08 - The Highland Fling Murders

by Fletcher, Jessica; Bain, Donald

  “Ms. Daisy Wemyss’s murder? Yes, bad news indeed.”

  “There’s evil forces about.”

  “An evil individual. That’s for certain.”

  “More than that.”

  “Could you explain what you mean?”

  “I thought you wanted to learn to play the pipes.”

  “Oh, I do. Sorry to have gotten sidetracked.”

  “Daisy was only a bit lassie.”

  “Bit? Oh, a young woman. Yes she was.”

  “Well, it’s aa by nou.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It’s over and done with. But it’s not the end of it.”

  “Show me how to play the bagpipes.”

  “Ay.”

  Focusing on the instrument caused him to become more talkative. He turned to the group and asked, “What did Nero play while Rome burned?”

  Seth quickly answered: “The fiddle.”

  “Wrong,” said the shop owner. “He played the bagpipe. Came from India first. Romans took it all over Europe. French liked it, too, played dance music on it This is a Highland pipe. Biggest there is. Has a melodic range of a ninth.”

  “I knew that,” said Mort.

  “The hell you did,” Seth said.

  “Sure I did,” Mort said. “Everybody knows Nero played the bagpipes while the city burned.”

  “Could I hold it?” I asked, indicating the instrument—and wanting to interrupt what was about to become another spat.

  He handed me the bagpipes; I was surprised at how heavy they were.

  “What do I do now?” I asked.

  He positioned it in my arms, placing the windbag beneath my arm. “Quite simple, ma’am. You blow into this blowpipe and fill up the bag. Then you squeeze the bag with your arm against your body, only you have to keep blowing to keep the bag full. You play the melody chanter—that’s the melody pipe—by using your fingers on the eight holes.”

  “Like this?”

  I blew into the windpipe, and pressed the bag against my body. Nothing. I kept blowing and squeezing until suddenly an eerie drone erupted from one of the reeds at the end of a tube. I stopped blowing and looked at my friends, a smile crossing my face. “Pretty good, huh?”

  They applauded.

  The shop owner encouraged me to continue. After a few more tries, I was actually able to create the characteristic droning sound of bagpipes, and to play what sounded to me like a wonderful melody over it. More applause. Even the shop owner patted his hands together.

  “Well,” I said, handing the instrument to him, “that was an experience. Fun.”

  “Would you be interested in buying it?” he asked.

  “The bagpipes?”

  “Ay.”

  “Well, I don’t know. I mean—buy a set of bagpipes? The last thing on my very long shopping list. Buy them? How much?”

  He frowned, mumbled to himself, drumming the fingers of his right hand on the back of his left. “It’s an old set a’ pipes, ma‘am, but in good repair. I’ve fixed ’em good. Like new.”

  “I’m sure you have.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I emerged from the shop carrying the bagpipes wrapped in a sheet provided by the shop owner.

  “You can’t walk around carryin’ that,” Seth said.

  “You’re right,” I said.

  I went back inside the shop and left the pipes with the owner, who sternly warned me that he dosed promptly at four. I assured him I’d return well before that. I also asked him if he knew a fisherman named Evan Lochbuie.

  “Ay. But why would a cultured woman like you want to talk to a dug like that?”

  “Is he a dog?”

  “The worst kind. Gives dugs a bad name to mention him in the same breath.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s daft. A raving maniac, that’s what he is.”

  “But I can find him at the dock?”

  “Ay. But you do it at your peril.”

  “I’ll take your warning seriously. Thank you.”

  “I can’t believe you bought bagpipes,” Jim Shevlin said when I joined them on the street.

  “Should be fun to learn,” I said.

  “Maybe it’s to impress your handsome Scottish inspector,” Maureen Metzger said, giggling.

  “Could be,” Susan Shevlin added. “He can teach you how to play it.”

  “You may be my friends,” I said pleasantly, “but you are incorrigible gossips. You should write soap operas.”

  “He obviously is smitten with you, Jess,” Susan said. “You can see it every time he looks at you.”

  “We’re good friends,” I said. “Nothing more.” His words the previous night as we stood outside the castle ran through my mind, as they had a dozen times since getting up that morning.

