“Mom, what are you doing here?”
“Came to see you, of course!” She hugged me again and her pretty blond ponytail bobbed with excitement. “Are you surprised?”
“Surprised?” That was an understatement. I’d been expecting Robin, but not in a million years had I expected to see my parents.
“Surprised and happy,” I said, glancing from my petite, perky mom to my friend Robin and my tall, thin, handsome dad. “Really happy.”
“Good to see you, Jim,” Derek said to my dad.
I watched in bewilderment as Dad vigorously shook Derek’s hand several different ways, ending with a fist bump. Derek seemed amused as he played along. Me, not so much. Oh, I was glad to see Mom and Dad, but things were just about to get interesting with Derek and-
“We wanted to surprise you!” Mom said. “We were packing for Paris when I got a message from Romlar X saying the northern lights are rocking right now.”
“A message?” I said, confused. “Romlar’s using e-mail now?”
“Oh, sweetie.” She patted my cheek as if I were a really sharp five-year-old. “Rom’s all telepathic, all the time.”
“I knew that.” Or did I? Romlar X was Mom’s astral guide. I thought he lived in another solar system. Who the hell knew how they communicated back and forth?
“We talked it over with Robson and he agreed this would be the best place to go for our anniversary trip,” Dad said, pushing his glasses up. “Especially when he heard we’d be surprising you.”
“Really?”
Mom nodded. “Robson said you could use a nice surprise or two.”
“He has no idea,” I murmured.
“Yes, he does,” Dad said, eyeing me with concern.
Robson Benedict was the leader of the Fellowship for Spiritual Enlightenment and Higher Artistic Consciousness, the commune where my parents had raised me and my five siblings. Guru Bob, as we called him, was the highly evolved being my parents called teacher, avatar and friend.
Years ago, along with several hundred followers, my folks had followed Guru Bob to the hills of Sonoma County, where they’d bought up several thousand acres of lush fields before the wine country craze drove prices into the stratosphere. A few years ago, our business-savvy commune had incorporated, and now our formerly humble hillside home was a thriving, sophisticated wine-country destination. We’d named our small town Dharma.
“So that’s when we contacted our favorite travel maven.” Mom reached over and squeezed Robin’s arm. “She was able to trade in our Paris reservations for a Scottish Highlands adventure quest.”
“A quest. How intriguing.” Over my mother’s shoulder, I saw Robin grinning like a loon.
“Robin is our spirit guide,” Mom said proudly. “So we’re off to Kilmartin tomorrow. There’s a harmonic energy circle outside of town that might finally prove the existence of the druidic triad.”
“Finally.” I smiled. Seriously, what else could I do?
“Fingers crossed,” she said with excitement. “Then we’ll go to Inverlochy to find the faerie hills. And there’s a yew tree in Fortingall that’s supposed to vibrate if your Vata dosha isn’t aligned. I thought your father could use a tune-up.”
I glanced at Dad. He shrugged, always happy to go along with Mom. Just like the rest of us.
“Lucky Dad,” I said.
“You bet,” he said.
“Is anyone else from Dharma joining you on the tour?” I asked them.
“Nope,” Robin said. “It was always just me and your folks. I told you I was bringing a whole tour group in order to throw you off the scent. Did it work? Are you really surprised?”
“I’m in utter shock,” I said.
“Good,” she said, grinning with satisfaction.
“And I wish I could go with you,” I said dolefully, wondering what Detective Inspector MacLeod would think if I up and ran off to the Highlands.
“Oh, we knew you’d be busy all week,” Mom said, patting my cheek. “We just hope we’ll get a chance to see our Pumpkin in action for a day or so! You don’t mind, do you?”
Pumpkin. That would be me. The nickname was the result of my unfortunate obsession with Thanksgiving dessert at an early age.
Honestly, just looking at Mom and Dad made me feel better. Let’s face it: So far, my time in Scotland hadn’t exactly been a vacation. So to see friendly faces? People who actually knew me and loved me and oh, yes, trusted me not to be a cold-blooded murderer? Priceless.
“Of course I don’t mind.” I gave her a fierce hug. “I’m thrilled you’re here.”
Dad tapped me on the shoulder. “How about some of that for your old man?”
I moved from Mom into Dad’s arms while Mom greeted Derek.
“Hello, Rebecca,” Derek said warmly.
