For five seconds he leaned into her touch, then opened his eyes and withdrew. With a nod of thanks, he said, “A wee dram wouldn’t come amiss, but I’ll not be getting that ‘til after the cruise. If then. We’ve gone through our list of suspects, and we’ve come to a dead end.”
“But you have your eye on Roger.”
“When a wife is killed, your first suspicion falls on the husband. And the other way round. He wasn’t half angry with her Saturday night. I reckon she cut him off at the knees right and proper when she told him she’d destroyed the boat.”
“He was mad, all right. Angry. However . . .”
“He was at the ceilidh while Tracy was being pushed out the window. A fact he took a right bit of care pointing out just now.”
“No kidding. He sure did give you the charm offensive. The well-meaning but slightly goofy inventor going happy-go-luckily about his business, while his wife machiavellies behind his back.”
“Owned up to quite a bit, he did, though you’ll never convince me he didn’t know that submersible was on board, partially disassembled or not.”
“I bet he was going to dump it in the deepest part of the loch. Which would have been a lot better than Tracy’s blowing it up, but like he said, Tracy was over the top.”
“And wanted to show him up, I reckon. Feeling unappreciated and all.” Alasdair wiped his forehead. “In any event, he shopped Tracy and Martin good and proper, and suggested the Ducketts murdered Tracy. Everyone’s guilty but him.”
“And the Bouchards. They were working with him while Martin worked with Tracy. I’m surprised they didn’t all collide in the hallway outside my door—well,” Jean amended, “the Bouchards had the Lodge all to themselves for several days. I thought somebody had picked the lock of the lumber room. And here I was thinking they’d moved into the house because they’d sensed the ghosts.”
“No, they’ve not got the personality to sense ghosts.”
Ghost-sensors tending to be nervous and intense. “I wouldn’t think they have the personality to run people down with their car, either, but . . . Funny how Roger went off to the ceilidh that night when he was hurt worse than I was, and I was aching all over. No way could I have gone dancing. Maybe he couldn’t stand being in the same hotel room with—no, Tracy wasn’t there.”
“She was sneaking about Pitclachie, looking out a complete copy of that book, using the keys Martin copied for her.”
“Yeah, she was wearing sneakers when she died because she was sneaking. And since she was a sneaky person, she thought I was, too. If it weren’t such a tragedy it would be a farce.”
“These things usually are,” said Alasdair, so blandly Jean suspected he was covering bleakness.
She looked discreetly away. There was the garden constable pacing along the path. He must be using bug repellent for after-shave. And Mandrake the cat was ambling across the terrace, his coat of many colors flicking in and out of shadow like a jaguar on the prowl. “Roger would probably turn the Bouchards in, if he could. As for vice versa, I know Hugh saw them at the ceilidh, but did the Bouchards ever say in so many words they saw Roger?”
Alasdair scowled so fiercely his eyebrows met at the bridge of his nose. “No matter—Andy Sawyer saw him there.”
“Oh. Yeah. He did.” The egregious Sawyer, whose work Alasdair now had to do along with his own.
“I’ll get onto him, get the details,” he said, discarding his scowl as useless distraction. “We might be obliged to interview all the people who were there, work out a timetable or the like.”
“Hugh said the place was heaving. I bet the bar was packed, too. It would take a long time to find everyone, let along talk to them. And meanwhile Roger’s congratulating himself for pulling everything, including Nessie, out of the fire. Or the water, as the case may be.”
“Oh aye. Best I can do now is go back to the station and have a look at everyone’s statements and the trace evidence reports, perhaps I’ve missed something.”
If he had had a warhorse, he’d be getting Jean to winch him back onto it. “Do you need me to drive you back?” she asked.
“I’ll cadge a ride from the constable at the end of the drive, thank you kindly.”
“Okay then. I’ll go put on my glad rags for tonight. Of course, with all the men in kilts, no one’s going to notice me.”
“I’d not be so sure of that.” One corner of his mouth thawed enough to crimp into a wry half-smile.
“You don’t have time to get your own kilt from Inverness, though.”
“I’ll borrow Hamish’s, we’re much the same size. The runts of the Cameron litter, I’m thinking, though I doubt our ancestors were the giants among men that legend paints them.”
