As MacLeod opened the door to the hallway, he sighed. “I’m truly not getting rid of you, am I?”
“You know me better than that,” Derek said, his amiable grin belying his resolve.
“Come along, then, both of you.”
I hustled my butt out the door to freedom.
My hotel room was absent any bloodstained rags or additional bloody weapons or whatever smoking gun MacLeod had hoped to find. He’d called me in the bar where Derek had been sipping Scotch while I’d nursed a cup of tea, trying to stay awake. Derek and I arrived in time to see a rubber-gloved investigator carefully lifting my heavy cloth tool carrier from my open suitcase.
I immediately wondered if they’d gone through my underwear. I couldn’t help worrying. Maybe it was a girl thing, but those rubber gloves gave me the heebie-jeebies.
Derek and I squeezed our way farther into the room where Detective Inspector MacLeod, two crime scene guys and the police photographer were working. The first thing I was asked to do was sit down at the desk in the corner and submit to fingerprinting by one of the technicians.
“You may find black residue on some of the surfaces of your furniture,” MacLeod explained after I’d washed my hands. “We tried to wipe it off but we might’ve missed some spots.”
“That’s okay,” I said, knowing that as soon as they left, I’d get out my travel wipes and scrub down everything.
I didn’t know what to do with five men cramped inside my little hotel room. It was like a party, only not much fun.
“We assumed this was the bag that holds your tools, Ms. Wainwright,” MacLeod said, waving a hand at the investigator who was holding the navy blue cloth bag.
“Yes.” Whenever I traveled, I wrapped everything up in the bag I’d made myself out of sailcloth and white grosgrain ribbon. Each tool had its own snug pocket, and the whole thing folded up and tied and fit inside my suitcase.
The investigator placed the tool bag on the queen-size bed.
“Someone has fiddled with it,” I said. “The ribbon is tied in a knot and I always tie it in a bow.”
“Open it up, Richie,” MacLeod said.
Richie carefully spread the cloth out on the green brocade bedspread. Fully opened, the tool bag was two feet long by one foot wide.
“Crap,” I muttered.
“What’s wrong?” Derek said.
“Three tools are missing,” I said, poking my fingers in the empty pockets.
“That’s unfortunate,” Derek murmured, glancing at MacLeod.
“Yes, isn’t it?” MacLeod said. “Can you tell which ones are missing?”
“I can’t remember what was in this pocket. One of my knives, I think. Or maybe the polishing iron I brought. No, that’s still here.”
He reached out and stopped me from pulling the polishing iron out of its compartment.
“Don’t touch anything, please,” he said. “We’ll need to dust the remaining tools for fingerprints.”
“Sorry.” I grimaced at the thought that I might’ve destroyed evidence and backed away from the bed. The photographer moved in and snapped a bunch of pictures, then stepped out of the way so that rubber-gloved Richie could move in and fold up the tools. He put them inside another large envelope, then left the room with the photographer and my tools.
“We’ll get everything back to you presently,” MacLeod said.
“I have a workshop in two days,” I said. “Do you think I could have them back by then?”
“It shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded, then dug in his pocket for a business card and handed it to me. “I’ll be around to see you tomorrow, but please call me in the meantime if you think of anything else to tell me.”
I slipped the card in my purse. “I can tell you right now that Kyle received a phone call on his cell while we were at the pub. He told the caller he would meet them in five minutes and he took off. And no, he didn’t tell me who the caller was.”
MacLeod made a note in his pad. “We’ll follow up on that. Thank you.” He nodded at Derek. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Of course.”
I had a sneaking feeling whom the subject of their conversation would be. Lucky me.
MacLeod reached the door, then turned and pierced me with a look. “I must warn you not to leave the city without informing me.”
I licked my very dry lips. “I won’t.”
“G’night, then,” he said, and took off.
“That was pleasant,” Derek said, tugging on his jacket. “How about a nightcap?”
I should’ve said no, but how could I pass up such a charming offer? Besides, I knew that despite the jet lag, I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. “Maybe just one.”
We went downstairs to the pub and found it packed with book people commiserating over Kyle’s murder. At one table, two women talked quietly while dabbing their eyes with tissues. Over at the bar, several groups were toasting his memory.