A Double Death on the Black Isle

by A. D. Scott

  “I will look into it for you.”

  Patricia had a final question. “That solicitor in Dingwall . . . thank you for the recommendation.”

  “Calum Sinclair.”

  “Yes. He has agreed to represent Sandy’s brother over the fire on the boat.”

  “I have heard only good reports about him.”

  “After all this mess with Sandy is cleared up, would you mind if I took my personal business to Calum Sinclair? I’d like to separate my legal affairs from the estate’s business and from Mother and Father.”

  Another dazzling smile was switched on.

  “I quite understand and am not offended in the least. Tell Sinclair to give me a call and we will sort out the formalities.”

  Angus McLean was a solid man, solid in weight and reputation. He had been a solicitor for thirty years. He knew a schemer when he saw one. What is she up to now? he wondered after Patricia had left, certain there was another reason behind the decision. Whatever the reason, he meant what he said, it did not bother him in the least to lose her as a client.

  “Arnotts, twelve thirty, my treat.” It had almost been a command, Joanne thought as they waited for their first course.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been snappy these past few weeks,” Patricia apologized. “I’ve been under a great strain. I had to apologize to Angus McLean too. My tactlessness has been worse lately, and as I never had much tact to start with . . .”

  “I won’t comment on that.” Joanne laughed.

  “This is for you.” Patricia handed over a small gift-wrapped parcel. “Open it, I’d like to see if the color is right.”

  “Pure silk. You shouldn’t have.” Joanne felt a rush of embarrassment. I’ve been so uncharitable to her lately—it’s this job, we see the worst in everything.

  Patricia leaned over and draped the scarf around Joanne’s shoulders. “You deserve it. Besides, who else is going to treat you if not your best friend?”

  As with so many remarks from her friend, Joanne immediately felt defensive. Patricia doesn’t mean to hurt, she told herself.

  “Have you recovered from this morning’s ordeal?” she asked.

  “Thank you. You are one of the few to recognize what an ordeal it was.” All the cheerful, “I can cope, I’m doing fine” façade slipped, and Patricia’s sudden change in spirits went a long way in mollifying Joanne.

  They ate their lunch, both in a subdued mood, and when Joanne said she had to get back to work, they were both relieved—though neither showed it.

  “Heavens, I must dash too. Lovely to catch up with you. Must do this again soon. I’ll call. Love to the girls. Bye. Bye-eee.”

  A rustle of bags, a hug for Joanne, a waving off of the change brought by the waitress, Patricia negotiated her way through the tables in the dining room, like a sturdy tugboat sailing against the tide. Joanne sat in the wake of her friend’s departure, amused, perplexed, and vaguely wondering what Patricia wanted.

  Not one word had been spoken about the inquiry. Nothing had been said about Sandy Skinner, his life, the marriage, his death.

  Maybe it is life on a farm that makes her seem callous, Joanne thought, you learn not to become attached to the sweet little lambs that you bottle-fed, knowing you will have to send them to market, knowing they will end up on your plate for Sunday dinner.

  The bank was a typical, heroic, Scottish stone building—tall, grand, with a Grecian façade, complete with columns, decorative urns, and an imposing frieze atop—a perfect monument to the power of money.

  Patricia had not made an appointment, but when she asked for the bank manager, it was in the firm expectation that the name Ord Mackenzie would change anyone’s schedule.

  The bank manager, who always saw his title in capital letters, led Patricia to his office, which was equally grand. A sleek, seal of a man, he carefully adjusted his suit jacket and trousers before sitting at a desk constructed in the same grandiose scale as the bank. Look, the building shouted. See, the fabric and furniture said. This is the power of money.

  They waited for an underling to fetch the file. He asked after her father and her mother. He murmured all the correct sentiments when she told him the sheriff’s verdict. She handed over the death certificate, she took out a small leather-bound dairy, and they got down to business.

  “It is all straightforward. As you quite rightly stated, this is an account that allowed you to operate either individually or jointly.”