“Who is?” she replied with a smile, not so much at the joke as at Alasdair being able to make one at this fraught moment, and tore the relevant pages from her notebook. “Here you go.”
He folded her notes into his pocket. The other corner of his mouth melted, drawing his lips up into a full smile. “Half past seven, then.”
“See you later,” she called to his retreating back.
With a smooth pirouette, he turned around, blew her a kiss, and went on his way—toward Noreen Hall, who was climbing out of a police car in the parking area like someone climbing out of a sickbed. With a hold-that-bus gesture to the car, Alasdair spoke to Noreen. Her desolate expression cracked and flowed away, revealing an actual smile. “Thank you, thank you. Elvis, I’ll tell Elvis, shall I . . .” She ran across the courtyard and into the house.
Smiling and digging in her bag for the key—it was at the bottom, of course—Jean started toward the door of the Lodge. Just as she put the key in the lock, her cell phone rang, sending her back into the bag. “Hello?”
“Hiya,” said a male voice. “Here I am.”
Her brain spun without traction. She knew who it was, who was . . . Oh. Brad. “Hi. Where are you supposed to be?”
“You asked me to call you back,” he said with exaggerated patience. “Nancy Drew and the case of the sinking submersible, right?”
“Oh yeah. Sorry. Things have been happening here.”
“No shit. Tracy Dempsey bit the dust. Has Dudley Do-Right caught the killer yet?”
Jean gritted her teeth and resisted drop-kicking the phone. “About the submersible . . .”
“The guy who was killed was named Christopher Peretti. His wife was Melissa Duckett—must be her maiden name, huh?––and they had three kids. Does that help?”
“Yes it does.”
“I wrote it down, so I’d remember. Bet you thought I’d forget. Anything else I can do to—what do they say there, assist the police in their inquiries?”
It could have been worse. He could have called while she and Alasdair . . . She had to be mature about this. “I’ll let you know. Thanks for checking it out for me. Gotta run now. Bye.”
“Bye,” said his voice from the speaker as she squashed End. Independent, disinterested confirmation of the Ducketts’ story was a help. It was her own prejudice that made Brad seem to be a day late and a dollar short. Or a pound short.
Speaking of pounds, eight infant pounds to be exact, she walked into the stuffy Lodge and called the Campbell-Reid’s flat. She got the voice mail, and duly left her message. “Hi, it’s Jean. I wanted to let you know that Roger’s assistant uncovered the rest of the Pitclachie Stone. Thanks to your I.D. of the mason, we’ve got the full story and are making progress on the case . . .” From her lips to the ears of Justice, she added silently, never mind that intrepid we. “I’m cruising the loch tonight, so I’ll call y’all back tomorrow. Give my love to the baby.”
She closed the phone and noticed the time on its face. Five-thirty. Time flies when you’re shoulder-to-shoulder with Sisyphus, rolling a boulder up a mountain. But Miranda should still be in the office.
She was, and answered the phone herself. “Ah, Jean. You’ve not been abducted the day, then.”
“Not by aliens, anyway.”
By a certain detective chief inspector, but she’d save that until Miranda wormed it out of her with a third degree beyond even Alasdair’s capabilities.
“Getting forwarder on the case, are you?”
“More or less. Roger’s assistant turned up the missing half of the Pitclachie Stone, so at least the Museum’s going to come out ahead. How are things at the office?”
“Hardly had time to look over this month’s print run, the phone’s been going all day long with folk asking for advice.”
“You should hang out a second shingle—Dear Aunt Miranda.”
“Not that sort of advice. Names for boards of directors and the like. Protect and Survive is looking out a security chief for overseeing historical properties, the National Portrait Gallery is looking out a curator for sharing an exhibition with the Met in New York . . . There goes my other line. Sorry, Jean. We’ll have us a good blether when you get back, all right?”
“All right. Take care.” Jean switched off again and thought, Get back? Could she ever get back? And she didn’t mean to her flat in Edinburgh and her office above the Royal Mile.
