I tried to stand but shards of pain shot up my leg and I moaned.
“Okay, that hurts,” I admitted under my breath. Had I really twisted my ankle? It didn’t matter. I didn’t expect emergency medical help to show up anytime soon, so I had to get myself out of there.
Just for a moment, I lay on the floor and tried to pull myself together, afraid to move too quickly. I stared at the bottom edge of another bookshelf, one that was still standing, and saw that it was bolted to the floor. Checking the seam between the two shelves, I couldn’t see any brackets holding them together. I guessed they didn’t have earthquake problems in Scotland. If this were California, there would be brackets upon brackets to hold everything in place in case of a temblor.
“Meow.”
“Hi, kitty,” I whispered.
“Meow,” the cat said more loudly, as though he might be complaining about the mess I’d made.
“I know.” I gritted my teeth and pulled myself to my knees. The cat bumped his head against my thigh as if that would help me get up.
Finally, I managed to stand, and the fact that my legs were still working was such a relief, I almost cried. I found my purse and jacket among the piles of ledgers and, with the cat bounding over books to lead the way, slowly made it out of the stacks.
My ankle throbbed but I could walk. Sort of. Slowly. It hurt but it was manageable. I slung my purse across my chest and hopped on my good foot over to one of the low cabinets, then stopped to get myself situated.
At that moment, the door opened and two women walked in and glanced around. They both wore badges attached to their jacket lapels, so I assumed they were librarians.
“I swear I heard something crash in here,” the taller one said. She wore her hair pulled back in a severe bun and she scowled as she surveyed the area.
“Maybe it was upstairs,” said the other woman, a short, older woman with curly gray hair. “They’ve painters working in the offices.” At that moment, she noticed me. “Oh, hello.”
“Hello.” I clutched a nearby drawer pull to keep myself upright. My ankle throbbed and I was getting a headache. “The crash you heard was one of the bookshelves in back. It came unhinged and fell to the floor. The books are scattered everywhere. It’s a real mess.”
The taller woman rushed across the room to inspect the damage. “Good heavens, it’s chaos. Have you ever seen such a disaster?”
“How in the world did this happen?” the shorter one asked as she patted her chest in distress.
“I have no idea,” I said, fairly certain they wouldn’t believe me if I told them someone was trying to kill me. “But I fell off the ladder and the bookshelf almost landed on top of me.”
“Goodness, you could’ve been killed.” She took a moment to consider me. “You don’t look at all well, miss. Do you need assistance?”
I was so grateful, I almost wept. “No, thank you. I just want to get back to my hotel and rest.”
The taller librarian’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you in here? You’re not allowed to use this room without a special certificate.”
“Ah,” I said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “That explains it, then.”
She sniffed in annoyance.
“Shirleen, the girl is injured,” the nice librarian said.
Shirleen pursed her lips in displeasure. “She shouldn’t be in here. Will you look at this horrible disarray? I’m going to have to report this upstairs.”
She stomped off. I couldn’t do anything about the mess, and my head was pounding in earnest now. “I’m sorry, but I need to leave.”
“Of course, dear. Let me help you out.” The nice woman took hold of my elbow and walked me to the door. As soon as she opened it, the cat flew out and down the hall.
She jumped back. “Good grief, was that a cat?”
“I didn’t see anything,” I said, not willing to get the cat in trouble, too. “Thank you for your help. You’re very kind.”
I limped down the hall to the street entrance, where the cat sat waiting patiently. I opened the door and walked outside and the cat followed. On the sidewalk, the cat looked up at me and meowed once, then took off running.
“Thanks, kitty,” I said, and smiled as the cat disappeared down an alley. “Adios, amigo.”
The wind had died down and the sun felt wonderful on my back. It was a beautiful day for a walk, or a slow shuffle, in my case. The fact that I could put pressure on my foot told me I hadn’t broken anything. It was just sore and bruised, along with the rest of me. Frankly, my butt ached more than my ankle. I couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel and take a couple of aspirin and a long, hot bath.
