Call of the Clan

by Patti Wiggington

  "What did she see, Emily?"

  "A man. She couldn't make out who it was, as he had a cap on, and a coat, but he was fiddlin’ with Jamie's boat when it was tied up out at the dock, aye? He were out there for a long time, doin’ whatever it was, and then that night Jamie and Melissa went out in the boat and a storm come up and they drowned,” she sobbed.

  I sat back, stunned. “Why didn't she tell someone about this earlier? Like ten months ago?"

  Emily shrugged. “She wasn't supposed to be there, at the priory. She was down there smokin’ with a boy she knew from Dunoon. She didn't want to get in trouble, so she kept it to herself."

  My mind was racing. There was something missing to all this. If Sandie had indeed seen someone tampering with my father's boat, and had kept it to herself in order to avoid getting in trouble herself, why had she been killed?

  "Emily, why did Sandie tell you about this? Did she figure out who it was that she saw?"

  The girl sighed, and I realized she suddenly looked older than seventeen. In that moment, she looked remarkably like the photo of her sister that I had seen in Cayden Spalding's croft. “She said she'd an idea to make some money, aye? I didn't ask how, but she said she'd be set for a while, and she could move off somewhere on her own."

  Blackmail. Sandie MacFarlane had decided, after months of silence, to extort money from whoever she had seen on the dock that day.

  But whoever it was, he had turned the tables on her.

  "My God,” I whispered. There were any number of people currently at Kilgraeme that had been here at the time of my father's death.

  "Emily,” I asked slowly, “who do you think it was?"

  "I don't know,” she wailed. “But tis someone here, aye? It would have to be! And I just can't bear the thought of it!” She gulped. “There were rumors, you know, after Melissa and Jamie died. My mam an’ I never believed it, and so after a time everyone forgot about things."

  I nodded. After that, there was little else to say, so I sent Emily back to the kitchen to help her mother.

  None of this made any sense. If Sandie was killed because she knew something about my father's death, why had Trish died? And if Trish was killed because Cayden Spalding was after the Murray treasure, as Evan and I suspected, how did that connect to Sandie? Was it possible he had killed both of them for exactly those reasons? Something didn't fit.

  If it had been Cayden that Sandie saw at the dock, tampering with the boat, his sheer size would have given him away. Even with a cap covering the telltale red hair it would have been impossible, even for a stoned teenage girl, not to know who he was.

  The more I thought about all of this, the less I understood it. It definitely seemed as though my father's death, and Melissa Much's, had not been an accident. That meant that there hadn't been two murders at Kilgraeme.

  There were four.

  When I emerged from the library around midnight, I wandered down to the kitchen, trolling for food. As I helped myself to bread and gooseberry jam, Evan came bursting in through the back door.

  "Brynne!” He looked around the kitchen. “Good, we're alone! Listen,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I think we're on to something. I've been trailing Spalding all over the place today. He's a busy guy, but I think I know what he's up to."

  He looked so earnest that I couldn't help smiling. “Okay, Sherlock,” I winked. “What's the story?"

  I put a kettle on to boil and began hunting for the tea.

  "Upper cupboard, beside the icebox,” he said, pointing. “Anyway, he spent most of the morning piddling around in that old lopsided tower of his where he does his blacksmith thing, you know the one, aye? Broch Something."

  "Caidil,” I murmured automatically.

  "Aye, that's the one. Then he walked into the village and had lunch at Tormod Kerr's pub."

  I closed my eyes and tried to picture Evan sneaking around the moors, stealthy enough to avoid notice by Cayden Spalding. I would have giggled if I hadn't been so worried.

  "After that, he walked back to his croft, picked up a knapsack, and went off in his truck,” he finished.

  "That's it? Where did he go?” Somehow the story wasn't as exciting as I had expected it to be.

  Evan looked troubled. “Well, I couldn't very well follow him about on the moors in my car, could I? I'd stick out like a sore thumb. But I can tell you this, he went to the cemetery on his way back home."

  I frowned. “The cemetery? Well, that's where his wife is buried. Maybe he felt like visiting her grave."