Mom giggled as she gave him a big hug. Nobody in the world but Derek called my mother Rebecca, and it seemed to delight her. Mom and Derek had experienced a bonding moment last month when they’d found me in the clutches of a killer.
Dad held me at arm’s length, studied my face and asked, “How’s it going, kiddo?”
I smiled brightly. “Super.”
“Whoa, that doesn’t sound good,” Mom said immediately, her forehead wrinkling as her eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”
“What?” I frowned. “Nothing.”
She slapped her hand onto my forehead. “Do you have a fever?” She squinted at me. “Your third eye looks cloudy. Are you constipated?”
“Help,” I whimpered.
She tapped the top of my head. “How’s your crown chakra? Whistle for me, will you?”
I tried to whistle as Dad turned to Derek. “If there’s a disturbance in the force, Becky’ll find it.”
“Good to know,” Derek said.
“I’m fine, Mom.” I took hold of her hand, removed it from my head and squeezed it gently.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she muttered, turning to rummage through her purse. “I’ll need my stick.”
Her stick? I broke away from her to give Robin a friendly hug.
“Jimmy, did I pack my healing rod?” Mom asked as she piled the contents of her bag on a nearby chair.
“It was on the list,” Dad said.
“Why the hell didn’t you warn me?” I whispered in Robin’s ear. God knows I loved my parents, but a person really did need some preparation time before one of their visits.
“And miss this touching scene?” she said. “Not on your life.”
“I’ll kill you later.”
“You can try,” she said. “Cute boots, by the way.”
“Thanks. Oh, God, my parents are insane,” I moaned softly against her shoulder.
She laughed and hugged me tighter. “I love them.” Robin had practically grown up at my house and had known my family forever. My mom was as close to her as her own mother. Probably closer. She was yin to my yang, madcap Lucy to my down-to-earth Ethel. Since we’d grown up together in the commune, our shared memories were unique, to say the least. There was a bond between us that transcended space and time. If
I were in trouble anywhere in the world, Robin would know it.
She knew it now. “What’s going on?” she asked quietly.
“I’ll fill you in later.”
“Okay,” she said. “And I want to know where you got that jacket. It’s way très chic.”
“You think? Thanks.” I knew she would shriek when I told her I got it at Ross.
“ Brooklyn?” a timid voice piped up.
Oops. Helen. I’d forgotten all about her. I rushed over to the couch as she struggled to sit up. She still looked a little woozy.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Just completely embarrassed,” she said lightly as she tried to fluff her hair. “I’ll get over it. Is this your family?”
I made the introductions, then explained, “Helen had a little fainting spell a while ago.”
“Oh, you poor thing.” Mom sat down next to Helen and patted her back. “Can we get you some water?”
“No, I’ll be fine,” Helen said weakly. “It was just such a shock.”
“Of course it was,” Mom said sympathetically, although she had no idea what had happened. Or did she? Maybe Romlar X had told her.
“A friend was killed last night,” I explained, realizing they would all find out sooner or later anyway.
Mom glared right into my third eye. “I knew it.”
Trying to avoid her perceptive gaze, I continued. “Kyle was a good friend of mine and Helen’s. There was a memorial service a few minutes ago. It was difficult. Helen fainted.”
“Kyle?” Robin said. “Weren’t the two of you-”
I cut her off with a warning glance. “We found his body last night.”
Helen let out a tiny cry and Mom pulled her into her arms. “Of course you’re in pain,” she said, rocking her gently. “You lost a good friend.”
Tears sprang to my eyes and I was abruptly glad Mom was here. If anyone could deal with Helen’s grief, it was my mother. She was the queen of empathy. I wouldn’t be surprised to return home in a week and find that Helen had moved in. That was how good Mom was at this shoulder-to-cry-on thing.
“I’ll never believe it,” Helen whispered.
“What’s that, sweetie?” Mom asked Helen. But she was looking at me for the answer. Everyone turned to me.
I gave Robin another look of warning, then said, “Kyle and Helen were in love.”
“Oh,” Mom cried, wrapping Helen in another hug. “How awful for you.”
“But it turns out that Kyle was already married,” I continued. “His wife showed up at the memorial service.”
“That could get sticky,” Dad said.
Derek nodded in agreement but said nothing.
“It could all be a sham,” I said lamely. “Minka LaBoeuf was the one who announced the news. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was lying.”
“Minka?” Mom said. “Your chubby friend who made up those stories about you?”