  “Where to next?” Seth asked.

  “Let’s just stroll,” I said.

  “Where did you find Daisy’s body?” Jim Shevlin asked.

  “Up there.” I pointed to the other end of Bridge Street. “But you don’t want to see that. Hardly a tourist attraction.”

  “I want to see it,” said Mort Metzger. “There’s been a crime committed on my watch.”

  “On your watch?” We said it in unison.

  “Absolutely,” he said. “I may be on vacation, but I still have an obligation as a law enforcement officer to protect you as my friends and fellow citizens, no matter where we are in the world.”

  We looked at each other and suppressed smiles. We all love Mort Metzger, Cabot Cove’s sheriff for many years, and a dear friend to all. He does tend to overstep his authority and responsibility at times, which only makes him even more lovable.

  “Take us there, Jess?” Cabot Cove’s new mayor, Jim Shevlin, said.

  “If you insist.”

  We paused in front of the office building and read the plaque placed there by the Wick Historical Society: “Site of the murder of Evelyn Gowdie, Feb. 11, 1976, descendant of famed Scottish witch, Isabell Gowdie.”

  “Seems like a silly thing to commemorate.” Tim Shevlin said.

  “Witches seem to be popular here,” Roberta Walters said.

  “This where you found the body, Jess?” Mort asked.

  “In back.”

  We walked down the dirt driveway to the litter-strewn yard behind the building. Wick’s constable, Horace McKay, was standing where Daisy Wemyss’s body had been. He wore wading boots, and held his very long fishing rod. A net hung from a ring on the back of his fishing vest. A creel was on the ground, at his feet.

  “Good morning, Constable McKay,” I said.

  He nodded, but said nothing.

  “I’m Jessica Fletcher. You might remember I discovered Ms. Wemyss’s body.”

  “Ay. 1 remember.”

  “These are my friends. We’re all staying at Sutherland Castle.”

  “Ay. I know that.”

  Silence.

  “Well,” I said, “I just wanted to show my friends where I discovered Ms. Wemyss’s body. Going fishing, Constable?”

  “Ay.”

  “Good luck.”

  I led the group back to the street.

  “Talkative chap, ain’t he?” Mort Metzger said.

  “Number’n a hake,” Seth Hazlitt offered, invoking a Maine expression.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “He’s not stupid, Seth. Just not a man with a lot to say.”

  We looked back up the dirt driveway to where Constable McKay stood watching us.

  “Wouldn’t want to cross that man,” Seth Hazlitt said.

  “And there’s no need to,” I said.

  “Anyone feel like lunch?” Mort asked. “I’m mighty hungry.”

  There was a consensus that lunch was in order. I was the only one to demur.

  “Sure?” Seth asked me. “That pub over there looks promising.”

  “Not hungry,” I said. “Besides, I have someone I have to look up.”

  “That so? Who might that be?”

  “A man named Lochbui
e. Evan Lochbuie.”

  “What’s he to you, Jessica?”

  “Nothing. The producer, Peterman, told me Mr. Lochbuie knows all about witchcraft in Wick. Maybe I’ll learn something from him to use in a book.”

  Seth looked at me skeptically. “Sure that’s all on your mind, Jess?”

  I smiled. “Enjoy lunch, Seth. I’ll join you at the pub in less than an hour.”

  “Not really that hungry,” he said. “Mind if I tag along to see this Lochbuie fella?”

  “Of course not. I’m not even sure we’ll find him. He supposedly hangs out on the docks. Operates a boat of some sort.”

  The others went to the pub, and Seth and I headed for Wick’s harbor, only a few minutes’ walk from Bridge Street. While Wick’s “downtown” area was relatively deserted; the dock and harbor was a busy place. Dozens of ships and boats of every size and shape were docked, and men worked on them. A vessel with many years of wear on it had just arrived, and its cargo—vats of scallops—was being unloaded. A stiff breeze off the water was refreshing, the smell of fish adding to it a pungent tang.

  “Know where this fella is?” Seth asked.

  “No. We’d better ask.”

