“Ouch,” Robin said. “Granola?”

“It’s a finely ground blend of oats, crisp rice and sesame seeds infused with mineral oil,” Mom assured us.

It was a miracle I didn’t choke on my beer. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

She shrugged. “Or you can always get a cat.”

Chapter 9

The next morning I dressed in jeans, boots and a forest green turtleneck sweater, then went downstairs to meet Mom, Dad and their stalwart spirit guide, Robin, in the hotel restaurant. I slid into the booth next to Mom and gratefully accepted a cup of coffee from the passing waitress.

As I poured cream into my coffee, I said, “Wasn’t that a great dinner last night?”

“Oh, yes,” Mom said. “Derek is the perfect host, isn’t he?”

“He was too generous,” Dad said.

I took a sip of coffee. “So, are you all packed up and ready to go?”

No one responded. Robin wouldn’t make eye contact with me. Dad busily stirred honey into his tea. That was when I knew something was wrong. Dad hated tea.

“What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“I knew she’d make a fuss,” Mom said with a flustered wave of her hands.

“What fuss? Who’s making a fuss? What aren’t you telling me?”

“We’re not going anywhere, sweetie,” Mom said defiantly. “And that’s final.”

Dad reached across Mom and patted my hand. “How can we leave you when you’re going through such trauma?”

Alarmed, I turned to Robin, who said simply, “They want to stay.”

“But… but what about the druidic triad?” I asked. “And the vibrating yew tree thingie? Dad?”

“We’ll get there sometime,” he said. “But right now, you need us more than my dosha needs an alignment.”

“Are you sure, Dad? Because you look a little bent.”

He chuckled. “Now, see, Becky? There’s her sense of humor coming back.” Dad wrapped his arm around Mom because she looked about ready to cry. That couldn’t be good.

“Mom, I’m thrilled that you want to stay,” I said quickly, and really hoped I sounded sincere. “But I won’t be able to spend much time with you. I’ve got the book fair.”

“We can amuse ourselves,” she said with a sniffle. “We’ll have our own minitour around Edinburgh.”

“I’ll take care of all the details,” Robin said.

“Thanks, sweetie,” Mom said, then looked at me. “We just want to stay close by in case you need us. In case they put you in… in… oh, God, we won’t let you go to jail.”

“I’m sure that won’t happen,” I said, not so sure of anything. I gave her a hug before she started wailing. “But thanks, Mom. I’m happy you’re staying.”

“I love you,” she whispered as she dabbed her eyes with her napkin.

“I love you, too.”

She composed herself as the waitress brought her a bowl of fruit and rushed off. Mom speared a chunk of pineapple, then said thoughtfully, “You should schedule a high colonic while you’re here. You know how travel affects your nama-rupa equilibrium.”

“Mom, please, not before breakfast.” According to the most basic tenets of Buddhism, nama-rupa was the coexistence of mind and matter. Both contained combinations of elements and sensations. I could go on and on, but seriously, before breakfast? I needed food first.

Mom pointed her fork at me. “It might bring you to moksha; I’m just saying.”

“Come back, Mom,” I said, teasing her. Some believed moksha was comparable to nirvana, or ultimate peace. I was all for that, but didn’t really think I’d attain it with a high colonic.

“I could go with you,” Robin said, winking at me. “I’m always up for getting hosed.”

“I’m having the waffles,” Dad said helpfully, passing me the menu.

Over breakfast, Mom and Robin planned their little tour of Edinburgh sites. Mom said she’d heard from a woman in the elevator that there was an energy convergence circle halfway up the back side of Arthur’s Seat, Edinburgh ’s highest peak, that was rippling with powerful soul medicine. Robin suggested that maybe after their tour of the Palace of Holyroodhouse, they go on a hike up the mountain to find it.

Dad and Mom were both up for the trip.

Then Robin announced that she knew of a shaman out near Rosslyn Chapel who conducted drum circles and occasionally manifested as a crow. Mom started twittering with excitement.

I gave Robin a grateful smile. I hated seeing tears threatening to gush forth from Mom’s eyes. She might be loony, but she was mine.

Once breakfast was over and they’d taken off for the palace tour, I hit the book fair. It was barely ten o’clock, but the great assembly hall was already crowded with people wandering up and down the aisles, checking out some eight hundred booths of booksellers, art gallery owners and vendors hocking ephemera, engravings, posters and maps. Some sellers earnestly discussed their wares, while others bartered and kibitzed with the passing crowd. Many in the mass of people were serious buyers, others just book lovers hoping to see something beautiful, unique or odd.

I stopped at one counter to admire a beautiful copy of Sense and Sensibility. The navy blue leather cover was inlaid with an exquisite miniature painting of the author framed by rows of tiny pearls. I checked the price. Eight thousand dollars.

“A real bargain,” the bookseller said, tongue in cheek.

I laughed. “I don’t know how, but I’m going to pass.”

He chuckled good-naturedly, and I took the opportunity to ask if he knew anyone who had been close to Kyle.

“I’m just looking for people to commiserate with,” I said, which was true, sort of.

He pointed out two booksellers I should talk to, so I thanked him and headed their way. The two older men owned Fair Haven Books in Dublin, and I was pretty certain they were innocent of murder, but I asked them a few questions anyway. The first man, Duncan, didn’t know Kyle, but the other one, Jack, told me that he and Kyle were old friends and that he had, indeed, discussed the Burns poetry book with Kyle. He was enthusiastic and, given his own knowledge of British history, believed it was entirely possible that the story behind the book was true. He’d told Kyle he couldn’t wait to see it.

“I was deeply saddened by the news of his passing,” Jack said.

“Thank you,” I said. Walking away, I felt even more depressed than before. So Jack was the third person Kyle had talked to, if I was included in that number. I would let Angus know, and he’d probably want to question the Irishman, but I knew there was no way Jack had anything to do with Kyle’s death. First, because he was rather frail, but also because he was excited about the book, not angry like Perry was. Jack wouldn’t want to stifle the book being introduced to the public.

As I wandered the aisles, I had the uncomfortable thought that Kyle might’ve shared the book’s history with Jack and Perry only in order to titillate them in hopes of raising the selling price. I hoped it wasn’t true. I hated to think that his death was caused by his own greed.

I decided to let go of my immediate worries over Kyle’s personal motives and his death, as well as the attack by Perry McDougall, not to mention possible jail time or the fact that my parents were staying for the whole week, and simply enjoy the book fair.

I passed a booth featuring original French movie posters from the fifties and decided on the spot I had to have one. I spent twenty minutes trying to choose which of them would look more fabulous on my living room wall back home. I narrowed it down to either a tormented Doris Day starring in Piège à Minuit (Midnight Lace), or an almost whimsical poster for a horror movie, La Nuit de Tous les Mystères, or House on Haunted Hill, starring Vincent Price. This one featured a scary skeleton grabbing at a lady’s flimsy negligee.

In the end, the decision was easy. The randy skeleton won the day. I grimaced at the price tag of four hundred dollars but happily paid it when the wily owner offered to ship it back to San Francisco for free. It occurred to me when the transaction was completed that my recent inheritance of Abraham’s six million dollars hadn’t sunk into my brain yet. I might not have balked so much at the price if I’d remembered.