Lucy paused again as the memories washed over her. Cameron leaned forward ever so slightly, but said nothing. Alex squeezed his wife's hand.
"It," Lucy continued, "it was a difficult birth. I almost lost her." She grimaced. "They almost lost me. I— They christened her 'Mary.' I knew I wouldn't keep her, but she deserved a name. Even if they changed it, she deserved a name."
Lucy looked away, drawing her breath in sharply against the tears.
"They saved the baby," Alex stepped in, "but just barely. And they told Lucy she'd never be able to have any more children." He paused and smiled sardonically. "Of course they didn't tell her that until a few days later. After she'd signed the adoption papers."
"And that was the last you heard of her," Cameron confirmed.
"Aye," Alex replied.
"Yes," Lucy managed to say.
"Until when?" Cameron's voice, while still kind, displayed just the slightest edge to communicate the seriousness of the inquiry, and the expectation of a straight answer.
Lucy jerked slightly at the question, then looked at her husband. His helpless half-smile told her to go ahead and answer.
"About two months ago. Maybe a bit more." She lowered her eyes to avoid the inspector's gaze.
"How did she contact you?"
"A—A letter," Lucy looked sidelong at Alex who squeezed her shoulder in return.
"Did she say who she was?" Cameron probed. "That she was your daughter?"
"Not at first, no." Lucy looked at her husband, then the inspector, then down at the floor again. "I mean the letter didn't start out, 'Hello, I'm your long lost daughter.' But I knew it was her."
Cameron leaned back into the upholstered chair. "Were you glad to hear from her?"
Lucy's brows came together and she frowned slightly, but she did not look up from the floor. "Well, yes. Of course. But— Well, it was a bit of a shock. Twenty odd years later and all."
"Did she seem glad to have found you?" He fixed his gaze firmly on Lucy's countenance.
"Well, er, yes, of course." She turned to her husband, his face twisted into a pained expression.
"It was an awkward situation, Inspector." Once again Alex MacTary came to his wife's aid. "I'm sure you can imagine. We never actually met with her, face to face. Just letters. And then..." He trailed off. "Well, then, here we are."
Weak smiles emerged on both the MacTarys' faces as they looked at the police officers perched opposite them.
"Aye," Cameron didn't nod. "Here we are."
Several moments of awkward silence followed. Warwick, who had remained quiet since her initial explanation of the Canadian bureaucracy, was aware of her urge to blurt out something to fill the silence. She resisted it. The MacTarys too sat silently and uncomfortably in their seats across from the inspector. Finally, Inspector Cameron spoke, his tone as matter-of-fact as if asking the time of day, but as serious as if asking the time of death.
"When did the blackmail start?"
A dozen emotions flashed across Lucy MacTary's face. She turned quickly to her husband, whose expression had remained unaltered, save a slight raising of the eyebrows. Lucy returned her gaze to the inspector, but let it fall slightly below his eyes.
"Blackmail?"
"Aye," Cameron frowned. "She was blackmailing you, wasn't she?"
A long pause, then Lucy cocked her head to one side. "Annette, you mean?"
"Yes, Annette." If Cameron's voice did not yet display his impatience, it certainly hinted at it.
"Annette wasn't blackmailing us." Lucy looked to her husband for confirmation; he gave it in the form a single nod. "I'm not sure what you're talking about," Lucy continued. "Why on Earth would you think that?"
The inspector let out a long sigh. He knew better that to start answering their questions.
"Where were you, Mrs. MacTary, on the night of Annette's death?"
"Now wait just a second—" Alex started to object but a commanding gesture from Cameron quieted him.
The inspector turned back to Lucy MacTary. "Where were you?" he repeated.
"We were home," Alex explained. "Together. The entire night."
Cameron regarded Alex MacTary with a critical eye.
"We closed the shop at the usual time," Alex went on. "six o'clock. Then we came straight home. I believe we may have watched the tele a bit. Then we went to bed."
Cameron stared at Alex but still said nothing.