  Seth turned to the nearest person, a wizened older man repairing a net. “Excuse me, sir, but we’re looking for Mr. Lochbuie.” Seth turned to me: “Evan is it?” I nodded. “Mr. Evan Lochbuie.”

  The fisherman looked up from his task and grinned, exposing a set of large yellow teeth. “He’ll be over there,” he said, pointing to the opposite end of the dock. “Why would you want to see him?”

  “My friend here wishes to speak with him.”

  The fisherman squinted at me, shook his head, and resumed his net mending.

  We walked to where Evan Lochbuie smoked a curved pipe in his bobbing boat. “Mr. Lochbuie?” Seth asked from the dock.

  He looked at his feet as though deciding whether he was, indeed, Evan Lochbuie. Then he slowly looked up, scowled, and asked, “And who might be looking for him?”

  “I’m Dr. Seth Hazlitt. This is Ms. Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Doctor, you say. What kind of doctor?”

  “General practice. I take it you are a fisherman.”

  “Among other things.”

  “Pretty village you have here,” said Seth.

  “Cursed village, you mean.”

  “Cursed?”

  He laughed and drew deeply on his pipe.

  While Seth and Even Lochbuie chatted, I took the opportunity to closely scrutinize the man Brock Peterman claimed had special knowledge not only of witchcraft in Wick, but of what had happened to Daisy Wemyss. He looked old, although I suspected he was younger than his appearance indicated. Like most men we passed on the dock, his face was weather-beaten, old shoe leather molded into plains and valleys, the skin sunburned to its depth. He was a small man with a large head on which a grease-stained baseball cap bearing the word “Yankees” sat at a jaunty angle. Although it was a relatively warm day, he wore a heavy black-and-red-plaid jacket over a tan shirt, overalls, and bulky brown boots.

  “Got a minute?” Seth asked.

  Again, a gaze at his boot tops before answering. “Might have. Depends.”

  “Depends upon what?” Seth asked, his annoyance level audibly rising.

  “Depends on whether I want to or not.”

  “Let’s go,” Seth said to me.

  “In a minute. Mr. Lochbuie, I’m a writer. Mystery stories. I might want to write a book about witches. No, actually, I’m considering writing a movie with someone you’ve met, Brock Peterman. He’s a Hollywood producer.”

  Lochbuie nodded. “I’ve met him. Funny-looking fella.”

  “He tends to dress different,” I said.

  A cackle.

  “Mr. Lochbuie, I understand from Mr. Peterman that you’re the local expert on witches and witchcraft. Is that true?”

  A nod.

  “I’ve also been told that you know something about the murder of the young woman, Daisy Wemyss.”

  His head slowly went up and down.

  “Well, since that’s the case, would you share some of your knowledge with me?”

  “Him, too?” Lochbuie said, nodding at Seth.

  “Him, too.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “May we join you in your boat?”

  “Ay.”

  “Sure you want to, Jess?” Seth whispered.

  “Absolutely. If you’d prefer to go back to the pub, I can—”

  “And leave you alone with this nut? Not on your life.”

  Lochbuie’s boat was about twenty feet long. it had a small forward cabin, behind which was the control console. Seth took my hand and helped me step down into it. He followed awkwardly, almost losing his balance. We sat in weathered wooden chairs facing our “host.”

  We stared at each other for what seemed an eternity. Finally, Lochbuie said after puffing on his pipe, “You’re Sutherland’s lady, aren’t you?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re George Sutherland’s lady.”

  “I’m afraid you have some bad information, Mr. Lochbuie. I am no one’s lady’!”

  His smile was crooked. “Not what I hear,” he said.

  “You heard wrong. Let’s talk about witches, Wick-style,” I said.

  “Not without talking about Mr. George Sutherland.”

  “What does he have to do with witchcraft?”

  “Everything. You want to know why strange things are afoot here in Wick? Look to the damn castle. Strange doings been going on here ever since it was built. Haunted, it is. Full a’ ghosts. You ever see the lady in white who lives there?”

  I looked at Seth. “Just imagination,” he said.

  “Is it now?” Lochbuie said. “And what about the Wemyss girl? Imagination?”

  “What do you think?” I asked. “Do you know who killed her?”