  “Sandy was insistent on that, and it turned out to be a wise decision.” Patrica spoke quietly. It would be bad form to speak in anything other than hushed tones in a temple of money. “Your letter said the funds from the bank cheque have cleared.”

  “Yes. I am sorry we were unable to forward your late husband an advance against this payment. It was a substantial sum of money he requested. I had to be cautious, as a promissory note is only a piece of paper until the funds are deposited.”

  Patricia thought for a moment, then asked, “Do I need to do anything? Legally I mean.”

  “Not as far as the bank is concerned. The funds in the account are legally yours.” He cleared his throat in a clichéd signal of a question—for he was a cliché of a bank manager.

  Patricia saw the man was nervous. “Is there anything else?”

  “The transfer of the funds from the Achnafern Estate account to your joint account is still waiting on your mother’s co-signature.”

  “I don’t think we need bother with that anymore.” She smiled.

  “Quite.” He smiled back.

  “Should I close this account and open one in my name only?”

  “That is what I was going to suggest.”

  They finished the paperwork. Patricia was given a statement. She glanced again at the amount written clearly on the bottom of the page, making sure she had not mistaken the number of zeros.

  “One final question. If I were to purchase a motorcar, what is the best way to pay?”

  “Request a bank cheque be drawn up for the amount.”

  As she left the bank, Patricia glanced at her watch, calculating how much time she had. I could look, she thought, Macrae & Dick is not far. They should have a car suitable for me.

  Patricia crossed Union Street to the sporting outfitters and fishing-gear emporium. She chose a shooting stick to replace the one her father had lost.

  “Please wrap it,” she said. “It is a present for Daddy.”

  “Of course, Miss Ord Mackenzie,” the shop owner was almost bowing with respect.

  Next the market arcade for Mrs. Munro’s wool.

  She then crossed the street to the garage and car showroom and stared in the window at the various models on display.

  Not too large, she thought, but room for a carry-cot in the back. Not too bright, definitely not red or maroon, black maybe. That one looks nice, that sleek one, just the thing for an Ord Mackenzie.

  She went in, she sat in the car, she asked the price, she said she would arrange payment, she agreed on a delivery date. When she left, the salesman stared after her in disbelief.

  “I’ve never know a woman make up her mind so fast,” he said to his assistant.

  “I can’t wait to see Mummy’s face when the car is delivered,” Patricia said to herself.

  SIXTEEN

  Joanne was attempting to write up her notes on the morning’s court proceedings. Three drafts so far, and each ended in the top-hat-cum-bin, a crumple of rejected words.

  “I’ll never get this blooming thing to behave himself.” She banged the return carriage, taking her frustration out on the typewriter.

  “A male typewriter?” Don walked in.

  “Of course. Stubborn, awkward, unreliable, and needs oil at least once a week.”

  “That’s your opinion of men?”

  “Of course—present company excepted.” She flashed Don a smile and went back to her typing.

  “What’s the problem?” Don asked when it became clear Joanne wasn’t volunteering information.
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  “I’m not going to ask you, because I know the answer: ‘Write the facts, just the facts.’”

  “The fatal accident inquiry, I take it.”

  “Yes. I can’t manage to put any color into it. Not the way Rob does in his stories.”

  “This is different. It is a factual report. No more. If you did put fancy bits into it, I’d cut them.” Don wiggled his wee red pencil at her, grinning like an evil troll. “So, start at the beginning, get to the end, then we’ll look at it.”

  She glanced at her notes again, rolled her shoulders, then with a spurt of confidence, and her fingers and wrists and elbows, Joanne banged out the report. Finished, she unwound the copy from the typewriter.

  Don read it. He deleted a word or two, did a quick word count, then pronounced “Exactly what’s wanted.”

  “Really?”

  “You should do that more often,” Don told her. “You look like a beam o’ sunshine bursting out from behind the Cuillins when you smile.”

  He glanced at the report again.