“She is so not my friend,” I insisted. I didn’t correct the chubby part, so sue me. “But yes, she’s the one.”
Helen peeked up at me. “You have a real problem with her, don’t you?”
I gritted my teeth. “She’s a total psychopath.”
Helen nodded. “I always thought she was sort of odd.”
“Yes, that’s a good way to put it,” Mom said.
“You’re both being way too kind,” I said, rubbing my temple where Minka had managed to whack me upside the head, the chubby bitch.
I had to wonder why Minka would go to the trouble of making all this stuff up about Kyle and Serena if it wasn’t true. What did she have to gain, either way? And why would that meek woman, Serena, play along with her? Was she an actress? Minka was more than capable of deception, but the other woman had appeared genuinely distraught. I could only conclude that she really was Kyle’s wife. I still didn’t want to believe it, mainly because she didn’t look like she was a whole lot of fun. Kyle would’ve needed someone full of life and fun like him.
Wouldn’t he?
Oh, how would I know? I didn’t know him anymore.
And that hurt. I no longer had the right to judge what Kyle needed in a relationship. Obviously, he hadn’t needed me. If he had, he never would’ve cheated on me.
But had Kyle needed Helen? Had they planned to marry? Maybe Kyle had been trying to get a divorce from this Serena person. Helen seemed so sure of him and their shared love. But if he was married, how had she gotten that impression? She’d been genuinely shocked to hear he had a wife. Now wasn’t the time or place to ask Helen just how certain she was about Kyle’s feelings, but I’d find a time later to pursue the question.
Derek glanced at his watch, and I realized I’d been staring into space ever since Minka’s name was mentioned.
I shook myself out of my thoughts and turned to Robin. “What are your plans? I have to give a presentation in two hours and I need a little prep time. But I’ll be free around four.”
I explained that I was giving a seminar on book fraud and two bookbinding classes at the book fair this week.
“Can we sit in on your workshop this afternoon?” Mom asked.
I laughed. “You didn’t travel over six thousand miles to sit in a stuffy conference room with me, did you?”
“Of course we did,” she said with a grin.
“Suit yourself, but the subject matter’s pretty dry.”
“You’ll make it sing,” she predicted.
“Why don’t we blow this place for a while,” Dad said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Take a look around town. We’ll be back in time to see you in action.”
“Great idea,” I said. I could tell he was antsy. Dad thrived in the outdoors. He loved working in the vineyards back home, any time of year. Raised to join the corporate banking world of his wealthy father, Dad had rebelled and gone off to follow the Grateful Dead. Then, thanks to the Fellowship, he’d morphed again into a happy, successful farmer. He would have a grand time tramping through the Highlands.
“Helen, do you want to come with us?” Mom asked gently. “Some fresh air might do you good.”
“I’d love to,” Helen said excitedly, then grimaced and looked at me. “But we’re having lunch.”
I laughed. “We can always catch up later. Mom’s right about the fresh air.”
Relieved, she turned to Mom. “I’d love to go with you. Thanks so much.”
Mom had worked her magic again. Maybe she truly did have an enchanted stick somewhere in her purse. If she did, I guess I could’ve used a shot at it myself. On second thought, I was going to let that go.
“I must run off to a meeting now, but I’d like to take you all to dinner tonight,” Derek said out of the blue.
“Really?” I said, pleased by his offer.
“Yes, really,” he said, aiming an intimate smile at me. Was I blushing?
“Oh, Derek!” Mom said after a quick exchange of looks with Dad. “We’d love that.”
“But we’ll take you,” Dad said, getting an early start on the manly tradition of fighting over the bill.
“No, you’re in my territory and I insist,” Derek said with a firm smile. “You’ll be my guests.”
Dad knew when to capitulate. “That’s very generous. Thanks, Derek.”
Helen started to stand and Mom helped her up.
“Thank you,” Helen whispered. “I hate feeling so weak.”
Mom tucked Helen’s arm through hers. “You should try to get your ojas replenished while you’re here. I understand there’s an excellent panchakarma clinic in the Grassmarket.”
Helen raised an eyebrow in my direction and I stepped in to translate for Mom.
“Ojas,” I said. “It’s Sanskrit. Basically, it’s the body’s essential energy, or fluid of life, both physical and spiritual. So this panchakarma clinic will clean you out physically and set you right spiritually through enemas, some therapeutic purging and bloodletting. The usual stuff.”
