If it had only ended up a clumsy scam, that would have been bad enough. But they went too far—much too far—when they decided that a real murder had to take place to push the townspeople over the edge. Daisy Wemyss was sacrificed to that end. No one admitted to having murdered her, but George was told that evidence pointed to Evan Lochbuie, the town “nut,” who turned out to not be so crazy after all. Evil? Yes. Warped? Absolutely. A murderer? That would be determined at trial.
The fate of Malcolm and Fiona was unclear. The girl obviously had been used, and shouldn’t face criminal charges, unless an overzealous prosecutor decided to include her in the conspiracy charge.
As for Malcolm, he’d gotten in a lot deeper, although murder wouldn’t be one of the charges against him. But he’d taken money to advance the plot, and that would be enough to indict him. Those who gave him the money to conspire in the plot, the London investors, were also facing criminal indictment.
Funny, how we can misread people. I’d thought all along that Forbes, the dour jack-of-all-trades in George’s employ, was involved. It turned out he’s only that, a sour, sullen individual who was absent when they handed out personality genes.
Everyone was served their single-malt scotches, and Seth proposed a toast “To one of the more interesting vacations of my life.”
“That’s appropriately noncommittal,” Jim Shevlin said. “But I’ll drink to it.”
Rims clinked all the way around.
“Jessica,” Seth said, “there’s still that large question looming.”
“Which one is that, Seth?”
“The lady in white. You said you saw her. Twice. Now I understand about the voice, and the tape recorder. Meant to deceive. But you said you saw her. What did they do to create a visual of her in the hallway?”
“Nothing, except to use the power of suggestion. Tell me not to think of purple elephants and that’s all I’ll think of. George had told me, in detail, about the supposed lady in white who haunted the castle. I was primed to see her, especially because the light characteristics in northern Scotland are conducive to creating imaginary images at certain times. I thought I’d seen her the first night we were there. But I deliberately said I’d seen her the second time to prompt Malcolm to use the tape recorder. It worked. He did.”
“Well, all I can say is that you saved a castle,” Pete Walters said. “Your friend, George, must be grateful.”
“Yes, he is, although he isn’t sure he’ll keep the place. I hope he does. It means so much to him.”
“That Brock Peterman turned out okay,” pilot Jed Richardson said. “Doesn’t make me like him any better, but he did help you out.”
“For his own purposes,” I said. “He’s going ahead with his documentary, only now he has a real ending for it. Poor Malcolm. He was waiting for an ending, too. A shame he ended up part of it.”
“What about Dr. Symington?” Susan Shevlin asked. “A strange bird.”
“And helpful. When he told me ghosts never speak when sighted, it put the icing on the cake for me. That’s when I decided to attempt to set things up the way I did.”
The waiter returned and asked if we wanted another round of drinks. Everyone ordered different single-malt scotches from the menu, which boasted such names as Bunnahabhain, Royal Brackla, Miltonduff, and Tullibardine.
“Hate to leave in the mornin’,” Seth said, leading the second toast of the evening. “What time’s the bus departing for the airport?”
“Nine,” I said. “I won’t be on it. I’m meeting George for breakfast. He’ll drive me to Heathrow.”
There were raised eyebrows, and good-natured kidding.
I got up and straightened my skirt. “Have to run,” I said.
“Dinner with the dashing inspector?” Seth asked.
“No. Dinner with my publisher, Archie Semple. An interview with a magazine. Then to bed. This lady is very tired.”
“See you at the airport, Mrs. F.,” Mort said.
“Yes, you will. ”
“Hey, Mrs. F., what did you think of George putting me in for a special commendation from Scotland Yard?”
“I think it was a very nice thing to do, Mort. And much deserved.”
He beamed. “He’ll be sending me a plaque. Thought I’d hang it out front of the station house. You know, where people can see it when they come in.”
I was about to leave when the Athenaeum’s executive manager and my friend, Sally Bulloch, bounded into the room.
“Just leaving?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Catch you for breakfast before you leave?”
“I’d love to, Sally, but I have a breakfast—appointment.”
“Another time, then. I have to talk to you. I just had an incredible experience that would make a marvelous basis for your next book.”
“Oh?”
“One of our guests—a regular one, very rich and famous—just told me that when he was walking down the hall to his room last night, he saw—” She giggled. “He claims he saw a ghost.”
We stared at her with mouths slightly open.
“Was she wearing white?” I asked.
“Wearing white? She? I don’t think he indicated a gender.”
“Probably just the lighting conditions,” I offered. “If he’d been thinking of purple elephants, it wouldn’t have happened.”
“What?”
“He’d have seen purple elephants instead. Have to run. You and your hotel are always a delight.” We hugged. “Take care of my friends tonight. I have a feeling they’re going for the free bottle.”
“I hate to see you go,” George said as we drove to the airport the following morning.
“And I hate to go,” I said.
