by Maddy Hunter
“I, uh, I already went through her pocketbook. My grandmother thought she might be carrying something that might help us revive her, but all I found was the baby aspirin.” I slid my hand into my shoulder bag. “And this.” I placed the dirk on the desk.
He raised a bushy eyebrow, his gaze lingering on the dagger for a long moment before he leaned back in his chair and said in an almost too calm voice, “If there’s a good reason why Ms. Pinker’s personal effects are in yer handbag and not her own, I’d like ta hear it.”
I winced. “It’s kind of a long story.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “I’m listening.”
I opted for the abridged version, explaining about the geocaching element of our tour, Isobel Kronk’s part in the dagger’s appearance, my inheritance of the thing after her sudden death, its mysterious disappearance yesterday, and its unexpected reappearance in the washcloth at the bottom of Dolly’s pocketbook. “I should have known better than to remove it from her bag. I mean, my husband is a former police inspector. He’d be appalled if he knew what I did. But I was afraid if I left it where it was, it might get lost in bureaucratic red tape, and I’d lose track of it completely. Obviously, not one of my better decisions.”
“This is the second death you’ve suffered on yer tour?”
I nodded.
“And ye’ve been in the country fer how many days?”
I lowered my voice to a self-conscious whisper. “Three.”
He scribbled a notation. “Do ye know the cause of Ms. Kronk’s death?”
“The medical examiner hasn’t been able to draw any conclusions yet. He needed to farm out some tests to a lab with higher tech equipment, but his initial analysis apparently indicated that Isobel’s stomach kind of … exploded.”
He fixed me with a look that caused his eyes to shrink to the size of pebbles. “Exploded?”
I nodded again. “He told my husband that it was a pretty unusual case. I guess exploding stomachs are a rarity in Inverness.”
“I believe they’re a rarity anywhere. Whereabouts in Inverness were ye? I grew up just outside the city, on the banks of the River Ness.”
“That’s why I can understand you.”
“Beg pardon?”
I leaned closer in and lowered my voice to a hushed tone. “We didn’t have any trouble understanding the people in Inverness, but we’re all having trouble understanding the hotel staff here. Their burr is a little … challenging.”
He smiled in agreement. “It indeed takes some getting used ta. My wife is from Wick, and I still don’t know whit she’s saying half the time.” He pondered that for a half-second. “Which isn’t always a bad thing. Please, go on with whit ye were saying.”
“Uh—we were staying at the Crannach Arms Inn on Loch Ness when Isobel died.”
“Is that a fact? And did ye meet the proprietress whilst ye were there?”
“Mrs. Dalrymple? I certainly did. Do you know her?”
“She’s my aunt.”
“No kidding? Well, it was your aunt who insisted I take the dirk.”
“Why was that?”
“Because, according to her, it has a rather checkered history, and she didn’t want it lying around her hotel, contaminating the air with bad karma.”
He grinned. “Aunt Morna was always one ta get yer blood pumping with her talk of spells and incantations. When I was a lad, I spent many happy days digging through the picture books in her library, scaring the bejeebers out of myself.” He leaned forward in his chair and dragged the dagger toward him. “So let’s have a look at this dirk.”
“Your aunt had a book that documented its entire provenance.”
He held it beneath the banker’s lamp on the desk, angling it right and left as he examined the scrawl beneath the hilt. “Hamish Maccoull?” His voice cracked like that of a fourteen-year-old entering puberty. “Are ye telling me this is the dirk that belonged ta the Hamish Maccoull?”
“That was your aunt’s opinion.”
“It’s been missing fer centuries!”
I shrugged. “Isobel Kronk found it in a hollow tree in Braemar.”
“This is incredible. The inscription is still perfectly legible.” He trailed a fingertip across the string of ancient words as he squinted to see them more clearly.
“You speak Gaelic?”
“I don’t speak it, but I can read it. Aunt Morna made sure of that.” He hesitated as he translated the words, his complexion losing some of its color. “Well.” He quickly set the dagger back on the desk, regarding it as if it had suddenly sprouted fangs and a rattler.
