I made a conscious decision not to think about Royce McVee until the workshop was over.
The class filled up quickly and we went to work. I had to laugh at one point when an older woman named Millie glued her decorative cloth book cover to the worktable.
“Oopsie-daisy,” she said.
“No problem, Millie,” I said, prying open my supply case and pulling out an extra piece of Japanese cloth so klutzy Millie could start over.
Even with all the pieces precut and the instructions easy enough for a six-year-old to follow, there were always one or two people who just didn’t get it.
But most of them did.
“Ooh, it’s so pretty,” one woman said, smiling. She’d finished the project and was tying the small album together with the purple grosgrain ribbon I’d provided.
“Beautiful job, Maureen,” I said as I walked up and down along the tables, observing everyone’s work.
The long day and the strange appearances of a possible killer and Gabriel during the night started to catch up with me, and I had to keep myself from yawning more than once.
Finally, the two hours were up and the class began to file out with their treasures as a young woman waded through the wave of departing students. She approached and handed me a small envelope.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“You’re Ms. Wainwright?” she asked as she straightened the royal blue vest she wore as an official book fair volunteer. She was breathing heavily.
“Yes. Are you okay?”
“I just ran from the castle? Anyway, that’s for you?” She pointed to the small envelope she’d just handed me.
I absently noted her thinning, frizzy red hair and tendency to end sentences with question marks as I opened the envelope and read the note inside.
I know who killed Kyle. Meet me at St. Margaret’s Chapel at 16:30. Be careful. Tell no one.
I shook the note at the volunteer. “Who gave this to you?”
She cowered at the demand in my voice. “Some lady up at the castle?”
“What did she look like?”
The volunteer screwed up her face as though I were an evil headmaster with a whip.
I took a deep breath and said calmly, “Can you describe her for me? It’s really important.”
“I don’t know?” she whined. “Oriental? Dark hair? Short? Nice jacket?”
Helen.
“Thanks very much.” I didn’t want to make her cry by pointing out that the politically correct term was Asian, not Oriental. She hurried off and I was left alone in the small conference room with Helen’s note and no clue what to do next.
I stared at the note.
I know who killed Kyle.
Had Helen called the police? Why would she take a chance and send a note about the killer to me?
Meet me at St. Margaret’s Chapel at 16:30.
I assumed that meant four thirty. Helen had been born and raised in California, which was one more reason we’d bonded during that summer in Austin, Texas, when we decided that earthquakes were easier to live with than hurricanes. But she’d spent the last few years living with Martin in London, so maybe she’d acclimated to the British method of using the twenty-four-hour clock. Maybe.
More than likely, though, the note was a hoax and not from Helen at all. Which meant Helen was in trouble.
Unless Helen had killed Kyle. No, I would never believe that. But if she’d sent the note, then someone close to her was the killer. Martin? Serena? A dozen other people? Oh, hell.
I checked my watch. My workshop had officially ended at three thirty so it was now three forty. It would take me twenty minutes to walk up to the castle and another ten or fifteen minutes to reach St. Margaret’s Chapel on the castle grounds. I figured I’d be perfectly safe in the middle of the afternoon at Edinburgh Castle, surrounded by hundreds of tourists, not to mention the Scottish Guard.
Besides, I wouldn’t be going alone. I wasn’t a complete idiot, despite my recent gaffe with Royce.
Royce.
Had he gone after Helen? But why? Why would he care if Helen and Kyle had been engaged? I could understand if he went after Serena. She stood to inherit Kyle’s portion of the business, but Helen?
And what did Helen have to do with the Robert Burns book? Had Royce killed Kyle to keep him from presenting the book to the world, and now realized he would have to kill Helen to keep it quiet? But wait, he already knew I had the book.
I was driving myself crazy and wasting time wondering about Royce. I needed to find Helen. But first, I needed to find the police.
I stuck the note in my jacket pocket and rushed through the room cleaning up, stuffing tools and leftover supplies into my bag. When I walked out of the conference room, the corridor was empty. I wondered briefly where Constable McKenzie was, but figured I’d run into him on my way upstairs.