"I'm afraid," Alex concluded with a hug of his wife and a self-deprecating smile, "that we're rather a dull married couple sometimes."
"All right then," Cameron leaned back in his chair and nodded several slow nods. "Just a few more questions and we'll be on our way. Where were you this past Friday evening, starting at say six o'clock?"
"Uh, well," Alex looked to his wife trying both to remember his activities that night and to divine the relevance of the question. "I believe we were at home. Again."
"Yes, that's right," Lucy agreed. "We closed the shop at six and stayed a bit late to tidy up. We had to get ready for the week-end. We'd a trip planned." She nodded as the memory returned fully. "Yes, that's right. It was raining. Maggie came to the store absolutely drenched at about, what, half past six, would you say, Alex?"
"Aye, half past. Soaked to the bone she was."
Cameron looked at Warwick for the first time since they'd sat down. Her eyes reflected the inspector's thoughts.
"Maggie?" the inspector asked of the middle-aged couple. "Who's Maggie?"
"Maggie?" Alex repeated. "Oh, Maggie's our niece. From the States. She's staying with us this year while she studies at the college."
Cameron again looked to his sergeant. She nodded in encouragement.
"Maggie Devereaux?" Cameron asked.
Maggie, who had been listening at the vent the entire time, drew in a surprised breath at this mention of her name. Her uncle asked the question for her.
"Aye. How did you know that?"
Cameron exhaled slowly as he weighed how much information to divulge.
"There was another murder Friday night," he stated officially. "May we talk with Maggie? Is she home right now?"
Maggie stepped away from the vent, her legs a bit unsteady. An icy shiver slithered up her spine.
Another murder? she thought. What could that possibly have to do with me?
Quickly, she returned to the vent, but only in time to hear her aunt say, "We'll go fetch her."
The vent was silent for several moments, then, as Maggie heard two sets of footsteps come up the stairs, she heard the police officers again.
"So what do you think?" The man asked. The inspector.
"I'm not sure," the woman replied. "They seem nice enough. They've a nice home, nice things. They're not the sorts I'd expect to be involved in occult murders."
Occult murders? The selection of titles at Sinclair's bookshop raced through Maggie's head. And then the phrase, 'Dark Book of Rites and Damnation.'
"True enough," the man replied, "but we can't rule anything out yet. We know they have a direct connection to Annette Graham, and apparently they also have a connection, through their niece, to the second murder. It may not be a lot, but it's more than we have elsewhere at the moment. Let's see what this Maggie Devereaux has to say."
There was a knock on Maggie's door.
"Maggie?" her aunt slowly opened the door, Uncle Alex peering into the room from behind her.
"Yes?" Maggie heard herself answer, her voice dry and scratchy.
After a brief, halting and wholly inadequate explanation from her aunt and uncle—but one which did include their previously unmentioned connection to the woman who had been murdered just before Maggie's arrival—she followed them downstairs.
Why do the police want to talk to me? Maggie's mind raced as she proceeded to the living room. What could I possibly know about the murder. Murders. Oh, God, there's been another murder! Who—?
"Thank you for agreeing to meet with us," the woman police officer greeted Maggie
as she entered the room. The man—the inspector—stood silently by the armchair across from the couch. Maggie just nodded weakly in response. The woman's voice seemed distant over the din of blood rushing in Maggie's ears.
"I'm Sgt. Warwick. Elizabeth," the woman said. "And this is Inspector Cameron."
"How do you do, miss?" Inspector Cameron nodded from across the room.
Maggie again nodded weakly, a faint smile pasted to her face. She was only vaguely aware that her aunt and uncle had left the room. At the request of the police, no doubt.
"I'm afraid," Sgt. Warwick began as she motioned Maggie toward the couch, "that we have some rather unpleasant news for you."
Maggie tried to make an expression of ignorance and concern. She wasn't sure she'd succeeded, but at least she didn't blurt out, 'Oh you mean the second murder? The one I was eavesdropping over? The sacrificial occult satanic black magic ritual killing? That one?'