  He shook his head. “He didn't have anything to do with Melissa's grave, that's the thing. He was meddlin’ about by your Da's headstone."

  A wave of anger coursed through me. What in the hell was Cayden Spalding doing at my father's grave? I didn't care if Spaldings had been at Kilgraeme since the beginning of time itself. He had no right to be there.

  "Okay,” I said quietly. “What happens now?"

  He sighed. “I follow him tomorrow. Any luck in the library?"

  "No,” I mused. “I spent the whole day just straightening up and dusting things. I'll get into everything in the morning."

  "All right,” he smiled. He took my hand gently. “I've missed you, Brynne. It seems like we never have time to see each other, and I miss that."

  I flushed. “I do too."

  Evan leaned forward, and kissed me gently. His lips were warm and tasted like peppermint. “Brynne?"

  "Mm?"

  "There something I've been meaning to tell you,” he said softly. He sounded so serious, I opened my eyes and stared at him.

  "What is it?” I asked, concerned.

  I noticed his cheeks were a little pink. “I love you, Brynne, and I'm glad I'm able to say it at last."

  I cared deeply for him, truly I did. But I just couldn't say those three little words back. Because if I had, I wouldn't have meant them.

  Evan and I stayed up half the night talking, getting to know each other better, telling each other our secrets. I told him about Steve Marlette and the car accident that had claimed his life, and my mother and her drinking and suicide. He told me about being raised in a cold and emotionally deficient family in northern England, sturdy Presbyterian stock. His father had gambled away much of the family's money before inconveniently dying and leaving Evan, an only child like myself, the bulk of his debts.

  "What do you want out of life, Evan?” I asked, snuggling close to him on the large couch in the parlor.

  "Hm. I'd like to have a good, solid law practice of my own, for starters."

  I blinked. “I thought you had one."

  Evan shook his head. “No. I'm the poor nephew of the firm. My mother's oldest brother is in charge, and I get to come and go as I please, really. Ranald and Jamie Murray, and Kilgraeme, have been my only real clients of any substance."

  "Wow. Okay, so what else do you want, besides a law practice with your name on the shingle?"

  He laughed, and as I snuggled closer I realized that I didn't really like his cologne. Oh well. Maybe I could learn to live with it. Or better yet, get him a brand I did like as a Christmas gift. “Well, I'd like to have a few children, and be filthy rich so they'd never want for anything, the way I did."

  It was my turn to giggle. “Filthy rich? Why not just mildly rich? Or a little bit rich?” I joked.

  He took my chin in his hand, turning my head to look at him, and I realized he was quite serious. “I mean it, Brynne. The people with the most money have the most power. Money equals control. Nobody listens to a poor man, but a man with money will always be heard."

  There was a cold, almost feral look in his eyes, and I resisted the urge to pull away. “Okay,” I smiled wanly. “Lots of lawyers are filthy rich."

  He winked at me then, and the harsh expression vanished, replaced by the old Evan that I liked. “What about you, Brynne? What do you want out of life?"

  I frowned. “You know,” I said slowly, “if you had asked me that question a year ago, I woul
d have said a sportier car, a few more pairs of name brand shoes, or a nicer condo. Now, I'm not so sure what the answer would be."

  "Why is that?” I could feel his warm breath on my ear.

  "I don't know, really. It just seems like I've changed since I came to Kilgraeme. I guess I'm learning about perspective.” I thought about my brother, and his different ways of looking at things. To Gil, the simple things were important, complex things were not. Life wasn't fair, but to Gil it didn't matter, because he learned from the things that didn't work out for him. “I know what I want,” I said suddenly.

  "What?"

  "I want to be more like my brother,” I said. Evan's eyes widened. “No, not like that,” I laughed. “He's just so ... content. He has a great relationship and a great life, and he's doing what makes him happy. That's what I want. The ability to be content with what I have, and not expect life to just hand me more than I deserve."

  Evan burst into laughter. “That's ridiculous! Why in bloody hell should you be content with what you have, and not want more?"

  I scowled. “You asked me what I wanted. That's my answer. Take it or leave it, but don't call it ridiculous."

