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.”
“Jackass,” I said under my breath.
“I heard that,” Robin whispered. “We need to get out of here.”
“I know.”
Without warning, Helen said, “Kyle was a wonderful lover.”
“Uh-oh,” Robin murmured.
“What?” Serena said in disbelief.
“Shut up!” Martin said, shaking his wife.
“Jesus Christ, Helen,” Serena cried. “What kind of stupid cow are you?”
“Don’t call her a cow!” Martin shouted.
“Easy, bro,” Serena said, holding up both hands in acquiescence.
Robin swore under her breath. I had to agree; this was not going to end well. And where the hell was everybody? The police? The tourists? Was everyone off having tea or something? Had Serena locked the door behind her?
“You killed the only man I ever loved,” Helen said, her voice strained and halting.
“I told you to shut up!” Martin roared.
“And I’ll never do what you say,” Helen said flatly.
Serena stared in disbelief at her sister-in-law, and I couldn’t blame her. What was Helen thinking by taunting Martin? On the other hand, what did she have to lose?
Martin flexed his arm, putting more pressure on Helen’s throat. It must’ve been the last straw, because she bent, then swung her leg and kicked him in the shin.
Martin grunted. “What’re you-”
She kicked him again.
“Stop provoking him.” Serena moved closer, clearly sensing trouble.
The kick didn’t disarm Martin, but it distracted Serena long enough for me to grab the only thing within reach: the four-foot-high wrought-iron candle stand. I whipped it like a light saber at Serena’s stomach and her gun went flying.
I heard the chapel door bang open then. “Yoo-hoo!”
“It’s Mom!” I shouted at Robin. “Don’t let her come in here!”
Robin took off. I went scrambling for the gun and so did Martin, relaxing his grip on Helen, who sprang loose and went after the only target available: Serena. Robin jumped on her back and started pounding the hell out of her.
“Go, Helen!” Mom shouted from the back of the nave.
“Get off me, you bitch!” Serena bucked, but Helen was too pissed off to care.
Martin yanked the gun out of reach, but I managed to scrape his arm with my nails. The gash drew blood and he swore ripely as it dripped onto his beige linen jacket.
“Shit,” he cried. “You bitch!”
“Payback always is,” I said, and backhanded him across the chin. Man, that hurt.
His head jerked back just as heavy footsteps pounded across the nave floor. Martin paid no attention, just shook off my attack and fought to aim the gun back at me. “I’ll kill you, bitch.”
“I don’t think so,” Derek said as he dived on top of Martin.
“Oomph.” Martin’s hand released the gun and it skittered away.
I managed to roll out of Derek’s way, then scrabbled to my knees and claimed the gun. I wasn’t entirely sure whom to point it at, so I held it up as if it were a trophy. Which it sort of was, I guess.
Derek jumped to a standing position, then shoved one foot onto Martin’s back, forcing him to stay prone on the floor until a constable scurried in and handcuffed him.
Derek’s eyes were dark with concern as he lifted me up, took the gun from my hand and pulled me close.
“Where the hell have you been?” I asked as I buried my face in his soft leather jacket.
“Just trying to quell an international incident,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around me. “Sorry I was late.”
I sagged against him, craving the warm strength he radiated. “Late? No, you were right on time.”
“And the grand-prize winner of the Lawton-McNamara Bookbinding Prize is… Brooklyn Wainwright!”
As I walked up the aisle to the wide stage, I was vaguely aware of the announcer describing my work. A giant screen played a short video I’d shot of my gilding process. I think I made a speech, but mere minutes later, back in my chair and surrounded by the crowd of over two thousand of my peers, I had almost no memory of what I’d said.
But I had a gleaming Baccarat crystal plaque with my name on it to remind me that I’d won.
Later, during the champagne reception that followed, I savored the rush of hugs from family and friends, the joy of my work being recognized, and the admittedly shallow but nonetheless thrilling shock of victory. I was pretty sure I’d never forget it as long as I lived.
The sight of my parents dressed in matching tartans almost brought tears to my eyes. It was safe to say that the one thing they would never be called was subtle.