by Hannah Reed
I slept like a log.
CHAPTER 14
I awoke Monday morning delighted to find Snookie curled up in the space between the headboard and my pillow. She opened her eyes, rolled onto her back, yawned, and stretched. I grinned, which isn’t usually part of my morning routine. Not that I’m cranky first thing like the inspector is, but I’m not overly gleeful, either. Grins and smiles are mostly reserved for special moments that come after several cups of coffee and a hot shower, and with a sufficient reason to do so.
I stroked the Scottish Fold, and she rewarded me with a soft purr of pleasure deep within her throat.
When was the last time I’d had a warm body in my bed? One so obviously pleased to be there?
It had been so long I couldn’t remember.
I busied myself by feeding Snookie from a small tin of food in the bag Bridie had packed, took a long hot shower, and drank a second cup of coffee while admiring the fresh coat of snow outside and last night’s holiday handiwork. Even without a tree, it set my mood to fine.
I decided to skip breakfast. I’d eaten an enormous amount yesterday, first clootie dumplings with clotted cream, then fish and chips, and finished the day with stew and mashed potatoes. Enough calories to last several days. I needed to cut back or I’d have to buy a new wardrobe, a size or two larger. Instead of eating, I added wood to the fire and sat down, picking up and opening the spiral notebook that Bridie had sent along with Snookie.
As the older woman had told me, it contained the cat’s medical records, carefully documented visits with the vet for vaccines and checkups, all neatly recorded with dates and results. Charlotte Penn’s notations and initials were on the most recent examinations. Apparently Snookie was a healthy, well-cared-for cat.
Two loose papers slid out and floated to the floor. I retrieved them.
The first was the document from the breeder that proved the Scottish Fold’s purebred status. Not that it mattered to me. She could be a mix of fifteen different breeds, and it wouldn’t mean a thing unless I intended to sell her or breed her, which I didn’t. But perhaps this would be important to someone else. I tucked it back into the record book and studied the other, which was folded in half.
“Princess Hen” had been handwritten on it, whatever that meant. I unfolded it.
And another reminder of my past smacked me in the face. I felt my breath become labored while my pulse raced. I looked away, into the fire, composed myself, and then stared at the piece of paper.
A clan crest of a hand holding a cutlass had been sketched onto it. And below it in Latin—Fortiter et Recte, which I effortlessly translated as “Boldly and Rightly.”
I recognized the Elliott crest instantly, of course.
I’d been so intent on evading any mention of the Elliotts, and had been successful until a few short days ago when Bridie Dougal had reeled me in with a cunning game. She’d wanted to get to know me solely based on my last name. The name I didn’t want to maintain a connection with.
And now this! Another glaring reminder that escaping one’s past is harder than it seems.
Snookie jumped onto my lap and settled as I tossed around possibilities and accusations. Was this another one of Bridie’s tricks to pique my interest? She hadn’t made a secret of her friendship with my grandfather and her wish to discuss my family, and I’d been just as open about my own feelings. But she’d apologized for upsetting me, and we hadn’t spoken on the subject since. I didn’t think this was intentional on her part.
I looked it over again. The paper was old, brittle, and yellowed, the ink faded. I wondered about the person who might have sketched it. My grandfather? Or Bridie? How it got inside Snookie’s vet journal was easily explained. Henrietta probably found it on the floor ages ago, tucked it inside the notebook, and forgot about it.
As I held part of my own history in my hand, I experienced a feeling of extreme pain over my losses. Distant cousins were all that remained on my mother’s side, and I knew little about them. Even less was known about my father’s family. Both his parents were deceased, I knew that much. My father, Dennis Elliott, had been an only child, so there weren’t any aunts or uncles to track down. Again I wondered if my father was alive. If he’d passed away, where was he buried? Was there a family burial plot? Where was my grandfather’s gravesite?
If my father was alive, living in the Highlands, where was he hiding?
Apparently I was more curious than I cared to admit, even to myself. Sitting before the fire with Snookie on my lap, I gave myself permission to remember.
I’d been six years old when my mother had been diagnosed with MS. At the time, her illness didn’t affect me unduly. The disease had been explained at my level of understanding, and the gradual but steady progression of her disabilities only impacted me later, in young adulthood, when I became her primary caregiver.
I remember being told that my grandfather had died, which didn’t mean much to me back then, either. I’d never known him, and the miles between Illinois and Scotland were incomprehensible to a small child.
Anyway, my father flew far away in a plane to attend the funeral. I remember standing next to my mother, waving good-bye after he’d picked me up and hugged me.
Then he’d never returned.
My mother’s letters went unanswered. I’d never seen her composing them, but when I was older, she told me she’d written many, sending them overseas. Now, for the first time, I had questions.
Who had those letters been addressed to? Had she known how to contact my father? What words had she written? Did she beg him to return? All those old, painful memories and disappointments, all the resentment flooded back. I was on the verge of tears.
Finding this crest and motto and suffering the feelings it invoked reminded me why I’ve spent years erasing my father, eliminating him from my world the same as he’d done to me. Recollection was painful. His actions only made me angry. And in the end, there wasn’t anything I could do to reconcile those feelings of bitterness.