As I limped across the George IV Bridge street at the High Road, a black taxi screeched to a stop. I jumped to the sidewalk to avoid being hit and landed on my bad foot.
“Gaaaahh!” I cried.
A man stepped out from the backseat and grabbed hold of me. “Ah, now that’s a shame, isn’t it? Let me help you, miss.”
He was really good-looking, with closely cropped dark reddish hair, and was nicely dressed in black wool trousers and a black turtleneck sweater. Normally I would’ve been more polite, but I was tired and in pain and just wanted to get back to the hotel.
“I’m fine,” I said. “The cab startled me.” I started to leave, but he held my arm.
“There, now, miss,” he crooned. “You must be more careful.”
I smiled. “Yes, I’ll be careful. Thanks.” If the cab hadn’t spooked me, I wouldn’t have to be so careful. I pulled my arm away, but he wouldn’t let me go.
I no longer cared how cute he was. I was getting mad. “I don’t have time for-”
“You’ll make time,” he said, and shoved something hard against my back.
A gun?
I froze. I couldn’t breathe.
“There, now, I think we understand each other. Let me help you to the cab.”
“No way,” I said, knowing that if I got in, I might never be seen again.
“Get in the cab or I’ll-”
“I’ll scream.”
“It’ll do you no good.”
I screamed anyway, as loud as I could.
“Jesus, that’s not necessary,” he said, wincing.
I kept screaming as the back door swung open and another man yanked me into the backseat next to him. The gunman jumped in after me, and the driver peeled off around the corner.
If I weren’t so scared to death I’d be totally pissed off. I was already in pain, and now I was being kidnapped? Who were these guys? I glanced at the two sitting on either side of me. They looked like nice guys who enjoyed a whisky at the pub once or twice a week, not hired gunmen.
“I don’t have any money,” I said. Not on me, anyway.
The good-looking guy next to me frowned. “We don’t want your money.”
“What do you want? Where are you taking me? I need to get back to my hotel. People are waiting for me. And there were witnesses. Somebody had to have seen me and they’ll-”
“Darlin’, please,” the driver said, meeting my gaze through his rearview mirror. “We’re just wanting your word that ye’ll not be making a mackedy of our Rabbie.”
“A mackedy?” I repeated. “What’s a mackedy?”
“It’s what we’re stopping you from doing,” the third guy said firmly.
The driver turned and glared at me. “Ye’ll not be mocking our beloved hero.”
“Oh.” Mockery, he’d said. Not mackedy. So much for a common language.
“I would never mock your hero,” I protested.
Frowning, the gunman eyed me. “The society looks askance at such disrespect.”
“You have a society?”
“Aye, the Robert Burns Society,” the third man said, beaming. “We’re Freemasons, sworn to uphold the dignity and good name of our own best man.”
“Aye, Rabbie Burns,” the gunman said, nodding.
“Miss, are ye familiar with the sights of our fair town?” the driver asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
He pointed out the window. “If ye’ll look between the two hills, you’ll catch a glimpse of the engineering marvel that is the Forth Bridge.”
“Crosses the Firth of Forth,” the gunman elucidated, then leaned back to give me a better view out the window.
“Can you see it now?” he asked.
“A beautiful sight, that,” the driver said proudly.
“Um, yeah.” I stared out the window to my right. “It’s beautiful.” And it was. Dramatic and impressive. On my last visit to Edinburgh I’d taken a tour of the city, during which I’d learned firsthand that Scotsmen were fiercely proud and knowledgeable of their history and heritage-and their bridge. The tour guide had positively gushed as he explained that the Forth Bridge was one of the world’s first major steel bridges. Its unique cantilever design was considered a miracle of modern technology back in the 1890s.
But what in hell did that have to do with me and these men and this cab? What was I doing here? I furtively checked my watch. I’d been on the road with these would-be kidnappers for less than ten minutes and still had no idea what they wanted from me.
