“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.