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.
“Mom! Not helpful.”
She pointed to the middle of her forehead, to her third eye. “Justice is blind and the truth hurts, Pumpkin.”
Huh? I caught Derek grinning and I glared at him.
“Okay.” I waved my hands in defeat. “I just didn’t think it would be that big a deal. I mean, the Scots aren’t all that enamored of the British monarchy, are they?”
“To most Scots,” MacLeod surmised, “it would be more of a killing offense to besmirch the memory of the beloved poet Rabbie Burns than the English monarchy.”
“I know, right?” I said, grinning, but the grin was not returned and I groaned inwardly. It would help if I remembered whom I was talking to, namely, a cop who might want to drag me off to jail. Nice.
With some reluctance, I said, “Okay, I suppose I might’ve gotten an eensy bit too close to the real story, and that must’ve upset Perry.”
“You think so?”
I exhaled resignedly. “Okay, it definitely maybe did.”
He tipped his head, accepting my answer, however much I’d tried to obfuscate it.
“But,” I added quickly, “the only reason I mentioned the Burns book in the workshop was that it was a perfect example of a story that could be exploited in order to raise the price of the book.”
Dad gave me two thumbs-up, as though I’d made a wickedly smart move in a game of checkers. Dad’s standards were overly generous where his kids were concerned.
“Yes, so you’ve said,” MacLeod said.
“Well, it’s true.”
“That’s all well and good for the purposes of your presentation,” MacLeod said philosophically, shutting his notebook and sitting back in his chair. “But who’s to say your words didn’t inflame a killer? You might want to consider that, and perhaps think before you speak next time.”
I bristled at first, hearing only his insult-which was so unfair. I often thought before I spoke. Then a chill speared my shoulder blades at the thought that at this very minute, Kyle’s killer might be roaming the book fair, looking for me.
It took another beat before the meaning behind his words hit me. He thought the killer was still out there. “Wait. Does this mean I’m no longer a suspect?”
“No.” He shoved his notebook in his pocket and handed me the Burns.
“Uh, no, I’m no longer a suspect?” I asked hesitantly. “Or no, I’m still a suspect?”
He smiled indulgently. “You own the murder weapon and you have no alibi, Miss Wainwright. What do you think?”
My shoulders slumped. “Right.”
“You’re free to go for now,” he said, then stood and held out his hand to help me up. “But don’t leave town.”