The cute gunman noticed me looking at my watch and tapped the driver’s shoulder. “We should get her back.”
“Aye,” the driver said.
“But we’ll need your word on this matter, miss,” the third man said.
“Okay,” I said hesitantly. I was willing to agree to almost anything, but God only knew what he was going to insist upon. They all seemed a little nutty, as though I’d stumbled upon a Freemasons’ mad tea party.
The gunman held up his finger. “First, this notion that our Rabbie might’ve loved a royal Sassenach bitch?”
The third man glared at the gunman, then said pointedly, “You’ll pardon Tommy’s French.”
The gunman, Tommy, grimaced. “Ach, pardon my French, miss. But it’s daft.”
“Makes no sense a’tall,” said the third man, shaking his head.
The driver nodded. “Aye, Rabbie was a great lover, but he would’ve drawn the line at a snooty English royal.”
“Och, aye, he was a lover, he was,” Tommy agreed, chuckling. “He loved many a lass.”
The third man laughed. “Aye, that’s our boy Rabbie.”
The laughter stopped abruptly as the driver wrenched the wheel. The cab lurched to the side of the road and stopped. The two men beside me tensed up, and I started to panic as the driver maneuvered himself around to face me.
“Understand, miss,” he said. “Robert Burns was a Freemason, a well-known dissenter who supported both the French resistance and your own American Revolution. He was a Scottish nationalist and a harsh critic of the Church of England. He never would’ve consorted with the auld enemy, and that goes double for the royal family. This you must believe.”
“All right,” I said, talking slowly as I nodded. “I see your point. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m not very familiar with the history of your country, so I appreciate your patience with me.” I would’ve said anything at that moment to get back to the hotel. But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed that the legend of Robert Burns and the princess was too good to be true.
“Do you mean it, miss?” the driver said.
“Absolutely,” I said. “And I want to apologize for upsetting you. I didn’t realize that what I was saying might be so offensive.”
“Ah, see there?” said the third man, slapping the back of the driver’s seat. “She didn’t realize what she was saying.”
“I didn’t,” I said promptly. “I swear. I’m so glad you’ve enlightened me. And now that I know the truth, please believe I’ll never again say anything contradictory to the facts.”
“There’s a fine lass,” Tommy said, patting my knee fondly.
“Thank you,” I said, determined to make eye contact with each of them. “I really appreciate knowing the truth.”
The driver breathed a sigh of relief. “We’ll thank you as well, then. We didn’t know what else to do when we heard you were spinning tales but try to appeal to your higher principles.”
By kidnapping me? I thought, but resisted saying it, instead asking, “How did you hear about me?”
“Anonymous phone call,” the driver said with a shrug. He settled back behind the wheel and started the car, leaving me to wonder who had made that anonymous phone call. It could’ve been anyone attending my workshop, but my money was on Perry McDougall.
We drove the five miles back to the Royal Mile in silence. When they reached the drive in front of my hotel, Tommy turned and faced me.
“We’ll come in with you and spring for a pint to celebrate.”
“Oh, no!” Dear God, just let me go in peace, I thought. But I squeezed out a smile and said, “I would love to, but I injured my ankle earlier and should probably soak it in Epsom salts.”
“You’re injured, miss?” the third man said.
“It’s probably nothing serious, but I should take care of it.”
“Are you sure it’s not serious?” Tommy said. “Harry’s a doctor.”
I gaped at the third man.
“Aye, I am,” Harry said, then glared at his partner. “Did Tommy push you too hard?”
Good grief, thoughtful kidnappers. Only in Scotland. And a doctor among them? I was truly going mad.
“Uh, no, it happened earlier today,” I said, waving a hand in dismissal. “It’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Walk her to the door, Harry,” the driver prompted.