She looked out through the open doorway of the Lodge to see Mandrake poised on the terrace wall. Was he watching Eileen’s ghost? No, the hair wasn’t standing up on his back. And even when Jean herself stepped to the door, she sensed nothing except the warm humid air, like Alasdair’s breath on her cheek teasing her with possibilities.
A bird erupted from the shrubbery and the cat sat back with a shrug. Just sightseeing. Nothing serious.
Would there in time be another ghost walking at Pitclachie? Jean wondered. She went to her kitchen, got a paring knife, then cut a bouquet of red roses from the garden. Mandrake watched curiously as she laid them on the flagstone carved with the symbol of the water horse.
Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red. But if Tracy had ever felt Lady Macbeth’s remorse, Jean had no way of knowing. What she did know was that Tracy’s killer was coming close to getting away with murder.
Chapter Thirty-four
Jean had brought along the appropriate garb to uphold Great Scot’s—and Miranda’s—image, a bugle-beaded top and flowing rayon skirt in a teal blue that flattered her fair skin, brown hair and browner eyes. It would clash with Alasdair’s red and green tartan kilt, but then, she hadn’t known she’d be color-coordinating.
Now she strolled away from Pitclachie, down the length of the drive, and, with a spurt of speed across the main road, further down to the pier. Strolling being advisable not only because of the heat but of her shoes, beaded sandals with low heels that looked good but in practical terms could only be said to leave her less handicapped than stilettos.
Dark water lapped languidly at the dirt and gravel shore. Reporters with mini-cams and other equipment drifted hither and thither, their garb not upholding any images. Just above the water line, a pair of beady-eyed constables stood guard over a pile of debris demarcated by police tape. The remains of Roger’s boat, no doubt, including a man-sized cylinder that had to be the body of the submersible.
Jean joined the sequined and tartaned throng waiting at the gangplank. She contributed a knowing smile to the murmur of anticipation—a cabaret and a crime scene, what better way to spend a warm summer evening?—and was duly admitted to the boat. She walked past the wooden benches lining the back deck and paused beside a life preserver hanging on a bulkhead to catch her breath and settle her nerves, not that either was going to cooperate.
What had Tracy intended to wear tonight? If Roger had come across the no doubt stylish garment back at the hotel while he was dressing, had he felt any qualms? More importantly, was Alasdair going to succeed either at breaking Roger’s alibi or finding another suspect? If neither, the case would trail off into inconsequence, taking Alasdair’s reputation with it. And how would that affect their nascent relationship, inconsequential as that might be in the greater scheme of life, the universe, and everything?
Jean lifted up her eyes to the hills, whence the shadows of evening were flowing down to the loch. An upside-down image of the castle was reflected in the bay, an image that wavered as the ripples from a passing inflatable creased the surface tension but didn’t break it. The skreel of bagpipes echoed thinly across the water. The piper was probably making a fortune—tourists were jammed atop the tower like commuters at rush hour.
Lowering her eyes, but not her expectations, she worked her way around the main deck. Two uniformed constables stood in the bow of the boat like twin figureheads.
Elvis was clinging to a railing, his solemn gaze fixed on the water. His hair was slicked back and his short pants ironed to cellophane crispness. Beside him stood Noreen, almost lost in the flowered fabric of her peasant skirt and loose blouse. Her hair was tacked up on her head in an imitation of Kirsty’s swirl, so that all the ends stuck out like antennae. Noreen was a work in progress, more power to her, Jean thought, and returned her shy smile with a grin.
Aha! Gunn was standing by the stairway leading to an upper observation deck, his kilt just a bit too long and his calves spindly in their tall white socks. But his stance was suitably official and his face mimicked Alasdair’s expressionlessness. Jean returned his greeting with a question. “Where’s D.C.I. Cameron?”
“Reading reports, Miss Fairbairn.”
“You’ve both had a busy day.”
“Oh aye. We’ve processed Mr. and Mrs. Duckett and released them—nothing to charge them with, the boss is saying.”
Good for the boss. “And Martin Hall?”
“In a cell in Inverness just now, but like as not he’ll be released the morn.”
Jean glanced at Elvis and Noreen, their heads close together as the boy pointed out a couple of diving birds. “What about the Bouchards?”