  "I'm sorry, Brynne, I didn't mean to ... diminish what you said,” he said. “It just sounds so.... I don't know. Idealistic."

  "Maybe,” I admitted. But it was the truth. It was what I wanted, idealistic or not.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  It was one week until Christmas. I hadn't spoken with Cayden since the night of Trish's murder, but I knew he was nearby. Michael Kerr spent a lot of time at Kilgraeme, nosing around, and the two of them were thick as thieves, as Evan put it. Evan himself was trying to be unobtrusive, but it was hard to be sneaky out on a wide open moor.

  I borrowed Evan's Saab and drove into Arrochar to finish up my holiday shopping. It was a good-sized town, and the streets were decorated with lights and greenery. Mrs. Much had recommended a bookstore there, and I still had a few people left to buy for, including Cayden Spalding. It was just a formality, really. Even though I wasn't on speaking terms with him right now, it was Christmas, and it would look quite bad if I got a gift for everyone at Kilgraeme but him.

  Sleigh bells jangled over my head as I pushed the door open and stepped into the shop. The interior, which looked straight out of a classic novel, smelled sweetly of cinnamon and pine cones. A calico cat, which looked like it had eaten more than its share of holiday cheer, dozed on a horsehair chair, and a lush tree sat decorated for the holidays in full Victorian splendor.

  Several other shoppers loitered within, and I puttered around examining the different selections. An entire wall was devoted to mystery novels, not the gory or graphic ones but nice cozy little tales about sweet old ladies and policemen's wives who solved crimes. I selected a pair for Mrs. Much, as the main character was a cook who lived in a large manor house. They seemed fitting. Further along, in the somewhat small self-help section, I found a copy of a famous war strategy book for Evan.

  In a tiny alcove at the rear of the store I found a selection of historical and biographical books, and I peered at the spines trying to figure out which might appeal to Cayden Spalding. Not that it mattered. If the man was indeed a killer, perhaps four times over, hopefully he would be in jail by Christmas and I wouldn't have to give him anything.

  "Looking for anything special, miss?"

  I jumped, and realized I was suddenly the only customer left in the store.

  "Amelia Gillies,” the woman said, extending her hand, and blinking at me from behind stylish purple-rimmed glasses. Amelia Gillies could have been anywhere between thirty-five and sixty. “Don't believe we've met, have we?"

  I smiled, and shook her hand. “We haven't. I'm Brynne Marlette."

  She arched a bushy eyebrow. “The young lady who's inherited Kilgraeme?"

  "That's me,” I confessed. “Does everyone know me?"

  Amelia Gillies shrugged. “I don't know about everyone, but I know who you are. Several of my regular customers come here from Kilgraeme."

  I breathed a sigh of relief. At least I didn't have a big neon “Kilgraeme” sign on my forehead. “Really?” I asked. “Maybe you can offer some suggestions on what to get people, then."

  She blinked again. “Historical books and biographies. If I were a betting woman I'd say you were looking for something for Cayden Spalding. Am I right?"

  "You're good,” I laughed.

  Amelia perused the shelves for a while. “He's got most of these already,” she said, “but I have one or two new ones he might be interested in. Do you know him well?"

  "Not as well as I thought I did,” I said under my breath.

  "Beg pardon?"

  "No. No, I really don't know anything about him, I guess,” I amended.

  "All right. Try this one, he'll probably like it,” she suggested. I liked Amelia Gillies. We spent another hour or so chatting and choosing books for the rest of the folks on my list, many of whom had come into Amelia's at one point or another. As she was ringing up my purchases, a thought struck me.

  "Did Trish MacGregor ever come in here, Ms. Gillies?"

  She looked up abruptly. “She did, since you ask.” A few other customers had filtered in, and Amelia leaned across the counter towards me. “As a matter of fact, she asked me to order copies of a few rather old documents for her, I've a cousin who works at the General Records Office, you see. They came in a few days before she was killed, but she never picked them up."

  I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to apologize on Trish's behalf or not. “Er, I'm sorry to hear that. Can you send them back to, wherever it was they came from? Your cousin?"