“Aye.” Harry the doctor whipped out of the car and held his hand out for me. I had no choice but to allow him to help me. My ankle throbbed and my back was stiff. I swayed once before steadying myself.
“There, see?” I said, giving Harry my best smile. “I’m fine.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Absolutely.”
“We’ll take a rain check then,” the driver said as we passed by his open window.
“Perfect,” I said.
Harry dug into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “You’ll call if you have any problems while you’re in town.”
I glanced at the card and I prayed my eyes didn’t bug out of my head. HARRISON MCFARLAND, MD. It was true, then. One of the men who’d kidnapped me was a doctor. Maybe Tommy the gunman was a lawyer.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
I stared at him. “Absolutely. Thanks.”
“Go inside and rest, miss. You’ve had a day.”
“Thanks for making it more interesting.” I waved good-bye to my new Freemason friends and hobbled to the door.
The first person I saw when I entered the lobby was Derek Stone, and I almost wept with relief. And hunger. Dear God, I was hungry to the point of starvation.
He saw me and sauntered over. “Where did you run off to?”
“Ah, where to begin?” I said. “But first, I need food. Do you want to come with me?”
He threaded my arm through his. “While it’s always entertaining to watch you consume food, I must run an errand first. I was hoping you’d come with me.”
I rubbed my stomach.
He smirked but took hold of my arm and we walked back outside. “I believe this short detour will be worth your while, and I promise to feed you afterward.”
“I hate to remind you, but when we last spent quality time together, I ended up hiding in a closet and finding another dead body.”
He leaned in close. “Are you too much of a coward to give it another try?”
“Coward?” I said, insulted and excited all at once. “Lead the way, Jack.”
A black Bentley limousine pulled up. The driver hopped out and opened the door for us. When we were ensconced in the backseat and the driver made his way out to the Royal Mile, I turned to Derek. “Where are we going?”
“To the palace.”
“What?”
Within minutes we’d left the High Street behind and I could see rugged Arthur’s Seat rising up to stand sentry over the Palace of Holyroodhouse. Then, within moments, we were actually driving onto the stately grounds of the palace.
Wow.
I turned to Derek. “What are we doing here?”
“Just picking something up,” he said cryptically.
The driver opened the door and Derek led me to a side entrance away from the public tour area. Before I could get over my shock, we were met at the door by an older woman in a slim blue dress. She escorted us to an elegantly appointed sitting room, where a well-dressed man in his early forties was waiting.
“Ah, Mr. Stone,” the man said. “Here you are, right on time.”
“Hello, Jones,” Derek said. “This is Brooklyn Wainwright, the book restoration expert I was telling you about.”
“Lovely,” he said with a slight nod.
“ Brooklyn,” Derek continued, “this is Phillip Pickering-Jones, personal secretary to the royal highnesses.”
The royal highnesses?
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Pickering-Jones.”
“Delighted,” he said, extending his hand to shake mine. “And just ‘Jones’ is fine. His Highness is quite delighted at the thought of your doing the work. He asks only that you ship the parcel back within a month, in time for the young lady’s birthday.”
His Highness?
Were we talking about the prince? Like, the real freaking prince? Was it the cute one? Or the other cute one? Or the much older, not-so-cute one? Did it matter? I looked from Jones to Derek. “What am I working on?”
“Ah, you haven’t informed her, then?” Jones asked Derek.
“No,” Derek said with a slight smile. “I thought you might do that.”
“With pleasure, sir.” He walked to a small, elegant pale green desk set against the wall under a portrait of some distinguished lord of something or other. He picked up a brown-paper-wrapped parcel and handed it to me.
“It’s a favorite childhood book belonging to a dear friend of His Highness,” Jones explained. “Now tattered and torn, as you’ll see. We would be most appreciative if you would work your magic to transform it into a gift of beauty for his lady friend’s birthday.”
I took the parcel and found the seal. “May I?”
He nodded regally. “Of course.”