  “‘Mrs. Skinner explained that in her panic, she drove to Dores rather than to nearby Foyers to report her husband missing,’” Don read aloud. “Believe her, do you?”

  “Of course. She was sick, she was worried. . . . Patricia may be difficult, but she would never . . .”

  “Patricia would never do what?” Rob came in.

  “Push her husband into the Falls of Foyers,” Don answered.

  “Only if she knew she could get away with it.” Rob laughed.

  “I don’t believe you two.” Joanne stood.

  “How can you say that? You have no idea what Patricia has gone through lately.” She started to yell, “Plus, she is pregnant.”

  “Would that work as a defense?” Rob asked Don.

  “What a dreadful thing to say.” Joanne brushed past Rob, grabbed her coat, and ran down the stairs.

  When she reached the bridge, she realized she was shaking, but she didn’t know why.

  It was not the conversation in the newsroom—Don and Rob frequently speculated on worst-possible scenarios. It was not her beating—the bruises had almost healed, only her ribs still hurt.

  I’m tired. I’m scared I’m not up to this job. I don’t want to let McAllister down. Joanne was leaning on the side of the bridge, looking down through the rush of whisky-colored water to the stones of the ancient ford below. I am lonely. The observation startled her.

  A woman laden with shopping bags brushed past Joanne, knocking against her with what felt like potatoes, startling her out of her reverie. The woman apologized. Joanne apologized, and turned in the direction of the office, then changed her mind.

  Chiara will be in the café. Coffee and good company, just what I need.

  Joanne should have known something was up the minute she walked into the café. Gino Corelli’s grin was so wide his eyes disappeared, making him look like an Asiatic nomad.

  “Tell Annie it was dancing at dawn round that standing stone that did it.” Chiara laughed when she told Joanne the news.

  “Phallic object, my friend Beech calls it.”

  “What’s that?” Chiara asked.

  “It’s a . . . Chiara, stop teasing.”

  “I don’t care what it is, all I know is I am well and truly pregnant.”

  “Chiara, I am so thrilled for you both!” Joanne was laughing as she bent down to hug her tiny friend.

  They ordered coffee, and they chatted and caught up with each other’s news. When Joanne said she had to get back to work, Chiara asked the question only she, as Joanne’s closest friend, dare ask.

  “Have you heard from Bill again?”

  “No.” Joanne looked down at the last of the froth in her coffee cup. “I made the right decision to leave, but sometimes . . . I don’t know. . . .”

  “You mean it would be better to stay with a man who beats you?”

  Joanne flinched at her friend’s frankness.

  “No. It’s just that . . .” The whole story came out: the girls’ behavior, the disapproval of her parents-in-law, the difficulties of working and being a mother, the impossibility of divorce. It was the same conversation they had had again and again for the last year. The happiness and laughter of a moment ago vanished.

  “Now listen to me, Joanne,” Chiara was fierce when aroused. “You’ve fought hard for what you have—a home of your own, a great job—so no giving in now. I understand absolutely that divorce is not possible, why do you think it took me so long to find a husband? It drove Papa and Aunty crazy that I waited until twenty-seven to find the right man. So stay strong.”

  “I’ll try. But, just before Bill hit me, I saw his face in the streetlight, and Chiara, he was crying.”

  In Joanne’s experience, men would rather throw themselves off a bridge into a river in spate than cry.

  “Can you count the times he promised to change? Is ten years long enough to give him a second chance? Do you want your girls growing up thinking this is how marriage is?” Chiara was relentless.

  Joanne examined the red-and-white pattern of the table.

  “Another thing. We hardly see you. Papa, Aunty Lita, my Peter, we are your family—all refugees together in this Highland land. . . .”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, just promise that once a week, we all have dinner together. You, the girls, we make it a Friday-night tradition, si? You come, Aunty Lita cooks, Peter plays with the girls, you and me gossip. Si?”

  “Si.” Joanne laughed. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Never. I want the godmother for this little person happy.”