Whatever Maggie may have expected them to say next, it wasn't what came out of Sgt. Elizabeth Warwick's mouth.
"Did you know Fionna FitzSimmons?"
'Did!' Maggie's head started to spin. She said 'did.' Not 'Do you know Fionna FitzSimmons?' but 'Did you know Fionna FitzSimmons?'
"Y—Yes," her voice seemed as distant as an echo across a canyon. "Is Fionna—?"
"Maggie," Sgt. Warwick leaned across and placed her hand on the American's ice cold fingers. "Fionna was murdered. Friday night, we think. And we need to ask you some questions so we can catch her killer."
"Okay," Maggie replied meekly. She was surprised to find that she was numb. She was glad to have the questioning to focus on, to keep her mind off of—
"You were supposed to meet with her Friday night, weren't you?" Warwick asked.
"Y—Yes. But how did you—?"
"You left a message on her answering machine," Inspector Cameron explained. "We listened to it while—while we investigated the scene."
"Oh, okay."
"But we need more details," Warwick explained. "It sounded from your message that you'd planned to meet that evening, but you arrived late?"
"Uh, yes," Maggie replied weakly, and then she proceeded to give the precise timetable of when she and Fionna had met that afternoon, when they were supposed to meet again at the King's Street Pub, and when she herself had finally arrived, only to be told by the waitress that Fionna had just left. The only thing she left out was exactly where she had been prior to arriving at the pub.
"Right," Warwick nodded as she listened. "And why exactly were you late?"
Maggie felt her stomach tie into a hundred queasy knots.
"Oh God," she replied, entirely unresponsive to the inquiry. "What time was she killed?"
Warwick was surprised by this question in response to a question. But Maggie's urgent visage seemed genuinely troubled.
"We're still establishing the exact time," Cameron interjected. "That's why we're talking with you. But we do believe it was sometime Friday evening."
"When she should have been at the pub with me." Maggie's eyes began to well.
"Ah well," Cameron raised a hand in caution, "we don't know that, Miss Devereaux. It may well have happened some time much later in the evening. It's always difficult to establish an exact time of death."
"No," Maggie said simply, a single tear breaking free and running down the outside of her right cheek. "She never called me back. She would've called me back."
"Okay, Maggie," Warwick soothed. "We've just a few more questions, and then we'll be finished."
Maggie nodded and wiped the tear from her jaw.
"Were you and Fionna very good friends?"
Maggie thought for a second. "No. Not really, I guess. Actually I'd just met her once before, a few weeks ago."
Warwick nodded. "So you were just meeting for dinner to get to know one another better?"
"Yes. Well, no actually." Maggie hesitated, but it was too late.
"Yes?" Warwick encouraged.
"Well, actually, I ran into her at the library like I told you and—oh jeez, this is going to sound bad." She frowned and looked for an escape, but there was none. "See, I'm studying at the university. And the professor I'm studying under is a man named Craig Macintyre. And well, Fionna said if I was going to study under him there were some things I should know."
Maggie regarded the stony countenances before her.
"That sounds pretty bad, doesn't it?" she asked with a sniffle and an embarrassed smile.
"No, Maggie," Warwick assured.
"No," Cameron added. "It sounds true." He turned to his sergeant. "Anything else?"
Warwick thought for a moment, then shook her head. "Not right now."
"Right. Well then," Cameron stood up and extended his hand. "Thank you for your time, Miss Devereaux. We won't detain you any longer."
"Okay," Maggie shook the inspector's large hand. "Let me know if there's anything else I can do to help."
Warwick smiled as warmly as she knew how. "We will, Maggie. Thank you." Then she reached into her coat pocket and produced a business card. "Here. If you remember anything else about that evening, please give me a call."
"Okay," Maggie repeated, and watched as the police officers walked out of the living room, informed the MacTarys, who were lurking in the foyer, that they would be in touch, and exited into the cool Aberdeen late morning.
When they had almost reached the car, Cameron turned to his sergeant. "Macintyre?"
Warwick nodded crisply. "Annette Graham's professor too."