“I’m apparently descended from a long line of Maccoulls on my mother’s side, so Hamish’s dirk has some historical significance for our family.”
He inched the dagger across the desk with the tip of his forefinger. “So Isobel Kronk removed the dirk from its hiding place, and you later found her dead.”
“Yup.”
“And Dolly Pinker stole the dirk from another hiding place, and ye later found her dead.”
I sighed glumly. “Yup.”
“All right then.” He wrote something in his notebook before flipping it shut and slipping it into his shirt pocket. “Thank ye fer yer cooperation, Mrs. Miceli. I’ve no other questions at the moment, but I’d like ta speak with yer grandmother.”
“She’s out in the lobby.” I eyed him skeptically. “So … I can just leave?”
“Aye.”
“You’re not going to throw the book at me for absconding with possible evidence?”
“Not at all. In fact, it’s yers fer the taking.” He slid the dagger the rest of the way toward me.
“No kidding?”
“Departmental rule: a weapon not used in the commission of a crime is not evidence. Besides, I’m thinking that Ms. Pinker had no right ta take it from the outset, so I’m giving it back ta ye. But I’d suggest ye keep it away from the rest of the group this time.”
He circled the desk and swept his hand toward the door. “I’ll follow ye out, Mrs. Miceli.”
I stowed the dirk in my shoulder bag, gathered my belongings, and extended my hand to him as I stood up. “I appreciate your being so reasonable about the dirk, Officer Bean. Thank you again.”
He pumped my hand. “No worries.”
“I was really afraid you were going to lock it up in your evidence room at the police station.”
He laughed as we reached the door. “I couldn’t very well do that, could I?”
I gave him a questioning look. “Why not?”
“Wouldn’t dare take the risk. I’ll not hae that thing anywhere near my department, Mrs. Miceli. Didn’t Aunt Morna translate the inscription fer ye? It’s cursed.”
The sound of angry voices beyond the door caused Bean to spring into high alert. With an apologetic grunt, he rushed past me, leaving me to follow hot on his heels as he maneuvered around the clerks at the front desk and charged into the lobby.
“Knocking off one of our team members wasn’t enough?” Cameron Dasher bellowed at the guests crowded into the room. “You decided you had to knock off two?”
Bill Gordon shot to his feet, face red and finger stabbing the air. “Just who the hell are you accusing of whacking your teammates, Dasher?”
“Someone in this room!” Cameron pulled a fierce face, his eyes shooting fire as he ranged a look at his tour companions. “You think I’m dumb enough to believe that two deaths on my team are pure coincidence? One of you is so afraid we’re going to win the whole shooting match that you’re bent on killing every member of our team to make damn sure it doesn’t happen!”
Officer Bean cleared his throat with enough force to cause heads to swivel around. “Please continue,” he encouraged Cameron as the room suddenly fell silent.
“Ask them!” Cameron tossed his hand out to
indicate the room at large. “Ask them where they were when Dolly collapsed.”
“Forget us!” Bill spat. “Where were you?”
Lucille Rassmuson bounced to her feet so fast, she nearly knocked Cameron over. “I resent that implication, Mister,” she snapped at Bill. “We were hiking across that bridge at the far end of town when Dolly decided to head back to the hotel.”
“Yeah,” said Bernice, jumping up beside her. “We figured the edge of town was the only place we could plan our next strategic move without the rest of you losers trying to eavesdrop on us.”
“What prompted Ms. Pinker ta leave?” asked Bean.
“She was complaining of a headache,” said Cameron.
“Whining about a headache is more like it,” groused Bernice. “Are you familiar with the term ‘drama queen’?”
“I suggested she come back to the hotel and take a hot bath,” said Lucille, crimping her brow as she added, “I haven’t had a headache since The Change, but I’m pretty sure that’s what I used to do to get rid of one.”
“I think I used to hold my breath and count to ten,” Alice reminisced.
“No kidding?” marveled Osmond. “You’re not gonna believe this, but I do the same thing to get rid of hiccups!”
