleeping with one eye open from now on.
As I crossed the lobby, I saw a signboard announcing that all book fair activities had been canceled this morning. A memorial service for Kyle McVee would be held at noon in the Triton Room on the conference level.
I still didn’t see Helen anywhere in the lobby area. I waited a few more minutes, then took a chance and wandered into the restaurant. The room was a massive, open atrium with a ceiling as high as the hotel itself. There were at least seventy or eighty tables and an enormous breakfast buffet spread along one wall. The room was loud and lively with chatter this morning. Pale yellow walls and floor-to-ceiling windows added to the cheery brightness. Staring at the buffet, I realized I was famished. I walked past rows and rows of people eating and talking, searching for Helen, hoping maybe she’d found a table and was waiting for me.
I stopped when I spied her at the far end of the room, sitting in a comfy booth, snuggled up with someone. And by snuggled up, I mean they were hugging each other as though the world were about to end. Perhaps in Helen’s case, that was true.
Except that the guy hugging her was Martin, her ex-husband. I was a few steps away when he opened his eyes and saw me. He huffed in exasperation as he let go of her.
This was going to be awkward.
“What is it?” Helen asked him, then followed his gaze and smiled when she saw me.
I waved weakly.
“ Brooklyn, hi!” she said, sliding over in the booth and patting the seat. “I’m so glad you’re here. Join us, please.”
Join us? Oh, no. Her tone bordered on anxious, but I had to be strong. Life was too short to spend a minute of quality time with Martin Warrington.
And Martin wasn’t budging.
“Um, I’m sorry, Helen, but I can’t,” I said. “I was just trying to find you to let you know that I got a call from a client who wants to meet this morning at the, um, the Balmoral. He’s a client; did I say that? Anyway, I didn’t realize he was coming in today, but then he called and I really should. Um, go. I should go. And, well, I’m sorry.”
I needed to learn when to shut up.
I glanced at Martin, whose lips thinned in his version of a satisfied smile. He knew I was lying. Everyone knew I was lying. I was the world’s worst liar.
Helen, on the other hand, looked simply crestfallen. “Are you sure?”
I felt like a horrible friend, but Martin’s slithery smile cinched it.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” I said softly. “Maybe we can do lunch?”
That earned me an exaggerated eye roll from Martin.
“What?” I asked him, my irritation rising. I couldn’t help it. He scraped my last nerve raw.
“I didn’t say anything,” he said, and gave Helen a look of injured innocence. Didn’t I say he was a jackass? I hated that I’d even acknowledged him. And I hated it more that Helen was too nice to tell him to leave.
“Yes, I’ll have lunch with you,” Helen said, which earned her another eye roll from Martin.
Ignoring him, I looked at my watch. “I’ve got to run. I’ll call your cell later.”
I took off at a fast walk. I couldn’t help but detest the man. And despite the fact that they’d just been hugging, I knew Helen didn’t want to be alone with him. On the other hand, she’d been married to the man, so I supposed she still might’ve had feelings for him. Didn’t mean I had to share those same feelings.
On my way out of the restaurant I was forced to walk past the enormous buffet. I could handle the scrambled eggs and sausage, the grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, even the eggs Benedict. But when I got to the gorgeous display of French toast and caught the aroma of warm maple syrup wafting up from the table, my knees almost collapsed from under me.
I reluctantly passed the coffee station, too, even though I needed caffeine like I needed my next breath. How unfair was it that I couldn’t stay and eat? Damn Martin for ruining my breakfast. And Helen’s, too, poor girl.
I pouted all the way out of the restaurant and across the lobby. Now what? Room service sounded depressing and slow. I could always walk a half block up to the Royal Mile and go to Starbucks, but talk about depressing. Travel ten thousand miles and eat at a Starbucks? Just shoot me. I was certain that the next astronauts to land on the moon would find a Starbucks there.
I stood outside by the valet station and wondered which way to go. I knew there were other hotels in the area where I could get breakfast. I flipped a mental coin and headed east. A short block away, I found the Monarch Hotel and ventured inside. The lobby was elegant in a slightly shabby, old-world sort of way, much like an elderly woman who still wore her 1950s-era Chanel suit to entertain her luncheon guests, but her lipstick was a bit smeared and her hair was thinning.
I took the elevator up to the cozy rooftop restaurant. The hostess led me to a small table by a wide bay window, and as I sat down, a waitress hurried over with a pot of coffee. As she poured, I thanked her profusely, pitifully grateful for the caffeine. Then she took my order for French toast, a side of bacon and a glass of orange juice and scurried away. Things were looking up.
As I waited for breakfast to arrive, I pulled out my notebook to study my workshop presentation. But instead of practicing my workshop spiel, I found myself thinking about Kyle. Or more precisely, his killer.
I flipped to a blank page, where I began to list all the possible murder suspects I could come up with. It was silly, really. Derek was right: I should’ve learned my lesson in San Francisco last month. I had no business sticking my nose in an ongoing police investigation. But I couldn’t help myself. It wasn’t just about Kyle. Someone had gone to a whole lot of trouble to frame me, so the way I saw it, I was already involved.
And judging from Detective Inspector MacLeod’s warning last night, it didn’t seem as though the police needed anyone besides me on their suspect list. Ipso fatso, I had no choice but to do their job for them. That was my story, anyway.
The problem was, I could come up with only a few names-and mine wasn’t one of them. I knew I wasn’t the killer. And I knew Helen wasn’t the killer, either, but I put her name on the list anyway. She was possibly the least likely murder suspect I’d ever met, but she’d insisted that Kyle was going to marry her, so what if he’d turned her down or pissed her off? Who knew how she might’ve handled it? A woman scorned and all that.
What if Helen had seen Kyle greeting me on the street with a big hug and a kiss? She might’ve been following him. If she’d been spurned and was jealous and obsessed, seeing me in Kyle’s arms would give her plenty of motivation to implicate me in Kyle’s death.
I fiddled with my pen as I stared at Helen’s name, then crossed her name off the list. It was ridiculous to think she could be a cold-blooded killer. I was better off suspecting that asinine husband of hers, Martin. Now, there was a logical murder suspect if I’d ever met one-and I had.
I wrote his name down, just because it felt good. And because he had the oldest motive in the world for killing Kyle: jealousy, pure and simple.