* * *
The atmosphere inside the MacTary home had become understandably tense. Maggie just wanted to get out of there. Her repeated efforts to telephone Prof. Macintyre had resulted in several dozen rings but no answer. Ellen, however, had picked up. She too had heard of Fionna's murder. They agreed to meet at three that afternoon. For tea. For company. For support. It had been Ellen's idea, but Maggie was glad for it.
Maggie pulled her coat from its hanger in the front closet and slid it over her arms. Her backpack sat by the front door awaiting her departure. Aunt Lucy and Uncle Alex were in the kitchen. She'd just pop in and tell them she'd decided to ride her bicycle after all.
As she approached the door to the kitchen, however, the hushed tone of its occupants made her stop in her tracks. She didn't want to just barge in. However, as she stood there, uncertain what to do, she couldn't help but overhear their conversation.
"Why didn't you tell them she was blackmailing you?" Alex demanded.
"Oh, Alex. Let the poor lass rest in peace. She had a hard enough life, what with her mother abandoning her at birth and all, and Lord knows she had a hard enough death. Don't speak ill of the dead."
"Ach, well," Alex sputtered.
"And anyway," Lucy countered, "why did you tell them we were home together that night? You know that's not true."
"Well, it sounded better than saying you were home alone while I spent the evening drinking and watching football at the pub only to wake up on the couch the next morn, my clothes still on and a brick in my head. They obviously already know about the blackmail, and now we've lied to them. They suspect us of something. I didn't want you to have to admit you haven't any alibi."
"Alibi? Good Lord, Alex, what are you thinking?"
"It's not what I'm thinking, Lucy. It's what they're thinking."
"Mmm-Khhhnmm," Maggie cleared her throat and walked into the kitchen. "Aunt Lucy? Uncle Alex? Are you in here?"
They turned from their spot at the other end of the kitchen. "Aye, Maggie," her aunt responded, her face turning flush. "We're right here. Are you heading out then?" She'd spied Maggie's coat.
"Yeah, I, um, I decided to just ride my bike into campus after all. I'm going to apologize to Prof. Macintyre for missing our meeting, then meet Ellen for tea in the afternoon. I kinda want to be out and about right now."
"Understood, lass," Alex smiled a sad little smile. "But don't stay out too late. We don't want to have to worry about you."
&n
bsp; "Fair enough," Maggie replied with the same sad smile. "I'll be home before dark."
And with that she exited the kitchen, grabbed her backpack and strode quickly out the front door.
20. Macintyre
The phone was ringing in Prof. Craig Macintyre's cramped university office. Again. He ignored it. Again. Without looking he knew it was almost noon. Maggie Devereaux had missed their meeting. It was most likely her calling. And if not, he could think of at least two other women who might be calling him just then and he had even less desire to speak with either of them. Closing his copy of John Barbour's The Bruce, Macintyre decided to stroll over to the refectory for lunch. As he stood up and stretched his back, two figures darkened his doorway. A man and a woman. Their expressions were deathly serious.
"Professor Craig Macintyre?" the man asked.
Macintyre finished his stretch before answering. "I see," he said, pointing casually to the nameplate on his desk, "that you can read. Is there anything more I can help you with? I'm just about to go to lunch."
"Prof. Macintyre," the man flashed a badge at the academic. "I'm Inspector Robert Cameron, Aberdeen Police. This is Sgt. Elizabeth Warwick. We need to speak with you."
"That is too bad," Macintyre stepped around his desk and grabbed his coat off the hook on the back of the door. "As I said, I'm leaving just now."
"This is important, Prof. Macintyre," Cameron insisted.
"I'm sure it is. As is my lunch." Macintyre pulled the brown leather coat on. "I'm useless on an empty stomach."
He herded the two officers out into the hallway and closed his office door behind him with a decisive click.
"Besides," he added as he fumbled in his coat pocket, "I make it a habit never to speak to the police without my attorney present."
At the word 'attorney,' Cameron's expression shifted from one of growing irritation to one of grudging acceptance.
Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1) Page 18