“They’re our guests for the night as well, and perhaps a bit longer. They’ve finally admitted they hit you and Dr. Dempsey, but are saying it was on accident, Charles having taken a bit too much to drink.”
“And they drove all the way from Invergarry without lights? Yeah, right.” Jean snorted. “I guess they’re also saying they didn’t stop because they were afraid they’d be deported, and they wanted to keep on working with Roger. Otherwise known as searching for a complete copy of the book and picking over his archaeological leavings.”
“Right.” Gunn’s thin smile would have copied Alasdair’s except for a slight softness at the corners.
“Did they see Roger at the ceilidh?”
“They’re not so certain of that, said the room was crowded, and they’d taken more drink, and perhaps he was there, perhaps not.”
“But Sawyer saw Roger there when Tracy was killed.”
“Oh aye. That he did.”
“But,” Jean asked, grasping at every possible straw, “was Sawyer in the dining room, at the ceilidh, himself? Or did he just go there, looking for Roger, after he got the call? And how long between the time the constable at Pitclachie radioed for help, and everyone in the chain of command was notified?”
“The boss asked the exact same ques . . .” Gunn’s mouth stopped in mid-word.
A pair of long bare legs came down the steps, followed by a short beaded dress, followed by Kirsty’s long hair flowing around her face and shoulders. She moved like a spring coiled with tension, ready to fly up like a jack-in-the-box. Jean sympathized with that.
Just behind her walked her squire. Brendan was wearing a simple suit and tie and a hunted look that only intensified when Jean pounced. “You were at the bar in the hotel when Tracy was killed, weren’t you? Was Roger there, too?”
Darting a glance at Gunn—was this an official query?—Brendan replied, “Yes and no, in that order.”
“Who else was there?”
“Half the population of Scotland. And the other half was up the hall in the dining room.”
“The barmaid was chatting you up,” Kirsty said stiffly,
“and there’s me, doing the accounts back at Pitclachie.”
“Hey, I told you about that. It was funny. Your guy, Sawyer—” Gunn did not correct Brendan’s misapprehension. “—he was hitting on the barmaid and she was hitting on me. Sort of a chain reaction.”
“So Sawyer was in the bar,” Jean repeated. “When did he leave?”
“He got a phone call and puffed up like an old bullfrog, and he said to me, ‘come along lad, there’s been a right turn-up, your boss’s wife’s been killed.’ I was horrified, duh, and went with him upstairs to Roger’s room.”
“But he wasn’t there.”
“No. So then Sawyer says, let’s have a look at the ceilidh.”
Gunn picked up on that. “And there’s when you saw Dr. Dempsey?”
“Yeah, he was standing in a corner jiggling up and down, out of breath. He’s not much of a dancer. He was wiping his face off, like everyone was, but I took his arm when Sawyer told him the bad news and he wasn’t hot at all, just really chilly. The shock, I guess. He was white as a ghost.”
Well, well, Jean thought, and met Gunn’s questioning gaze evenly. In other words, Roger could have run through the cool, damp night and reached the hotel moments before Sawyer came looking for him. Even with the sergeant seeing events from his own Sawyer-centric universe, he wasn’t fudging a thing. But just because Roger could have killed Tracy after all didn’t mean that he had.
“They’re casting off the lines. We’re away,” said Kirsty, and led Brendan to the railing.
Jean looked pointedly at Gunn. Where was Alasdair? He couldn’t miss the boat, on either a physical or a metaphorical level.
Gunn, another great mind at work, pulled out his phone and bounded up the stairway.
From far below, the engines coughed and then thrummed. The flags strung from stem to stern trembled. The deck reverberated beneath Jean’s feet. She seized a handy pole. Temple Pier and the land slipped backward, and a fresh cool breeze dissipated the scent of diesel. Breathe, she told herself. Just keep breathing.
In moments the boat was out of the bay and onto the main body of the loch, rolling gently to a slow swell. The heat haze brushed the sky with an opalescent shimmer. The mountains lining the loch marched away down the Great Glen, each rank becoming an ever more tenuous shade of blue-gray, until on the southern horizon they opened out like the hands of earth cupped pleadingly to heaven.
The Murder Hole Page 34