Her eyes widened.
“Don’t frighten her,” Mom admonished.
“Me? I’m not the one who-Never mind,” I said when Mom gave me the raised-eyebrow look.
She patted Helen’s arm. “When you get to be my age, you’ll find out it’s better to relieve psychic cramping than live with it.”
“Hear, hear,” Dad chimed.
The door opened. “I hate to interrupt.”
I turned to see the burly presence of Detective Inspector Angus MacLeod standing in the doorway. Oh, great. Was I about to be arrested in front of my family and friends? What would my mother do if that happened? Would she threaten MacLeod with an ayurvedic cleansing? Talk about your international incidents.
“Hello, Angus,” Derek said, moving to stand beside me. It wasn’t a good sign.
“Hello, Detective Inspector,” I said, wondering if there was some shorter version of his title I could use, since we were getting to be such close, personal friends.
He glanced around the room until he spied Helen. “Are you all right, miss? The hotel is trying to locate a doctor.”
Helen shook her head. “Please, I’m fine. I don’t need a doctor.”
“If you’re sure, I’ll let the front desk know.”
“Thank you,” Helen said.
MacLeod signaled to an officer outside the door to call the front desk. Then he turned and handed me my canvas tool bag. “We’re finished with these. Please put them in a safe place, Ms. Wainwright.”
“I will. Thank you for returning them so quickly.”
“You’re welcome. Now, I had a few more questions.”
I quickly swept my arm out toward my parents. “Let me first introduce my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Wainwright, and this is my friend Robin Tully.”
“How do you do?” he said, tipping his head slightly to my parents. He turned to Robin and said, “How do you…”
His mouth hung open but he was no longer capable of speech. I’d seen it happen before. Some men found Robin, who was gorgeous and petite and fun-loving and stylish, utterly captivating. Apparently, MacLeod was one of them.
“I do just fine,” Robin said in a sultry voice.
I stopped my eyes from rolling back in my head at her obvious come-on, because this was a new and welcome development. Maybe MacLeod wouldn’t be so quick to arrest me if he suspected it would displease the fair Robin. Ooh, maybe he’d get so busy with Robin he’d forget about arresting me altogether.
Hey, we all have dreams.
I didn’t know if she read my mind or not, but Robin turned her charm to full strength and aimed it right at MacLeod. “I was just on my way out to explore your beautiful city, Detective Inspector.”
He slowly salvaged his senses. “I’d be pleased if you’d allow me to act as your guide.”
“How lovely,” Robin purred. I swear, she purred.
“Didn’t you have questions for me?” I asked.
MacLeod didn’t tear his gaze away from Robin as he said, “They can wait.”
“Isn’t that sweet?” Robin murmured.
“Sweeter than pumpkin pie,” I said with a grin. “You kids go enjoy yourselves.”
Left alone in the lobby, I headed for the front desk to retrieve Kyle’s book from the hotel safe. As I stepped forward to speak to the clerk, Royce McVee stormed up to the desk.
“I’ll be checking out directly,” he said, sliding his credit card toward the clerk. “Please prepare my bill.”
The clerk grabbed the credit card and started typing on the keyboard in front of him.
“Royce?” I said. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
He jolted. “Good heavens, Brooklyn. Didn’t see you there.”
“Are you all right?”
He fussed with his collar, huffing and puffing. There was a light sheen of perspiration on his ruddy forehead. “No, nothing’s all right. I’m leaving. With Kyle gone, I don’t know what to do with myself. My clerks can handle the booth and the book fair particulars but I… I need to go.”
“But the police are still investigating.”
Clearly insulted, he darted a look at the clerk before whispering to me, “What are you insinuating?”
“Nothing,” I said, waving my hands in protest. “Just thought you might want to take an interest in their findings.”
“They know where to reach me.” He tapped his foot, then exhaled heavily and shook his head. “I’m no good at this. I don’t have Kyle’s facility for superficial small talk. Never did. I have nothing to say to these people. I want to get home.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said. “Is Kyle’s wife going with you?”
His eyes flared and he clenched his jaw. “That lying tart is not my cousin’s wife.”
I blinked. “Really? Are you sure?”
“I’ve never seen her before in my life,” he said in a quietly furious tone. “And if she thinks she’s getting one iota of McVee Partners Limited, she’s got another think coming.”
