“Thanks, Dad.” I waved to him over my shoulder, noting that Mom and Derek were right behind Dad. Two policemen followed in their wake. Oh, boy, the gang was all here.

“We’re staying with her,” Robin said to MacLeod. A look passed between them. He considered her for a long moment, then nodded.

I raised an eyebrow at Robin and she gave me a minute nod. Something was definitely going on between those two. Fascinating. I itched to know what had happened but knew I’d have to wait to hear the whole story later. If I wasn’t carted off to jail first, that is.

I hadn’t had much of a chance to tell Robin anything about the murder, but she seemed to have some awareness that I was in trouble. Yes, we were close, but I didn’t think she could read my mind. Had MacLeod told her anything? That seemed like a breach of something, not that I cared if Robin knew. But still, didn’t he have a code of ethics to follow?

The small room was set up with a podium up front and about fifty chairs arranged in rows. MacLeod suggested I take an aisle seat and he turned a chair around to face me. Then he pulled a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket.

Dad, Mom and Robin sat two rows back, within listening range. The two officers stood near the door and Derek prowled the perimeter of the small room, making me more nervous than I already was.

“So, were you besmirching the monarchy, Miss Wainwright?” Angus MacLeod asked right off the bat. His tone was light, but I wasn’t fooled. That question put an end to any thought of presumed innocence.

“Absolutely not,” I said stoutly. “I was giving a book-fraud workshop. This book provided a perfect example of a mythology that could be built up in order to swindle a potential buyer. It had nothing to do with the monarchy, for goodness’ sake.”

“Do you know Perry McDougall, the man who attacked you?”

“Yes.”

He waited, but I didn’t say anything more. Hey, I watched Law & Order. I knew how to play the game.

He sighed. “And how do you know Mr. McDougall?” “Oh, Perry’s been attending the European book festivals for years. He’s got an antiquarian bookstore in Glasgow, and he has an online presence, as well. He’s considered an expert when it comes to books on Celtic history, British and Scottish history, World War Two, guns, all sorts of things.”

“Did he have a particular grudge against you?”

“Not really,” I said, but it was the bad liar in me talking. Everyone in the room knew it.

“Okay,” I said, before anyone else could snort in disbelief. “We had a little run-in the other day, but nothing to get all freaked out about.”

“So what would you say freaked him out, then?”

I pulled the Robert Burns out of my pocket. “It has something to do with this book.”

“That seems clear,” MacLeod said, eyeing the book. “Is it yours?”

“No.”

He nodded. “May I see it, please?”

I gave him the Burns and was pleased to see him handle it gingerly. He opened it, stared at the signature page, then looked at me through wide eyes.

“Is it what I think it is?”

I knew how he felt. I must’ve had the same look of astonishment when Kyle first showed it to me.

“It hasn’t been authenticated,” I said, hedging.

He frowned. “Is it your job to verify an author’s signature?”

“Not usually,” I admitted. “But I’m often hired to authenticate the book itself. Its age, provenance, history, the bookbinder who made it and usually the bindery it came from. But none of that information can actually prove that Robert Burns signed it. For that, we’ll need handwriting expertise, ink testing, and more historical data.”

“You’d test the ink?” MacLeod said. “Wouldn’t that destroy it?”

“Not necessarily,” I said, getting into the topic. “Still, it would have to be done with extreme care, and I wouldn’t want to be the one to do it.”

MacLeod’s fingers moved slowly over the page but avoided the signature itself. I was glad I didn’t have to tell him not to touch it. I didn’t want to antagonize him more than I already had.

“So this book is in your possession in order for you to authenticate it?”

“Yes.”

He turned the book over in his hands. “It’s obviously quite valuable. Who entrusted you with it?”

I swallowed hard. “Kyle McVee.”

He sighed.

I rushed to add, “I told you I ran into Kyle yesterday afternoon. That’s when he gave me the book and asked me to study it.”

“And hours later, he was brutally murdered.”

I bit my lip as my stomach took a dip. “Yes.”

“Over a book?”

He made it sound like an insult to books everywhere. I folded my arms across my chest, lifted my chin and said, “Maybe.”

“Why didn’t you mention the book when we questioned you last night?”

My mother shot to her feet. “I object!”

I gasped.

MacLeod was clearly taken aback. “What?”

Derek snorted with laughter.

I managed a chuckle. “Mom, it’s okay.”

“Sorry,” Mom muttered, waving away her outburst as she sat again. “Wrong number.”

“Oh, God,” Robin whispered, then covered her face with both hands, but I could see her shoulders were shaking with laughter.

MacLeod stared at me in disbelief. Hey, it wasn’t my fault my mother lived in a parallel universe.

The “wrong number” reference came from Mom’s belief that everyone had a sort of tape recorder inside their brains that played the everyday phrases people used. According to Mom, each phrase on this imaginary tape recorder was numbered, and, at appropriate times, our brains pushed a button to allow us to say something appropriate. It took very little conscious thought to say, “How are you?” or, “Fine, thanks,” “I’m sorry for your loss,” “You’re not wearing that,” “Because I’m the mother,” and so on.

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.”