Quickly, I folded the drawing along its creases and returned it to the notebook. Tossing it aside, I stretched to pick up my laptop from the end table without disturbing Snookie, balanced it on the arm of the chair, and powered up.
I clicked on my inbox. Finally! An e-mail from Ami. Something to take my mind off myself and these pesky personal issues that had cropped up in my path like an endless, unavoidable patch of poison ivy.
“I’m so sorry your special evening turned out the way it did,” Ami wrote. “How awful! At least you had a strong shoulder to lean on in the form of a hunky Scot. My suggestion, not that you’ve asked for it, but you know me, I can’t resist, is to spend your remaining days in the Highlands writing steamy romantic scenes and acting them out authentically. Leave that horrible crime for the police to solve. Who knows? The invitation snafu might be the catalyst to kick your relationship with Leith Cameron into high gear. Go get him while the getting is good.”
Leave it to Ami to turn a mistake like the invitation mess-up into an advantage. But why shouldn’t I go after my dreams? Because I wasn’t sure what they were. As much as I enjoyed Leith’s company, I wasn’t head-over-heels infatuated. Had I lost that schoolgirl ability to fall hard for a cute guy with a dynamic personality?
Leith had great qualities—he was self-assured without a flashy ego, and he was fun and outgoing. He was caring, hardworking, and a wonderful father. The list went on and on. So why wasn’t I chasing after this outstanding man? It wasn’t as though a good one came along every day.
After mulling over Ami’s note, I didn’t respond to it. How could I explain in a way that she would understand?
Working this murder investigation was exactly what I needed right now to escape the demons in my head. Writing more emotionally charged scenes with the Scottish Highlands as a backdrop would only accentuate the feelings of loss I was going to be experiencing soon
enough. Besides, having a fling with a man I most likely would never see again wasn’t my style. And I was positive it wasn’t his.
Reluctantly, I coaxed Snookie from my lap, closed my laptop, dressed for the wintry day, and left the cottage. I warmed up the Peugeot, found that Vicki wasn’t in her house, and took time to cuddle with her Westies. Then I did the same with Jasper inside the barn before driving the short distance to Sheepish Expressions. I got out, leaving the car running, and spotted the red mail van pulling in from the main road. The Royal Mail delivered to the shop almost daily, since it stocked yarns and garments from vendors all across the Highlands. As items were purchased and went out the door on a routine basis, so new products and old standbys arrived. It was a virtual merry-go-round of activity.
The driver and I exchanged greetings. Today’s delivery was especially large, as it tended to be on Mondays. I pitched in, offering to carry as much as I could.
“What are you doing?” Vicki shouted when she saw me standing at the front counter with various parcels stacked in front of me. I was idly sorting through the letters, not really expecting any to be for me. Since I’d been in Scotland, I’d had exactly zero personal snail mail, what with the expense and time to reach me and the ease of e-mail.
Vicki snatched the letters out of my hands and protectively clutched them to her chest.
For a moment, I gaped at her. She certainly hadn’t been herself recently. “Kirstine needs to get better ASAP and get back to work,” I advised after considering my friend’s change in behavior. “Because covering for her without a break is making you squirrelly. You’re acting strange.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” she snapped.
A close and personal visit from Sean would also do the trick. I’d have to see if I could get him relieved from his security duty for this evening, even though that meant I’d have to stand in for him. But if it would improve Vicki’s mood, I was willing. Even better, Katie might be released and depart with her parents, freeing both of us.
“Okay, then, I’m on my way to Glenkillen. Do you need anything?”
Vicki took a deep breath and forced a weak smile. “I’m fine, really. And Kirstine is coming in this afternoon to relieve me. She’s feeling much better. Once I get back to spinning and knitting at home, I’ll be much happier.”
Which I realized was true. Vicki was in her element when she was spinning yarn from the farm’s wool and creating patterns for her knitting students and yarn-of-the-month members.
“And I’ll see what I can do about giving Sean a break,” I offered.
“That would be wonderful.”
“If he shows up later and I don’t, feed Snookie for me.”
“Sure. Where are you off to right now?”
“Two guests from the tasting are staying at the inn,” I told her. “Both of them maintain that they were in their rooms the afternoon of the murder. They claim they were there until they left for the tasting. Neither has anyone to substantiate those alibis. I’m going to try to prove or disprove their claims.”
“How in the world are you going to do that?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
And I didn’t.
But as I drove away from the farm, I realized that Janet Dougal and Patricia Martin weren’t really today’s primary goals. They were simply housekeeping. Someone else without an alibi had entered my radar range. Someone with a motive.
But first things first. I’d follow up on alibis for Janet and Patricia, at least as far as I could go.
After that, I’d set my sights on Florence Dougal.
CHAPTER 15
When I arrived, Inspector Jamieson’s Honda CR-V was parked outside the Whistling Inn. Its horizontal yellow stripes framed by blue and black checkers were unmistakably his. After entering the inn, I exchanged small talk with Jeannie at the front desk and once again admired the inn’s festive decorations. Then she directed me to the breakfast room, where the inspector sat at a table with Janet and Florence Dougal. From the looks of things, they had just finished eating.