I unwrapped the package. It was a leather-bound version of what I assumed was a British children’s book I’d never heard of: A Flat Iron for a Farthing, by Juliana Horatia Ewing. I turned it over in my hand. It was fraying at the edges and torn through to the boards in spots. My brain went into bookbinder mode, cataloging the book itself and the work required: original green leather binding so faded it appeared light gray. Title embossed in gold on spine. Faded. Masking tape residue on front hinge. I resisted shivering in disgust.
The front and back boards had come loose from the spine. The paper was thick and in decent condition, with only a bit of insect damage and foxing on several pages. The signatures had begun to unravel from the tapes. It would need new tapes, new flyleaves and a complete new binding.
“It’s charming,” I said, and it was, despite its disrepair-and the masking tape. Ugh. I opened the book to the title page and noted its printing date: 1910. “Do you know what type of binding His, er, Highness would prefer?”
“Leather, of course,” Jones said, waving his hand theatrically.
“Of course.”
“Something elegant and pretty, perhaps somewhat close to the original green.”
“Sounds perfect.”
I turned the book over and studied the back board. Forest green morocco would be pretty. “Would he prefer gilding or heat stamping? Raised cord spine?”
He gave me a deferential nod. “I was told that the details were to be handled at your discretion, Miss Wainwright.”
“And you’ll need it back within a month?”
“Yes, miss.”
I nodded. “I can do that.”
“Excellent.” He bowed. “Thank you, miss.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It’ll be my pleasure.”
He handed me a small white shopping bag with the royal crest imprinted on it in black, and explained that inside the bag was a card with instructions as well as a preaddressed overnight mailing packet for my convenience.
Then he walked with us back along the wide gallery, allowing us a brief glance at the library and identifying the subjects of a number of different paintings. He stopped to allow us to admire a huge set of Sèvres urns that were particular favorites of Queen Victoria. Farther along, he proudly pointed out the impressive silver tea service on display that had been a gift from Lord Wellington.
When he bade us farewell at the limousine, I didn’t know whether to curtsy or bow, so I just shook hands with him.
Once inside the car, I turned to Derek. “Oh, my God, I’m working for His Highness. Whichever highness it is, it totally rocks. You rock. Thank you.”
I kissed him, then sat back. “Wow, this is so cool. I really-”
“Come here.” He drew me back into his arms and proceeded to finish the kiss properly. Before my eyebrows singed and I turned into a yearning puddle of need, the chauffeur had stopped the car.
“That’s a short drive,” I mumbled.
“You’re welcome,” Derek said.
Once inside, we made tracks straight to the restaurant, where the hostess led the way to a corner booth. I scooted in on one side and met Derek in the middle. He ordered a cup of coffee and I went with the ploughman’s platter and a pint of pale ale.
“Platter’s enough for two,” the waitress said as she wrote the order.
“Yes, we’ll have two plates,” Derek said with a smile.
The waitress returned his smile, looked at me and patted her heart, then walked away.
I grinned, then remembered he’d asked for two plates. “I thought you already ate.”
“I did,” he said. “And no, I’m not going to take your food.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“I’d rather keep my skin intact.”
The waitress delivered his coffee and my beer. He took a sip and whispered, “I asked for two plates because I didn’t want our waitress to fret about your eating issues.”
“I have no eating issues.”
“I know that, but she doesn’t.”
“Oh, I get it. You were being thoughtful.”
“Yes, I was.”
“That’s such a gift.” I smiled and leaned back against the cushioned booth. I was exhausted and achy. I needed a nap and a massage, not necessarily in that order. But I had my royal assignment, and that made me feel all rosy inside.
“Thank you again,” I said.
“You’re more than welcome,” he said. “I know you’ll do a good job.”
“Well, of course I will, but…”
He was staring.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He moved closer and brushed my bangs off my forehead. “You’ve got a bump and a bruise.”
“I do?” Before I could touch my forehead, he pulled my hand away.
“It looks painful.”