I winced. “But don’t you suppose-”
“The woman just appears out of nowhere with this claim of-” He stopped, blew out another breath, shook his head, then laid his hand on my shoulder. “I beg your pardon, Brooklyn. Forgive me for going off. I’m simply upset about Kyle. Pay no attention to my ravings.”
“Royce, maybe you should talk to the police. If you think Serena is a-”
He shook his head vigorously. “No, no, no, I can’t go to the police.”
“But if you think there’s something fishy about this woman Serena, if you think she might be after Kyle’s money, you should tell the police.”
He huffed again. “Why would they believe me? They think I’m after the same thing.”
“They do?”
“Kyle and I each held a fifty percent interest in the company,” he whispered. “Even these Scottish detectives have enough brains to follow the money.”
And all this time I thought I was the number one suspect. It was good to know that Royce thought he held that distinction instead.
“But if you leave town, don’t you think the police will assume the worst?”
“Bugger,” he muttered. His bushy eyebrows furrowed as he worried over that possibility.
The clerk walked to the printer, then returned to the counter. “Your statement, sir,” he said, sliding the bill across the marble surface. “I hope you found everything to your satisfaction.”
“I’ve decided to stay,” Royce said with a determined nod as he pushed the papers back.
“Uh.” The clerk looked slightly panicked and began typing even faster on his keyboard. “Yes, sir.”
Royce shook his finger at me. “If that woman is staying, then so am I.” His chin jutted out and he stood inches taller. It appeared as if he’d just discovered his backbone. Or maybe he’d just readjusted the stick up his butt.
“I’m glad you’re staying,” I said, “and I’m glad I ran into you. I have a book that belongs to you. I was just about to retrieve it from the hotel safe.”
“A book? For me?”
“It’s a book of poetry by Robert Burns.” I explained how Kyle had wanted me to study and authenticate it. I assumed he knew the secret history since the book was part of his family’s legacy.
After listening for a few moments, Royce waved his hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, I know the book you’re speaking of. Kyle was quite exclamatory about it, but I simply can’t bother with it right now. Would you mind holding on to it, Brooklyn? I’ll obtain it from you eventually, but… please, I haven’t the wherewithal to deal with anything else just yet.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shook his head and fluttered his hands. “It’s not your fault, my dear. I don’t understand books, nor do I care to. Except for their monetary value, of course. Perhaps I should’ve been a banker, as Kyle always said.” He laughed without humor. “I don’t belong here. I should probably go home, just as I’d planned, but that woman… well, I’ve said enough.”
“I’ll let you go then,” I said, then remembered one more thing. “I wonder if I can have your permission to use the book in my workshop tomorrow?”
“I don’t see why not,” he said with a slight shrug. “You don’t plan to rip it apart or some such thing, do you?”
I chuckled. “Absolutely not.”
“Then you have my blessing.”
Given the events of the last twenty-four hours, I had to admit I was relieved to find that the Burns book was still securely tucked away inside the hotel safe. Retrieving it, I hurried to my room, where I opened a bottle of water and sat at the desk to study my workshop notes, adjusting parts of it to accommodate the new addition. Love Poems to a Flaxen’d Quean.
I pulled my magnifying glass out of my tool pack and carefully checked the smooth fore-edge for telltale signs of mismatched paper. I checked the squares, that place inside the cover where the pastedowns met the leather turn-ins, for odd glue markings that might indicate twenty-first- rather than eighteenth-century binding. Then I leafed through the text block, spread the signatures and flicked the open threads with my thumbnail. I also studied the title page, looking for signs of forgery. I couldn’t find anything suspicious.
This book was a genuine Cathcart; I knew it in my heart and could feel it in my hands as I ran my fingers over the elaborately gilded cover and raised bands of the spine. It was exquisite, right down to Cathcart’s clever inset flyleaf with the thin band of gold leaf running under the edge where paper met leather. The book was small, maybe six inches by four, and one inch thick. It could be tucked into a pocket. A dear bitty thing, as Abraham, my old mentor, would’ve said. He tended to be gruff except when it came to books.
I studied the sentiment and signature on the white flyleaf page across from the title. Had Robert Burns truly signed it? I could go to the library and find examples of his signature, but actual confirmation would have to be done by someone with far more expertise than I had.
As I packed my briefcase with books and notes and tools, a tingle of excitement tickled my shoulders. Yes, I was a book geek. I couldn’t help it. I knew the Burns book would get everyone in the workshop psyched up and asking questions and spouting theories that would create lots of buzz throughout the book fair. And at the risk of sounding like a crass capitalist, buzz meant business. I did love a good buzz.