  Amelia sighed. “Afraid not. I paid for them, you see, and she was to reimburse me. It was for some research she'd been doing."

  "What kind of documents?"

  "Some land records from English probate courts, and such. She evidently had a theory about something or another that she was trying to confirm. She browsed through them, but she was short on cash that day."

  "Ms. Gillies,” I said levelly. “Am I to understand you still have these items here?"

  "Well, of course, dear,” she said. She moved the calico cat out of the chair, and reached under the Christmas tree. Pulling out a thick plastic envelope, she turned back to me. “I don't suppose you'd be interested?"

  I shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, probably not, but I hate that you're out a few dollars, er, pounds, because of Trish getting ... well, you know. I'd be happy to take those off your hands, if you like. I could send them back to her family in Michigan with the rest of her stuff."

  "Would you?” Amelia brightened. “It really doesn't seem fair for you to pay for them, though. You didn't ask me to get them."

  "No big deal,” I said, waving my hand dismissively. “Just add it on to my Christmas pile."

  I was astounded when she rang up my charges. I must have been paying a small fortune in copying fees. However, I kept my mouth shut, and bid Ms. Amelia Gillies good bye, promising I would come back soon to visit her and the calico.

  * * * *

  I finished the rest of my errands quickly, and sped out of Arrochar back to Kilgraeme. I liked driving the little Saab, and was finally getting the hang of being on the left hand side of the street. As I exited off the main road, turning south at the top of Loch Lomond, I fought the urge to pull over and read Trish's papers right there in the car.

  It wouldn't do me any good, really. I needed to sit down in the library, with the rest of the Murray information, and see if I could figure out what Trish had been trying to confirm.

  Once back at the manor, I lugged all my bags up the stairs.

  "Need help?” asked Evan, as I wrestled with a large pile of books.

  "Oh,” I panted, “no, thanks. I'm okay.” I maneuvered one of the bags out of his line of vision. “No peeking,” I ordered. “These are Christmas presents, and some of them are for you."

  He laughed, and I noticed he looked especially outdoorsy today, i
n old jeans and a flannel shirt. “Going somewhere?” I asked playfully.

  Evan nodded, glancing around. “Spalding borrowed a load of surveying equipment from one of Michael Kerr's friends,” he said, voice low. “I don't know where he means to dig, but I'm going to be right behind him."

  "You think he's found it?” I whispered.

  "I think that he thinks he's found it, and that's what's important. Listen, do you mind if I take one of the horses this afternoon? I'll have better luck getting through the snow on a horse than in the Saab, aye?"

  "Sure,” I replied. “They're all horrible beasts, so you just take whichever one you want. Don't even feel obligated to bring it home."

  Evan grinned, and kissed me quickly. “I'm off, then. Wish me luck, aye?"

  "Evan,” I murmured. “For God's sake, be careful."

  "Don't worry, Brynne. Everything will work out,” he said softly.

  With that, he stepped out the door. As I watched him jog towards the stables, I noticed the first few fat snowflakes begin to fall. The sky overhead was gray, and the temperature had dropped by several degrees in the past hour.

  I couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen.

  * * * *

  I had lunch with Mack Piper, Emily and Mrs. Much in the kitchen then went up to the library yet again. Over the past few weeks I had read and re-read every piece of paper in the place, including many that didn't pertain to the Murrays at all. I had sorted and organized, for a second time, birth and death certificates, marriage records, Council journals.

  What was it Trish had said the day she came to Cayden Spalding's croft? Something about Lachlan ... that was it. I've dug up something very interesting about Lachlan Murray. I know where he went, and I know why. Maybe that was what she was trying to confirm.

  I sighed. If that was the case, the papers I had gotten from Amelia Gillies might be helpful, but so what? Who cared about Lachlan? He'd been dead for two hundred years.

  Resolutely, I opened the plastic sleeve Amelia had given me, and began poring over the papers within. They were dated from 1758 to 1894, and few of them made any sense. Some were written in Latin, others in a mishmash of Gaelic and badly spelled English.