“Now that you mention it, I do have a slight headache.” I’d forgotten all about it, thanks to the distraction of our little errand to the Palace of Holyroodhouse.
He stared at my palm. “And you’ve scraped your hand.” Without warning, he kissed my wrist. I almost moaned as my system went to code red. My arm tingled, my heart raced and all the breath in my body got caught in my throat. With my luck, these were the first symptoms of a heart attack.
I eased my hand away and reached for the beer. “I had a little mishap at the library.”
“Define mishap.”
I sighed. “I think someone was trying to kill me.”
“Do tell,” he said calmly, but his eyes were narrowed and his mouth was a thin, grim line.
I took off my jacket and laid it on the seat, then told him the whole story about the genealogy room and the bookshelf falling on me.
“And you didn’t see anyone?” he asked when I’d finished. “Hear anyone?”
“Not really. I heard the door open and shut once, and I heard some scuffing sound, but I brushed it off. The shelves were wood, so they made lots of settling, groaning noises. I chalked the other noises up to that. I never saw anyone.”
“And this bookshelf just toppled? Aren’t they bracketed together or bolted to the floor?”
“As a matter of fact, I checked while I was lying flat on my face, and yes, the shelves were bolted to the floor but not to one another.”
He shook his head, concern etched on his face. “You’re lucky you only turned your ankle.”
“Lucky seems to be my middle name.”
“So you were on your way back from the library when I saw you?” he asked.
Before I could respond, the waitress brought my ploughman’s platter. And okay, yes, it probably was big enough for two, but I knew I would have no problem finishing the whole thing. I made myself a sandwich from two thick slices of bread, some fresh ham, two chunks of cheese, a tomato slice and various condiments.
After savoring a few luscious bites, I finally lost the debate with myself and related the whole story of my improbable kidnappers.
Derek listened with outward patience, then said adamantly, “Let me see the business card.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did those men frighten you?”
I pursed my lips, considering whether to answer or not, but finally relented. “Yes, they did at first. I was terrified. But after a few minutes of driving around and talking, they seemed more like my three brothers than any thugs I’ve ever seen. They were cute, too.”
Derek frowned and I waved that statement away. “Never mind. Anyway, I realized they just needed to talk.”
“By dragging you off the street and kidnapping you?”
“Well, when you put it like that…” I dabbed my mouth with my napkin. “But I was never in any danger.”
“You didn’t know that,” he said.
“I admit I experienced a minute or two of terror.”
“May I see the card, please?”
“I don’t want to press charges,” I insisted, spreading mayonnaise on another slice of bread. “They made their point and I appreciated it.”
“Fine,” he said, holding out his hand. “But if I need a doctor, I want to know who not to call.”
“Good point.” I would probably regret it, but I pulled the card out of my pocket and handed it to him.
He rubbed his thumb against the grain. “Good quality,” he mused.
“I thought the same thing.”
“Yes, you would,” he said absently. “An MD with the Royal College of Surgeons. What’s a surgeon doing terrorizing young ladies on the streets of Edinburgh?”
“Just making his case, I guess.”
He put the card in his pocket. “I’ll hold on to this.”
I waved my fork at him. “If I find out you sicced the police on them, I’ll be very put out with you.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “I’ll have to live with that.”
I took a bite of pickle, then shook my head. “Can’t trust anyone.”
“It’s a sad truth,” he said, moving close to wrap his arm around my shoulder. I closed my eyes and leaned against him for a long moment. I could’ve stayed there all day, but he’d pulled his cell phone out with his free hand.
“Finish your lunch,” he murmured, then pressed a button on the phone. I wasn’t surprised when he greeted Angus MacLeod, told him about my library mishap, and asked him to meet us right away.
“Don’t you dare tell him about the Freemasons,” I warned when he ended the call.
“They’re the least of your worries, darling.”
“Perry McDougall has an alibi,” MacLeod said. “He’s been working in his booth at the fair all day.”