“I assume Ms. Pinker took yer advice?” Bean pressed Lucille.
“Yup. Her head hurt, and she was starting to get a little queasy, so she took off. We offered to walk back with her—” She fisted a hand on her hip and shot Bernice a tart look. “At least, Cameron and I offered, but—”
“She had a freaking headache,” Bernice defended. “It wasn’t as if she was on her deathbed … even though she apparently was.”
“We shouldn’t have listened to her,” said Cameron, his voice brimming with regret. “We should have insisted on walking back with her.”
“I think she was suffering from a killer migraine,” Lucille theorized. “Can killer migraines actually kill?”
“Well, something killed her,” said Cameron. He slanted a suspicious look around the room, his gaze lingering on Bill Gordon. “Bernice, Lucille, and I were hiking along the river near the bay when Dolly died. So where were the rest of you?”
“It’s none of your business where we were,” barked Bill.
“I was in the camera shop,” Margi volunteered. She bobbed her head at the people surrounding her. “Me … and all of my closest friends.”
Nine finger-waving Iowans flapped their hands into the air—
a number that decreased by one when Osmond suddenly peeked inside the shopping bag in his lap. He scratched his head. “If I was in a camera shop, what am I doing with a SaladShooter?”
“I spent a long time shopping in the market across the street,” Stella offered without prodding. “I wanted to stock up on junk food in case the only choice on tonight’s dinner menu is haggis.”
Gee, that was curious. I’d picked up a couple of things in the market, too, but I hadn’t spotted Stella.
“What’s haggis?” asked Margi.
Tilly raised her voice to lecture room volume. “It’s a mixture of sheep’s heart, lungs, and liver, minced together with onions and oatmeal and boiled in a sheep’s stomach to create a very tasty pudding. It’s Scotland’s national dish.”
“I’ve eaten in yer hotel dining room,” Officer Bean said proudly. “Ye hae my word that the haggis is excellent.”
The color drained from Margi’s face. She shot Stella an imploring look. “Did you happen to notice how late the market stays open tonight?”
“Could we talk about haggis later?” urged Cameron. “Don’t you think it’s more important right now to find out where everyone was this afternoon?”
I stepped closer to Officer Bean, because if Cameron kept forcing the issue, Bill’s short fuse could easily erupt into a full blown—
“I took a walk,” Bill replied calmly, his expression as smug as a champion chess player who was about to squash his opponent. “A nice long jaunt along the riverbank west of here. So if you’re expecting an alibi from me, I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t have one.” He flashed an oily smile. “It was just me, and swarms of midges.”
“They’re particularly bad this time of year,” Bean agreed, “especially if yer hiking along the river away from the bay.”
Cameron stared at Bean, thunderstruck. “You actually believe him?”
Bean massaged his jaw for a long moment, his gaze drifting over the two-dozen guests crammed into the room. “I’ve no bone ta pick with any of ye. I’m not investigating any of ye. If the medical examiner says Ms. Pinker died from something suspicious, then we’ll hae reason ta talk. But until then, I’ve no authority to slap irons on any of ye fer taking a stroll along the river.”
“Do tourists often drop dead in the streets of Wick for no apparent reason?” Tilly asked him.
“Healthy people don’t usually collapse on the pavement and die,” Bean replied in a tight voice. “I expect the medical examiner will back that up with his report, unless he discovers that the lady died from something that … defies explanation.”
“Like what?” Dick Teig called out.
Bean shuffled his feet. His voice grew strained. “I prefer ta leave that ta the experts.”
Holy crap! I stared at him, bug-eyed. Was he hinting that Dolly might have died because of the curse? No twenty-first-century law officer could believe that, could he?
Cameron let out a long, frustrated sigh. “I’m happy you consider this an open and shut case, Officer. Two people on my team have died in two days. Can you actually stand there and tell me you think it’s mere coincidence?”
“Yah,” Lucille spoke up. “There’s only three of us left.” She pointed her finger at Bernice, Cameron, and herself. “One. Two. Three.”
“Two of you left,” Bernice said as she broke away from her teammates. “I quit.”
