by Hannah Reed
“Go on,” I encouraged.
“Henrietta was a much different person when she came tae work fer me. Her father was a drunk, the mother a sad sack, beaten down from years o’ abuse. A neighbor of hers appealed to me after learning that I was looking fer home help and asked me tae take her in, see if she might work out. That first year she needed tae heal from such a cruel home life.”
“That was kind of you.”
“It wasn’t kind so much as selfish. I enjoyed her fussing over me. Henrietta seemed happy with her lot, and stayed, as ye know. She had a lot o’ anger built up and it took time fer her tae let it go, but she managed eventually.”
“What about her sister?”
“Patricia was makin’ her own life in Edinburgh. Henrietta said she’d rather be on the dole than takin’ advantage of her sister and comin’ between her and her husband by intruding. Especially with a new family started.”
I thought about that before saying, “Could something in Henrietta’s past have anything to do with her murder?”
“Ye mean her past catchin’ up tae her?” Bridie paused, then said, “That was a long time ago. Over thirty years at least. What sort o’ person would wait that long tae exact revenge?”
A point I’d considered. “I was hoping you’d have some idea. Someone with incredible patience?”
“I can’t help ye there, Eden. Henrietta ran away from a bad childhood, but she was never any trouble tae me, never had anybody unsavory coming around callin’ on her, either. Why don’t ye stop by fer tea,” she interjected. “It’s about time we discussed yer Scottish family. I have lots o’ history tae share with ye.”
“I’m afraid I won’t have time for social calls until Henrietta’s murder is solved and we have her killer in custody,” I said firmly.
“I can make up some lovely finger sandwiches. Ye still have tae eat, don’t ye?”
“Soon, perhaps.” I wasn’t about to get into a debate with the old girl, because I wouldn’t win, so I wrapped up our conversation with, “If you think of anything that might be helpful, please call me. And could I please have your son’s private number? I’d like to touch base with him.”
Touch base. That had a nice personal ring to it. Bridie didn’t hesitate to comply.
When Archie answered, I identified myself as Constable Elliott, and his attitude remained respectful and helpful. “What can I do fer you?”
“Were you aware of a threatening note that was received by Henrietta and assumed to be directed at your mother?” I asked.
“After the fact, I was. Was it intended fer Henrietta, the poor old girl? Did you get tae the bottom o’ it?”
“Not yet, but we will,” I replied with more confidence than I felt. “Your mother’s initial thought was that it might have something to do with her plan to sell the distillery and her announcement that she had something to discuss with the family members after the tasting.”
“She thought one o’ us sent it?”
“Only at first. After Henrietta’s murder, she changed her mind. Now she believes the warning was intended for her companion.”
“And since Henrietta died a violent death, that assumption is valid, wouldn’t ye say?”
“Perhaps.” I remembered clearly my conversation with Florence. She hadn’t thought Bridie was serious about selling out. Neither had her husband, Archie, according to his wife. They’d assumed that Bridie had been bluffing. “Did you believe your mother intended to sell the distillery?” I asked, following up on Florence’s claims.
“We all presumed she meant it,” he said, surprising me. “Mother can be impulsive, rashly deciding important issues without consulting her family. It’s exactly something she might pull out o’ her hat. I spend half my time keeping her in check.”
Which was exactly the opposite of what Florence had told me.
“And your son? Was Hewie worried?”
“He’s away at university and doesn’t get involved in family politics.”
I thanked him for his time and disconnected.
Florence had lied about her family’s reaction. She and her husband believed Bridie was capable of selling out; her son, who she said had been concerned, wasn’t one bit, according to his dad; and Florence had uttered the same phrase used in the threatening note—“skating on thin ice.”
Interesting information, but confusing as well. If Florence had sent the note to Bridie, what in the world did that have to do with Henrietta’s murder? Had the housekeeper figured out that Florence was involved in the threat and so been killed to keep her quiet? Was that what she’d wanted to tell me after the tasting? To report Florence for threatening Bridie? In my view, that wasn’t much of a motive for murder. But getting rid of Henrietta before she could occupy the family home as grand dame was.
Florence’s dream was being threatened by the housekeeper. And if Bridie followed through with her intention to sell the distillery, Florence’s husband’s livelihood and their son’s future were at stake.
Granted, there would be cash from the sale, but that would be deposited in Bridie’s bank account, and Florence’s dreams would be shattered by her mother-in-law. Thus, the warning shot across the bow?
The issue of the distillery had been successfully resolved, whether a result of the note or a change of heart on Bridie’s part. The only remaining roadblock to Florence’s final destination had been Henrietta.
For good reason, Florence was at the very top of my suspect list. Had she been the one who had dressed in hospital garb and crept in to attack me? Had she figured out that I was on to her after my reaction to her comment about skating on thin ice? That certainly had been a major slip of the tongue on her part.
Florence Dougal was about to learn that I don’t give up easily. If the old Eden’s life had been threatened, she might have turned tail and headed for the hills. But the one who was awakening in the Scottish Highlands wasn’t such a pushover. Was I a force to be reckoned with? I hoped so.