  “I’d love that.” Joanne was thrilled.

  “Good.” Chiara got up, went round to Joanne and hugged her. “Now go back to work and make cow’s eyes. . . .”

  “Sheep’s eyes.”

  “I know, but cows have lovely eyes—sheep don’t. Go back, and you flirt with that McAllister. There is a real man.”

  “Chiara! Stop teasing! The last thing I need is another man. Once was enough.” Chiara’s bright, shining happiness was infectious. She touched her lightly on the arm. “Thanks, Chiara.” Then she remembered.

  “On May Day morning, do you remember I said something about seeing Mrs. Ord Mackenzie’s car?”

  “Vaguely. You thought it was her car, but weren’t sure.”

  After she had left, Chiara considered Joanne’s situation—her loneliness, her optimism, her fears, her severance from her parents, the impossibility of remarrying, of finding happiness with a man who truly loved her. And Chiara concluded, not for the first time, that a society where women were the possessions of men was not a society she would allow her daughter to inhabit. Even if it were only a society of three—herself and Peter and the baby—that was how it would be.

  When Joanne got back to the office, only Don was there.

  “I saw Chiara Kowalski,” Joanne told him. “She’s pregnant.”

  “I bet the baby will be a wee stunner, just like its mother.”

  “The dad’s pretty handsome too, so I’m sure he or she will be gorgeous.”

  Five minutes passed. No one interrupted them.

  “So are you going to do anything about the hiding Bill gave you?”

  “What hiding?” She didn’t look up.

  “I know. It’s none of my business.”

  “You’re right. It is none of your business,” she snapped.

  Her eyes filled with tears. She hated it when that happened.

  Don saw. He hated it too. It made him furious and helpless and ready to belt the living daylights out of her husband. But he wouldn’t do that. He was more a wait and exact vengeance when you’d never be found out type of man.

  “Sorry, I know you are trying to help.” Joanne looked across the table and smiled.

  Don hated that weary, apologetic smile of hers, the way her shoulders hunched as she shrank into herself whenever her husband’s name was mentioned. It’s as if she’s trying to make herself the sm
allest target possible, he thought.

  “There is no way out of an unsuitable marriage.”

  “A visit in the night from some of my unsavory pals? A carefully arranged accident?” He was about to joke, “like your friend Patricia,” but knew that wouldn’t go down well.

  He looked at her. He took in her bravery, her spirit, and her kindness. He admired the way she tried to make the best of her lot.

  “I’ve a great idea. One of my best ideas yet. Here’s what we do.” He lit a cigarette. Joanne sat back to enjoy another of Don’s preposterous stories.

  “You and me, we book into thon motel that’s just opened along the loch. As Mr. and Mrs. Smith, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “We have Hector burst into the room and take photos. You get a divorce with me named as your fancy man. Then, you marry me.”

  “Don, that is the nicest proposal anyone has ever put to me.” Joanne was laughing.

  “Of course,” Don continued, “for it to stand up in court, Hec will come bursting in after the deed.”

  “After the deed?”

  “Naturally.” He winked and it made his heart glad to watch her laughter.

  Mrs. Betsy Buchanan came in carrying some papers. Today she was in powder blue. Powder blue skirt—tight, powder blue jumper—tight, and a string of bright-blue beads the size of marbles. Joanne secretly thought the tones of blue made Betsy resemble her neighbor’s pet budgie.

  “Hello, can I join in the joke?” Betsy asked.

  “Sorry. It’s private,” Don told her.

  “That’s a shame. I love a good joke.” She waited. Silence. Joanne turned back to the typewriter. Don searched for his pencil and found it behind his ear.

  “There were some calls for you when you were out, Joanne—here are the numbers.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Buchanan.” Joanne took the notes.

  “Anything else, Don?” Betsy asked in her bright bird at dawn twitter.

  “Aye,” he replied. “It’s Mr. McLeod in the office, thanking you. And Mrs. Ross. And Mr. McAllister. But Hec is Hec.”