This was an amazing stroke of luck, considering that Bridie’s daughter-in-law had been in my thoughts on the drive over. I wouldn’t have to track down Florence now because she’d been delivered right into my lap.
As I joined them, I remembered that these two women had seemed to get along well at the tasting. I recalled my astonishment that evening when I noticed that Janet had managed to make a friend, considering her brash personality and how she had rubbed the other guests, including me, the wrong way. Right now, she was on her best behavior, sitting a bit too close to the inspector, invading his personal space, turned more than slightly his way, an intently concentrated expression on her face.
The inspector was visibly relieved to see me. He rose quickly, almost tipping the chair in his haste to offer me his seat. Accepting it, I suggested he bring over another. He muttered something about leaving soon anyway.
“The centerpiece is gorgeous,” I said, admiring the bouquet of holly, ivy, and mistletoe trussed up with ribbons, an arrangement worthy of Vicki.
“Holly is native tae Scotland,” Florence informed us. “Except for the most remote parts o’ the Highlands. And ivy is very common, o’ course.”
“I didn’t know that!” Janet said. “You are such a wealth of Scottish trivia.”
“It comes from a lifetime o’ living here.”
“I best be off,” the inspector said from behind me.
“Why the hurry?” Janet protested. “You should stay and grill us for more information. We’ve hardly begun.”
“I have a busy day before me.” Jamieson had caught on quickly to her scheme.
As if on cue, Janet rose. “I’ll show you out then,” she said.
He glanced at me and said, “We’ll be in communication a wee bit later. I’m off tae the hospital tae check in on Katie Taylor.”
“A sad affair,” Florence added. “It’s all about the village that some cad musta been passing through and seen an opportunity.”
“What a coincidence,” Janet exclaimed, catching a glimpse of herself in a decorative mirror on the wall and preening. “I was about to go to the hospital myself. I was shocked when I heard what happened to the poor girl and want to show my support. May I impose upon you for a ride, Inspector? My rental car is acting up.”
Jamieson grimaced when he realized his mistake. Amused, I waited to see how he might extricate himself from her clutches, but she had more experience in the fine art of web casting than he had in evading the net. Besides, I felt sure she could have countered any defenses he presented.
“All right then,” he told her. “Get yer coat. I’ll be waitin’ in my vehicle fer ye.”
Florence removed the napkin from her lap and placed it on the table, a sure sign that she expected to leave also.
“If you have a moment or two,” I said to her. “I’d like to speak with you.”
“That’s a good idea,” the inspector agreed, addressing Florence. “Ye should go over the facts as ye know them with Constable Elliott. She’s got a keen eye and will assist in speeding up the investigation once she is apprised of all the facts. Ye need tae fully cooperate with her.”
I shot him an expression of gratitude for having faith in me. Then I watched him sweep out of the room with Janet right behind him, her hustling form reminiscent of Sean’s dogged determination when chasing after the inspector.
Over tea, and while I nibbled at toast spread with marmalade, Florence calmly answered an assortment of personal history questions that I politely presented as social etiquette, carefully avoiding any tones associated with an interrogation.
She’d been married to Archie for thirty-one years, having met at a social function at the same Edinburgh business school that their son, Hewie, attended now. As soon as Archie graduated, they married. Hewie was an only child, and although they had
hoped for more, it was not to be. Her husband had been intrigued by the family business from the time he could walk. He’d explored every corner of the distillery, and his aspirations to one day run the business were cemented early on.
“Although he’s had some conflicts with his mother,” she added. “If they don’t see eye to eye on the best course, Bridie overrules him every time.”
“What about your son? Does Hewie want to follow in his father’s footsteps?”
Florence continued with an affirmative. He shared those aspirations. Hewie had been disappointed that he couldn’t jump right in, but his parents had insisted that he get a proper education before taking over the reins one day.
While Florence spoke of her husband’s and son’s hopes and dreams, I studied her. She must have been pretty at one time, but weight gain and the creases of a perpetual frown had marred that beauty. I wondered if she’d had any dreams of her own, and if they had come true.
“You seem to have struck up a friendship with Janet,” I said at one point, which brought the conversation around to the present situation.
“We share a common bond. We married into a tight-knit family. Both of us will always be considered outsiders. Neither o’ us is exactly welcome as far as my mother-in-law is concerned. Bridie barely tolerates me. The least she could do is pretend.”
Bridie hadn’t given any clues as to her opinion of her daughter-in-law one way or another, so I had no basis to judge that—other than the terms of the will, giving Harriet a home for life in a house that some might think should have gone to Bridie’s son and wife. “I’m sure that’s not true,” I said anyway to comfort her.
“It’s spot on,” Florence insisted. “And she hasn’t gone out o’ her way to embrace her American relative, either. Janet traveled a long way to meet us. She deserves better treatment. And Bridie soured Henrietta against me from the beginning. And the way Bridie carries on! She causes as much trouble as she possibly can—sitting in that big house, plotting against us. Her latest little trick was tae make us think she was selling out. It was a ruse o’ course. It always is.”