  “Fairly obvious.”

  “It is?”

  “Can’t have another witch growing up in Wick. Have to get rid of them if Wick is ever to get on its feet. They destroyed the herring fishing.”

  “Witches did that?”

  “ ‘Course. Any fool knows that.”

  “I don’t know that,” I said. “I heard that your herring fishing industry fell on hard times because other countries came in with large ships and depleted the herring supply.”

  Lochbuie puffed, then said, “Once had more than a thousand ships catchin’ herring from here. Biggest herring fishing port in the world.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I said.

  “Couldn’t last, not with the curse of the damn castle Sutherland Clan built. Everybody knows that. Evelyn Gowdie got herself killed ‘cause of the curse she put on the village. Daisy Wemyss, too. Caught the curse while working up there serving people, carried it down here like she had the plague. That’s what it is, a plague.”

  Seth, who hadn’t spoken since climbing into the boat, said, “You’re talkin’ a lot of damn nonsense. Know what we call people like you back home in Cabot Cove, Maine? We’d call you some ugly, ill-tempered old man spreadin’ stories like this to get people all riled up.”

  I winced at the directness of Seth’s words. Evan Lochbuie reacted to them, too. His face twisted into anger. He stood, stepped closer, and extended his finger at us. It was a long and misshapen finger, with a black fingernail at its tip. Now, as he spoke, his voice rose in pitch and was singsong:

  “Rise up stick, and stand still stone,

  For King of England thou shalt be none,

  Thou and thy men hoar stones shall be

  And I myself an elden tree.”

  “What in hell does that mean?” Seth asked.

  “You will turn into stone!”

  Seth stood. “What did you do, put some sort a’ damn fool curse on us?”

  Lochbuie cackled. “But you don’t believe in curses.”

  “Bet your life we don’t.” He grabbed my hand. “Come on, Jess. Let’s get
away from this nut.”

  “And you shall live as stone for all eternity, unless—”

  Seth had me on my feet now. Our movements caused the boat to dip and sway. Lochbuie said in an even higher-pitched voice, “Unless the pitchfork puts you out of your misery before spreading the Sutherland curse to others.”

  As he said it, he stepped even closer to me and jabbed his finger inches from my nose. “And with a cross carved into your heathen neck!”

  Seth twisted to place himself between me and Lochbuie. As he did, he lost his balance. “Oh, oh, oh,” he said, extending his arm in an attempt to right himself. But he couldn’t do it. He went over the side with a loud splash into the harbor’s black water.

  “Seth!” I yelled. “Help him,” I said to Lochbuie.

  But all he did was laugh and turn in circles, his hands raised to the sky.

  “Help!” I shouted to those on the dock. “Please, he’ll drown.”

  Two burly young men extended a long boat hook to Seth. He grabbed it and was pulled to safety, his rescuers hauling him up onto the dock.

  I climbed from the boat and went to Seth. “Are you all right?” ’ I asked.

  He spit water and shook it from his ears. “Look at me,” he gasped. “Soaking wet. Ruined my suit.”

  “Come. We’ll get you back to the castle and into dry clothes.” I looked around. “Is there a taxi?” I asked no one in particular.

  “I’ll take ye,” a man said. “Got my automobile right over there.”

  As we headed for it, the rest of the Cabot Cove crew suddenly appeared on the dock. “What happened?” Jim Shevlin asked, looking strangely at Seth.

  “An accident,” I said. “Seth fell in.”

  “How?” Pete Walters asked.

  “A long story,” I said. “I have to get him back to the castle before he catches cold. See you there.”

  “Remember what I said!”

  Everyone looked down into the boat where Evan Lochbuie was still ranting and raving about the curse he’d placed on us.

  “Who the hell is he?” Jim Shevlin asked.

  “A crazy old man,” Seth said through chattering teeth. “That’s all. Just a crazy old man.” Then, without notice, he went to the edge of the dock, extended his finger at Lochbuie, and said, “You want curses, you old fool? I’ll give you curses. May your bunions grow and your brain shrink.”

  He looked to me for approval. I smiled and nodded. “That’s telling him,” I said.