“WHAT?” The word shot out of Lucille’s and Cameron’s mouths at the same time.
“You heard me.” She folded her arms across her chest and plunked down onto the fireplace ledge. “Winning a free trip won’t do me any good if I’m too dead to enjoy it.”
“You can’t quit the team,” fretted Lucille.
“Oh, yah? Watch me.”
“But what about Cameron and me? You’re ruining our chances! How are we supposed to play the game with only two of us?”
Bernice fluttered her hands in the air as if washing them of the whole affair. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”
Cameron groaned. “C’mon, Bernice. You can’t give up. The team needs you.”
“Tough. I’m abandoning ship.”
“Just like a rat,” sneered Lucille.
“Sticks and stones,” hissed Bernice.
“Spoilsport,” Lucille hissed back.
Bernice rocketed to her feet, spittle flying from her mouth. “You people are such morons! Wake up and smell the coffee. Don’t you ever watch horror movies? Why do you think the members of Team Five are dropping like flies?”
Blank looks flew around the room. Margi raised her hand. “This is just hypothetical, but will our answers be counted if we don’t watch horror movies?”
“It’s because Team Five is cursed,” yelled Bernice.
My mouth fell open. She couldn’t know about the curse. No way. It had to be a lucky guess.
Gasps. Wheezing. Shock.
“That’s just plain stupid,” snorted George. “There’s no such thing as a curse.”
“What if it’s voodoo?” said Grace.
“Is voodoo the one where you stick needles into things?” asked Margi. “Or is that pin the tail on the donkey?”
“Curses are more common in the British Isles than voodoo,” Tilly informed us.
“I think all forms of cursing should be outlawed,” declared Alice.
“Forgive th
e interruption,” Officer Bean cut in, “but I hae a mountain of reports ta fill out back at my office, so I’d like ta ask Mrs. Miceli’s grandmother a few questions before I’m on my way. Mrs. Maccoull, is it?”
“Mrs. who?” asked Dick Teig.
Bean paused. “Is Maccoull the wrong name?”
I felt my knees come slightly unhinged as I watched Bill Gordon’s expression shift from bored, to roused, to feral. Unh-oh. This wasn’t good.
“Maccoull?” echoed Bill Gordon in a booming voice. “There’s a Maccoull among us?”
“She’s not a Maccoull,” I leaped in. “She’s a Sippel. Mrs. Samuel Sippel. And she was probably adopted, so the family history doesn’t really apply to her.”
“SHE’S A MACCOULL?” Bill roared.
I heard footsteps suddenly pounding down the ground floor corridor. Mom raced helter-skelter into the lobby, gasping for breath, looking like an early explorer in search of a civilization. “I’m so sorry I’ve kept you waiting. I completely lost track of time. Have they rung the dinner gong yet?”
“Any minute now,” said Dick Stolee.
Since we had forty-five minutes before dinner, I figured he was using the new math.
“Do you want to know what happened to Dolly Pinker?” Bill called out to Officer Bean. “I’ll tell you what happened.” He stabbed an accusatory finger at Nana. “That woman killed her.”
Nana pivoted her head left and right before realizing Bill was aiming his finger at her. “I killed her?” She blinked her surprise. “No kiddin’?”
“She most certainly did not!” I cried.
“Maccoulls have been locked in a blood feud with MacDonalds for centuries,” Bill ranted. “Dolly Pinker was a MacDonald.” He fixed Bean with a hard look. “You know what a bunch of savages the Maccoulls are. Every Scotsman knows. Do I have to draw you a picture?”
“My grandmother is treasurer of the Legion of Mary,” I defended. “She does not engage in blood feuds. She knows nothing about blood feuds!”
“Feuding is all the Maccoulls know,” raged Bill. “It’s in their blood. It’s in her blood.” He stabbed his finger at Nana again. “She killed Dolly as sure as I’m standing here. Ask her what was in those pills she was handing out at breakfast this morning. She gave them to everyone, but I bet she saved a very special one for Dolly. She gave her the one that killed her!”