Still, while sitting before the fire with my coffee and Snookie, I couldn’t help thinking that something about this case wasn’t right. I sensed that important pieces were missing. And it started with last night’s intruder. An attack on me wouldn’t stop the investigation. Actually I was the weakest link. The inspector would get to the truth with or without me. And the assailant didn’t have any guarantees that the inspector didn’t know everything I’d learned. It was a risky move.
After careful consideration, I was confident that I hadn’t been targeted for death because I was getting too close to pinpointing the killer. So . . . then . . . why?
Maybe more than one thing was going on here, and I was failing to recognize it.
I thought about that possibility in a personal context, harking back to my mother’s illness and the effort it took to finally get a proper diagnosis.
Multiple sclerosis isn’t easy to identify. There isn’t one simple test. So before my mother’s diagnosis, the doctors went about ruling out genetic disorders, brain tumors, infections, inflammatory diseases, and nutritional deficiencies. To make matters worse, she had an underlying condition that masked the real problem. Unbeknownst to all of us, she’d been suffering from depression. Once the depression was addressed, and those other possibilities ruled out, the MS was discovered.
More than one thing had been going on in her body, and for a long time we failed to recognize that fact.
Was the same thing happening here?
My eyes came to rest on Snookie’s health records. Inside the notebook, folded neatly in half with “Princess Hen” written on it, was an aging sketch of the Elliott crest with the motto skillfully and beautifully penned beneath the crest.
Once this case was solved, I’d have to remember to give the drawing to Bridie, as I was certain it belonged to her.
My phone rang, startling me. It was the inspector.
“I’m on my way to question a certain American compatriot o’ yers, and handcuffs are a distinct possibility,” he said.
“Janet Dougal?” Where had this come from?
“And I’d appreciate backup,” he continued.
“Why?” I asked, thrown off by the suddenness of his decision. Obviously he was arresting her. Why Janet?
“Why?” he roared, predictably as cranky as always first thing in the morning. “Because the woman is after me, that’s why, and if I have tae deal with her on my own, she’s goin’ tae think she has a chance and won’t take what I’m chargin’ her with seriously. It’s been bad enough up till now, bein’ stalked, I was, and I’ll have tae use handcuffs if ye aren’t there. Havin’ ye at my side will hopefully keep her at the proper distance.”
“What is going on?”
“Just meet me at the Whistling Inn.”
And the line went dead.
CHAPTER 19
Janet Dougal didn’t stand a snowball’s chance of escaping once she opened the door to her room.
“Ye’re tae come with us,” the inspector demanded by way of a greeting. “Constable Elliott will stay with ye while ye change intae something more appropriate. I’ll be waiting in the breakfast room.”
The smile on her face faded. “Is something the matter?” she called after his retreating back. Then to me, “He isn’t at his best in the morning, is he?”
An astute observation on her part. I’ve been on the receiving end of his snarly morning disposition several times, and it wasn’t pleasant, even when he wasn’t gunning for me as he was Janet.
“Let’s not annoy him further,” I suggested, glad that she’d already applied her heavy-handed makeup beforehand. Otherwise we would have taken much longer than it ended up taking. And since the man she’d set her sights on was involved, she hurried without any prodding from me.
“What’s the fuss about?” she asked as she changed.
The inspector hadn’t taken time to fill me in either on the phone or a few minutes ago in the reception area downstairs, so I was almost as clueless as Janet. “He’ll explain himself in due course,” I assured her.
We entered the breakfast room ten minutes later, the only ones there. Tea was already laid out for a party of three, with the inspector sitting quietly before one of the servings. Jeannie brought a basket of toast as we joined him.
I wasn’t particularly hungry in a physical sense after the big bowl of porridge I’d eaten earlier. My craving was for an end to the suspense that had been building inside me ever since the inspector’s summons. I still didn’t know what was going on, although I had my suspicions.
Oblivious to the tension in the air, Janet dove for the basket of toast, withdrew several halves, buttered them lavishly, and was spreading them with marmalade when the inspector chose that moment to enlighten us.
“I’m aboot tae ask ye some hard questions,” he said to her. “And I expect nothing less than completely honest answers.”
“Of course,” Janet said, as though she wouldn’t even think of any other option, her smile warm and reassuring.
“I believe ye had more than a few words with Henrietta McCloud.”
“I told both of ye about that incident,” she said, intent on preparing the toast.
“Aye, but ye failed tae mention a second encounter the very same afternoon that the victim was murdered.”
I hadn’t seen that coming, mainly because Janet had insisted she’d been in her room during the time in question, and I hadn’t found anyone to say otherwise. Apparently, the inspector had. I wondered who had come forward with this revelation.
Janet glanced up, startled. “And who offered up that pile of rubbish?” she demanded.
“Let’s just say I have a firsthand account. Ye were seen drivin’ away from the inn in that car ye’ve been renting at approximately four o’clock that afternoon.”
“What if I did?” Janet gave him her most dazzling smile. “That’s hardly proof of anything.”