“I’ve decided to keep Sutherland Castle.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s a lovely place. I’m sure with the right people running it as a hotel, it will do very nicely.”
“And I should be able to find the right people, now that everyone in Wick isn’t afraid to work there. I’ve put Mrs. Gower in charge. She’s rising to the occasion; told me it was about time I recognized her talents beyond the kitchen. And Forbes will stay. Maybe I’ll pay for him to take a Dale Carnegie course.”
“Sounds like everything’s falling in place,” I said.
“Not everything.”
“What’s missing?”
“You. I want you to return to Wick, Jessica. I want you to come back alone so we can spend truly productive time together. We barely had time to talk, with all that went on this past week.”
“But it ended up on a positive note. I loved the Highland Games, although I must admit I was a little worried when that giant of a man came running in our direction, carrying that huge tree trunk.”
“Carrying the caber, he was. Afraid he’d toss it at you?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“He threw it quite far. Throwing the caber is the highlight of the games.”
“An impressive display of strength and balance. George, about my coming back. You know I will. I have a book to write. After I’m done, we’ll plan to get together again. That’s the best I can offer.”
“Ay. It will have to do. I’ll take what I can get of Jessica Fletcher.”
“I’ll come in and wait with you,” he said as we pulled up in front of the British Airways Terminal at Heathrow Airport.
“Please don’t,” I said. “It’s easier saying good-bye here. My friends will be waiting for me. Understand?”
“Of course.”
There was that awkward moment of silence when two people who like each other very much search for final words of parting. George finally said, “I won’t put you in an awkward position, Jessica. Go on. Get out. The porter there will take your bags. We’ll be in touch.”
He said it without looking at me.
“George.”
He faced me. “Yes?”
“Thank you for being you.”
My lips brushed his, and I s
queezed his hand. “Until next time,” I said.
“Ay. I pray it comes fast. Safe home.”
“Yes. Safe home.”
“Will you be giving us a concert?” the pretty and pert British Airways flight attendant asked as she helped stow my bagpipes in a closet aboard the 747.
“Not unless you want to start a revolt by your other passengers,” I said.
Her laugh was like a bell. “No, we can’t have that, can we?” she said in a Scottish brogue.
The flight was smooth, the service caring, and we landed on time at New York’s Kennedy Airport. We took our connecting flight to Bangor, and a hired minibus to Cabot Cove.
“Good to be home,” Seth said, stretching as he climbed out of the bus.
“It always is,” I said.
“You don’t look too sure about that,” he said.
“Oh, I’m sure about it,” I said.
“Ready to start your next book?”
“No. I need some time for myself before getting involved with any new fictitious characters. I thought I’d take a few lessons.”
“In what?”
“In playing the pipes.”
“Nobody in Cabot Cove plays ‘em, let alone teach ’em,” he said.
“Then, I’ll just have to become self-taught.”
“Knowin’ you, Jessica, you’ll become the best bagpipes player in Maine.”
“The only bagpipes player in Maine.”
“You’ll be missing him, won’t you?”
“Who? George? Yes, of course.”
“See you for breakfast at Mara’s?”
“That sounds fine. See you then.”
I closed the door to my house, stood in the living room, and looked at my bagpipes. A swell of nostalgia swept over me, and my eyes misted. I thought of something George Sutherland had said to me when we last parted. It was in San Francisco, where I’d been promoting my latest novel, and he’d attended an international police conference. We’d ended up solving a murder and helping a falsely accused woman clear herself. He’d paraphrased the famed Scottish poet, Robert Burns:
“My Jessica’s asleep by the murmuring stream; Flow gently sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.”
Recalling his words made me smile.
I made a cup of tea, sat in my living room with the pipes on my lap, placed the blowpipe in my mouth, and blew hard.
It was music to my ears.
Join Jessica on the QE2!
Sail into another murder in
the next Murder, She Wrote mystery:
MURDER ON THE QE2
by Jessica Fletcher
and Donald Bain
Available from Signet
The older I become, the harder it is to surprise me.
But when Matt Miller, my agent of many years, called late last winter from New York with a new and unusual project for me, I was surprised to the point of near shock.
“I can’t believe this,” I said. “Why me?”
“The fact that you’re the world’s most successful and best-known murder mystery writer is reason enough, Jess.” He laughed. “I’ve delivered lots of good news to you, but I’ve never heard you so excited before. As I said, it doesn’t pay that much, and it means having to drop the book you’re working on for a month, but—”
“Matt,” I said, “one day soon I’ll explain why I’m so enthusiastic. In the meantime, I’m running late for a lunch date with Seth Hazlitt. You remember him?”
“Sure. Cabot Cove’s resident doc. Say hello for me.”
“I certainly will. Can I call you later for more details?”
“I’ll be here all day.”
I hung up, giggled, and then let out a loud squeal of joy. But the euphoria lasted only a few minutes—until a wave of sadness displaced it.