The conference room designated for my presentation was surprisingly comfortable and inviting, with dark paneled walls and warm beige carpeting. Brown glazed art deco-style lamps hung from the ceiling, and matching sconces decorated the walls.
I’d expected the workshop to be attended by both book lovers and professional buyers curious about the problem of forgery inherent in the new-age world of fine-book collecting. I just hadn’t expected a standing-room-only crowd.
I picked out Mom and Dad and Robin in one of the back rows and waved to them. Robin caught my eye, then turned her gaze toward the side wall. I followed her direction and was disconcerted by the presence of Angus MacLeod standing next to Derek. I looked back at Robin, who wore a smug grin. Rats. I would have to wait a full hour to find out what that grin meant.
I tried to ignore the cop as I showed examples of books that had been passed off as rare and antiquarian. My methods for proving fraud occasionally brought laughs and some groans. Many rare-book purchases are now transacted online, so it’s easier than ever to defraud an unsuspecting buyer. Occasionally it was as simple as retouching a photograph of a book, but the most common method of fraud was when the seller glued an aged facsimile of a copyright page over the existing page to give the illusion that the book was decades older than it was.
I held up a sturdy, clothbound copy of Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men and told everyone they could come up after the workshop was over and study it.
“This was the subject of a criminal case I testified in, and when the case was over, I was able to buy the book.”
I opened it and held up the front inside cover for the group. “If you study it up close, you’ll notice extra little globs of glue along the boards.”
I spread the covers open so that a gap appeared between the spine and the sewn and glued signatures. As I continued to bend back the covers, I heard a few gasps in the audience at my treatment of the book.
“It’s okay,” I said, giving them all a wide smile. “I’m a professional.”
Some chuckles erupted, fortunately. In a book-loving crowd, breaking the spine of a book could get you drawn and quartered.
“Okay, you’ll notice when you look through this gap that the signatures are sewn unevenly.” I wandered up the center aisle, pointing out the defects as I spoke. “It’s amazing that the defrauders actually went to the trouble to take the book apart and sew the fake pages in with the other pages, but didn’t bother to even them out or check that the shade and thickness of the paper were anywhere similar to the original. Conceptually, I suppose they were pretty clever. But in reality, they needed a more professional bookbinder to carry it off. I don’t mean to brag, but I would’ve done a far better job.”
That line always got a laugh.
Finally, I brought out what I hoped would be the pièce de résistance, the Robert Burns poetry book. For a brief moment, I recalled the excitement in Kyle’s eyes when he’d first shown me the book. Maybe I shouldn’t have included it in my talk this afternoon, but I had a feeling Kyle would’ve approved and enjoyed it. Then I smiled for the audience and explained that this was the type of book that might create quite a stir in the bookselling community. The book itself was exceptional, and the story behind it was sensational.
“Now, it’s undoubtedly an original Cathcart binding and very rare,” I said. “But here’s how a criminal-oh, let’s call him an overenthusiastic businessman-might boost his income. First of all, Love Poems to a Flaxen’d Quean is thought to contain poems written by Robert Burns, but never before seen anywhere in Great Britain.”
A murmur rumbled through the crowd and I knew I had them.
“So you might be willing to spend more to get your hands on this book, right?” I asked.
Several in the crowd nodded eagerly.
“And what better way to pull a fast one on a Scottish book lover than to combine never-before-seen poems from a beloved poet with a compelling legend that includes star-crossed lovers, a secret baby and a powerful monarchy bent on destroying the evidence of their love? And by evidence, I mean this very book.”
The murmuring grew to comments and gasps and a few laughs as people got into the story. I looked over the crowd and spotted a frown on the detective inspector’s face while Derek was giving me his piercing, narrow-eyed look.
Was he reacting to the crowd or to my story? I hesitated, but then plunged ahead. “The question is, is the story true? Or did the seller, looking for a way to jack up the price, spin an alluring tale of a king’s daughter giving birth to a child of the Scottish-”
“Stop!”
The crowd turned to see who had yelled, but Perry McDougall was already stalking toward me, his fisted hand raised up in angry protest.
Before anyone could stop him, before I even had a chance to react, he grabbed the book from me and shouted, “You’ll not besmirch the monarchy, ye Yankee bitch!”