“Except ye were also placed at Bridie Dougal’s house shortly afterwards.”
Janet’s smile slid sideways and the piece of toast fell from her fingers. “It’s time to come clean, then.”
“It’s past time,” I told her, growing more agitated, irritated that the woman had lied about her whereabouts from the beginning. More lies. A pile of lies, if I added hers to Florence’s.
“Henrietta McCloud rang me up,” she explained nonchalantly, as though it hardly mattered. Although this time she remembered the dead woman’s name.
“What time was this?” the inspector interrupted to ask.
“Roughly around three that afternoon, if I had to guess. She suggested that I come right over to have an early supper with Bridie before the tasting, that she was in fact looking forward to it, and that I couldn’t possibly say no. About time Bridie Dougal treated me properly, is what I thought at the time. So I drove out there, expecting to be warmly welcomed.
“Instead, Henrietta answered the doorbell, opened the door only partway, as though I was some sort of unwanted salesperson. She refused to let me in, claiming I hadn’t been expected at all. Well, of course we had words again, I told her what I thought again, and I ended up driving back to the inn to wait for the appropriate time to go to the tasting. Actually thrown out, as it were. That woman was playing some sort of nasty game with me!”
“Ye killed her then before ye left?” The inspector’s blue eyes were piercing like daggers.
“No! How could you possibly think that? Henrietta was very much alive. I’m the one who might have suffered a collapse of some sort after that shabby treatment. But you can see why I covered it up once the woman was found dead in a whisky barrel. I would have been the main suspect!”
I refrained from verbalizing the retort on my lips.
“I did a bit o’ research with the assistance o’ authorities in the States,” the inspector informed her, “using their database. Not only do ye have a working knowledge o’ distilleries, by yer own admission, havin’ made a hobby o’ touring them, and could have easily tapped the cask and emptied the contents intae the washback, but it appears that ye also have a criminal record.”
“The problem with the United States,” Janet said with a huff, after a brief moment to think about that, “is that old records aren’t purged after a certain amount of time, which would only be fair. A person does one little thing wrong, and it follows her for the rest of her life.”
What she claimed was true, a problem with the system, at least from an ordinary citizen’s point of view. I’ve witnessed plenty of situations where people were denied employment because of black marks in their distant pasts. But from law enforcement’s prospective, it was a huge benefit, as I was discovering now.
Inspector Jamieson leaned in and lowered his voice even though the room was empty of any other diners. “Ye were charged with assault on two different occasions, both o’ them occurring in the last year. I’d hardly call that a small spot on the linen that has followed ye fer years. Restrainin’ orders were required tae protect yer victims.”
Janet snorted. “Victims? Hardly. That silly tramp didn’t deserve him, but he was blind to that fact. And yes, they both requested restraining orders, but she put him up to it. I’m over that infatuation now and can hardly believe I had feelings for him.” Her voice softened as she went on, “He isn’t like you, not nearly as intelligent and interesting.”
The inspector grimaced, and there were a few moments of awkward silence all around before he continued, “I’m afraid I have no choice but tae detain ye fer further questioning in the murder o’ Henrietta McCloud. Ye have a history o’ violence, the knowledge tae have arranged the crime scene as we found it, and a witness that places ye there during that time frame. Do ye have anything tae say in yer defense?”
“I can see why it doesn’t look good from y
our point of view,” she admitted. “Especially when you lay it out like that, in such a cold fashion. I want an attorney, and that’s all I have to say.”
Janet might be done, but I wasn’t quite through.
“Not only are you facing murder charges, but you attacked me at the hospital last night,” I said, and it wasn’t a question. I’d never have thought she had it in her. “And before that you assaulted Katie Taylor. More charges will be pending, I assure you.”
“Katie who?”
“The caterer.”
“That’s preposterous,” Janet said, still blustery, but there were cracks in her composure. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know this person and I haven’t set foot in the local hospital. And when I left Henrietta McCloud, she was alive. Inspector, you aren’t really arresting me, are you?”
“Ye need tae come along quietly,” he said.
“I won’t!”
“Ye most certainly will,” I heard from the doorway, and glanced up to see Sean strutting our way, hitching up his trousers in a display of authority. “I can take on the responsibility o’ this one, as I should, considerin’ my newly appointed position.”
Jamieson was visibly relieved to pawn her off. “Take the suspect away, and I’ll be along shortly.”
“I don’t have a proper vehicle fer transportin’ suspects,” Sean told him, producing a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “I’m still drivin’ that ratty old Renault when I should be travelin’ in a beat car o’ me own.”
The inspector sighed. “Fer right now, ye’ll drive what ye have.”
“You can’t handcuff me,” Janet said, rising from the table, staring at the handcuffs, the seriousness of the matter finally dawning. “I’m an American citizen.”
“And a Dougal at that,” the inspector added.
“That’s right! And I have immunity,” she insisted. “Based on my nationality.”
“Sean, see that herself’s immunity remains intact and watch out, she’s got a record o’ aggression.”