It was twenty years ago that I made my first, and only transatlantic crossing on the fabled Queen Elizabeth 2, the grande dame of all ocean liners. My husband, Frank, was alive then, and had given me—us—the crossing as a joint Christmas present. We set sail on May 28th of that year and reveled in the ship’s majesty, and the pampering we received from its large international staff.
I remembered that trip as clearly as though I’d taken it yesterday.
Frank and I stood on the QE2’s highest deck, arms about each other, peering into the distance at Southampton, England, after five glorious days at sea.
“Know what I think, Jess?” he said.
“No. What?”
“I think we should make this a yearly event. Save toward it all year. Treat ourselves to this grand experience every year we’re alive and can enjoy it together.”
I hugged him tighter. “For a conservative New Englander, Frank, you do have your extravagant moments.”
He laughed. “Yes, I do,” he said. “When it concerns you.”
We kissed, and spent the next week in London, extending the moment.
We never sailed on the QE2 again. Frank became very ill shortly after we returned home, and died later that year. Of course, I often thought about crossing on the QE2 again, especially each year when May 28th rolls around. But I could never bring myself to simply call Susan Shevlin, my travel agent in Cabot Cove, and book myself a stateroom. I just didn’t want to do it without Frank.
But this was different. This was business.
“Say again, Jessica,” Dr. Seth Hazlitt said at lunch. We’d been best of friends for more years than I care to admit.
“They want me to lecture about writing murder mysteries on the QE2 between New York and Southampton. I’ll be one of a group of people lecturing on different subjects. And I’m to write a murder mystery play that will be acted by a Los Angeles theatrical troupe.”
“Sounds like a fairly good thing,” he said in his usual understated way. “How do you feel about travelin’ alone?”
“I hadn’t thought about it, Seth. I travel alone all the time.”
“But, not on a big ship crossin’ the Atlantic Ocean.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Makes a considerable difference, it seems to me. I could go along with you.”
“That would be lovely, Seth, but—”
“We’ll talk more about it. In the meantime, finish your lobster roll. Especially good, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, Seth. It’s especially good.”
It was during our first full day at sea that the tragedy struck.
The actors and actresses who were to perform my script had gathered in the Grand Lounge on what’s called the Upper Deck, below the Boat Deck and Sun Deck. The director, a delightful young woman named Jill Farkas, started by rehearsing the first murder scene, which was to take place approximately ten minutes into the play. In it, one of the actors, portraying an unsavory loan shark, is confronted by his former wife, who demands money she claims he stole from her when they were still together.
I sat in a comfortable chair at one of the many cocktail tables in the opulent lounge and watched with intense interest and pleasure the scene unveiling before me. The actor and actress were talented performers; they did my words proud.
The actor playing the ex-husband verbally abused his wife onstage. He mocked her, said she was stupid and didn’t stand a chance of getting money from him.
Her face flared into anger. She berated him for the lowlife that he was, and said she’d never let him get away with the money stolen from her.
“Why don’t you just shut up?” he snarled, his face twisted into a nasty smile.
“No,” she said, “I’ll shut you up, Billy.”
She pulled the revolver from her shoulder bag and leveled it at his chest.
“What are you, nuts?” he shouted.
“You’ve abused me for the last time,” she said, fighting back tears.
“Gimme the gun, Helen,” he said, taking a step closer to her and extending his hand. “Don’t be dumb. You’re not gonna shoot me. You’re not gonna shoot anybody. Look at yourself. You’re shaking like a leaf. Hell, you�
�ll end up shooting off your own foot.”
His hand moved closer to her.
Even though I’d written the scene, I was caught up in the tension of the moment. I leaned forward and pressed a finger to my lips. That was the end of dialogue between them. The script called for her to pull the trigger—now!
The report from the blank discharged from the revolver resounded throughout the Grand Lounge. It caused me to sit up straight I watched as the actor went through his death throes—a little too dramatic and strung out for my taste—and fell to the stage. The actress screamed, dropped the weapon and ran into the wings.
I applauded and joined the troupe on the stage. The other actors and actresses, and Jill Farkas, had come from backstage and we all stood over the slain actor. A red stain slowly expanded on his shirtfront.
“Let’s not waste the fake blood on rehearsals,” Jill said.
We all waited for him to get up.
“Come on, Joe, the scene’s over,” an actress said.
But Joe didn’t get up. Slowly, but surely, it became apparent that he never would. There were now gasps, moans, a few cries of anguish. Some fell to their knees and tried to shake him into life.
“What’s going on?” Graham Flemming, the QE2’s social director, asked, joining us onstage.
“He’s dead,” Jill Farkas said.
“He’s dead?”
“I’m afraid so,” I said, placing my fingertips to his neck in search of a pulse. “Someone obviously replaced the blanks in that gun with live ammunition.”
08 - The Highland Fling Murders Page 19