So Perry wasn’t my library attacker.
My shoulders fell. “Are you sure?”
MacLeod had arrived only minutes ago to interview me in Derek’s elegant penthouse suite. That’s right, Derek had rented the penthouse suite. The man had quite the expense account. Of course, since he owned his own security company, it probably wasn’t a problem convincing the boss he needed all this space.
I wondered if the Bentley limo we’d driven in was his company’s car or provided by the palace. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out it was his own car. He really was a conspicuous consumer.
But the suite was the most private place he could think of in which to have a conversation with MacLeod, so I was grateful he’d offered. Before MacLeod arrived, Derek had poured me a beer from the well-stocked minibar, then forced me to sit back on the luxurious white sectional sofa while he slipped off my boot and checked my ankle.
“It’s slightly swollen, but not broken,” he reported, patting my ankle gently. “Just a bit twisted, I suspect.”
Was he talking about me or my ankle?
He grinned, having read my mind. “You’re more than a bit twisted.”
“And you’re so cute.” I’d said it to be sarcastic, but it came out in a breathy whisper. Good grief.
“Rest,” he said, and leaned in and kissed my forehead. Then he tucked a plush, soft afghan around me, and it must’ve taken only seconds before I passed out. At MacLeod’s arrival, I awoke feeling groggy and disoriented.
Always the delightful guest, that was me.
Before getting into the library attack, I told MacLeod about my discussion with Jack from Dublin earlier that day at the Fair Haven booth. “He was one of the people Kyle consulted about the book, but he couldn’t have killed him.”
“And why not?” MacLeod asked, humoring me.
“He’s shorter than me, and thinner,” I explained. “And I’d guess he was in his late sixties. I doubt he’d have the strength to bludgeon someone of Kyle’s size. And besides, he was excited to be getting a look at the book. Why would he kill Kyle?”
As MacLeod wrote out his notes, something else occurred to me. “Did you ever find out who called Kyle’s cell phone?”
Angus and Derek exchanged looks, something they did a lot when I was around. Derek merely lifted one eyebrow, and Angus sighed. “The call was made from a disposable cell,” he admitted. “Untraceable.”
“Damn it,” I muttered. Whoever owned that phone was probably Kyle’s killer.
“My sentiments exactly,” Angus said, then requested a full report on the library fiasco. When I was finished, he flipped his notepad to another page. “As far as your suspicion that Perry McDougall followed you to the library, my men interviewed a number of vendors near McDougall’s booth, as well as one of his employees.”
“Yes?” I said.
He sat across from me in a soft, buttercream leather chair, with his legs crossed in the manly style of one ankle propped on his other knee. “Everyone swore McDougall has been there all day. His alibi is ironclad.”
I wondered about that. “Was Minka LaBoeuf one of the employees interviewed? Because she would lie at the drop of a hat.”
He checked his notes and I saw his eyebrows lift. I took that to mean he’d found Minka’s name.
“I can’t reveal the names of witnesses,” he said gruffly. “But why would you accuse this person of lying?”
“She hates me,” I said gloomily. “If she knew it would screw me up, she’d lie without batting an eye.”
I stood and started to pace, but my ankle was still a little tender, so I leaned against the wall. “I’m not making it up. Somebody tried to kill me at the library.”
“I believe you, Miss Wainwright,” MacLeod said, and gave Derek a meaningful look. “After we spoke, I went by the library and saw the damage done. Someone went to great lengths to try to hurt her, with little regard for public property, I might add.”
Derek hissed out a breath and his jaw clenched.
Scowling, I turned to the picture window and stared out at the breathtaking view of Princes Street Gardens and the New City beyond. I wanted to enjoy the spectacular sight, but I was too furious to think straight. I couldn’t believe they were taking Minka’s word that Perry was innocent. It burned my butt to think that my fate might be in the hands, once again, of that deceitful, conniving Minka LaBitch.