Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1)

by Stephen Penner

  "Look, perfesser," he intentionally mispronounced the word, "for someone who's supposed to be so bloody smart, you don't seem to know very much about your own activities. But wise up, mate. Kelly Anderson is dead. And if you don't start remembering things straight away, then we'll be forced to draw some very unfavorable conclusions about your role in her untimely demise."

  Craig Macintyre nodded weakly. "Okay."

  "Let's start with the basics. Kelly was one of your students?"

  "Yes."

  "A bit more than just a student, eh, mate?"

  Macintyre paused, then gave a defeated smile and looked down. "Yes."

  "You were sleeping with her, right?"

  Macintyre took a long deep breath then propped his elbows on his knees. "Yes," he admitted through the hands that covered his face.

  "Right. But you're married, aren't you, perfesser?" Russell continued. "You've a wedding band on. Not that I can blame you really. She was a pretty bird—well, not when I saw her, not anymore, but—"

  "Stop it!" Macintyre shrieked quite unforcefully. He looked up sharply, his eyes red. "Just stop it! Just tell me what you want to know."

  Russell walked over and picked up the chair that had been knocked aside by the flying table. Setting it down backwards before his subject, he sat down firmly and leaned forward on the chair back. "Everything," he hissed.

  And so it all came out. How Kelly Anderson had come to the University of Aberdeen two years before, pretty, exotic and eager. How she had latched onto him, showered him with attention and praise—something he couldn't get anymore from Mrs. Macintyre. How his meteoric rise to professor had been followed by a series of progressively more unimpressive articles published in progressively less prestigious journals. How his wife's interest in him had waned as his career had stalled but hers had begun to take off—and take her away, on 'business trips' to London and the Continent. And how this pretty young American, who was so taken with him, also just happened to have some of the most original ideas. Ideas well worth publishing, even in some of the most highly regarded journals. And she did so want to be published. Almost as much as Macintyre needed to be.

  It wasn't long before the suppressed romantic tension flared into a full blown physical relationship. He used her youth and beauty to salve his wounded pride. She used his reputation and connections to get published. But he had had the better of the bargain. After assuring her that she would receive equal credit for the research they had conducted jointly between liaisons, he had gone and published their article under his name only. Not so much as a footnote mentioning any 'Kelly Anderson.'

  After all, he was the professor. His status didn't lend itself to equal billing with a mere graduate student.

  And after all, she was young still. She would get other chances to be published.

  And after all, his wife, who by then earned the lion's share of their combined income, already suspected something. She would have interpreted the joint credit as confirmation of her suspicions and sent him packing.

  And after all, he needed the recognition. His young career was slipping away from him, and that was threatening to send his wife packing, most likely to move in with some corporate vice president at the home office in London.

  "And after all, I promised to give her equal credit on our next article."

  Macintyre looked again at the police officer. "She wasn't very impressed," he admitted with a nervous laugh.

  "No, mate," Russell spat. "Neither am I."

  Macintyre frowned and looked down at the ground.

  "What about last night?"

  "Oh, right. Last night." Macintyre rubbed his hands nervously, but didn't look up. "Well, Kelly—she wasn't very happy with me. And that was difficult. Because, well, she had looked up to me so before. And that meant so much to me. But when she looked at me now, I saw that same scorn and disgust I saw in Janet's eyes."

  Macintyre shook his head as he looked down, his hands clasped and extended below his knees.

  "Go on."

  "Well," he started tentatively, "she threatened to expose me. My plagiarism. To the dean, to the police, to anyone who would listen. And our affair as well, if she had to. She wanted me to admit she'd done half the work on the article."

  "Half?" Russell had a hunch.

  Macintyre looked up at the policeman for a moment, then dropped his head into his hands. "Oh God, I am pathetic, aren't I? All. All of it. It was almost completely her work and I stole it—entirely—because I was scared. Scared of losing my job, my status, my wife. I stole it all and published it under my own name and didn't give her any credit at all."

  He hung his head in his hands and muttered something unintelligible.

  "Why not just own up to it?"

  "Oh no!" Macintyre's head shot back up and he looked at Russell wide-eyed. "I couldn't do that! I'd be ruined. If I admitted I'd plagiarized from a mere student? No, I'd have been fired on the spot. And no university would have touched me. I'd have been ruined. And Janet would have left me for sure—even without knowing about the affair."

  "But you couldn't let Kelly expose you either, now could you?"

  "No. No, I couldn't. That's what I'm telling you." His wide eyes twitched. "But wait, if you're suggesting—"

  "I'm not suggesting anything," Russell interrupted, "yet. Let's stick with you and Kelly for now. You did see her last night, didn't you?"

  Macintyre didn't respond.

  "Don't screw with me, Macintyre," the lieutenant warned. "We've got her entire backpack, complete with her day-planner, her journal and her notebooks. I can probably tell you almost every word the two of you said to each other. So don't play games. You saw her, didn't you?"

  "Yes," quivered Macintyre. "But not last night. It was more like late afternoon."

  Russell narrowed his eyes, but didn't say anything.

  "She came to my office. She knew I usually worked Saturdays when—when Janet and I weren't getting on."

  "What time?"

  "God, it must have been about four o'clock. Yes, just after four. She gave me an ultimatum. Either submit a formal acknowledgment of her work to the journal, or she'd tell the dean about the plagiarism—and Janet about the affair. She gave me until noon Sunday to agree to her demand, or she'd tell all."

  "So what'd you do?"

  Macintyre shrugged. "I threatened. I cajoled. I pleaded. But she wouldn't be swayed. I told her I'd have to think about it." He shook his head defeatedly. "She left in a huff."

  "And what happened next?"

  "Next?" Macintyre seemed perplexed. "Nothing happened next. She'd left. I never saw her again. I remember pulling a bottle of Glenfiddich out of my cabinet. I was pretty upset. I drank the bottle. Then I fetched the other bottle and started drinking that one too. The next thing I remember I woke up this morning in my office with two empty whiskey bottles and a brick in my head."

  The lieutenant considered this for several moments, then asked, "That wasn't the first time she'd threatened to expose you, right?"

  "Oh no. It started much earlier, but she'd never been that serious."

  "When was the article published?"

  "Hmm. Let me think," Macintyre looked at his hands. "It was the summer volume. So July. Late July or early August."

  "So before September twenty-seventh?"

  Russell's question necessarily reminded Macintyre of how their conversation had started. "Now, wait a minute—"

  "Annette Graham was one of your students." It was a statement.

  "Yes, but—"

  "Were you sleeping with her too?"

  "No! How dare y—"

  "Fionna FitzSimmons: one of your students, too?"

  "No, I don't think s—"

  "Our records show she took two courses from you." He recited them from memory, "'Survey of Gaelic Literature in English Translation' and 'Introduction to Comparative Literature.'"

  "Ah well, those are large lecture courses. It's possible that—"

  "Were you sleeping wit
h her too?"

  "No!"

  Russell sprang up suddenly, knocking the chair aside quite loudly.

  "Where were you last night?!"

  "I told you! In my office—drinking myself to oblivion." He cowered beneath the large police officer.

  "Where were you the night of October twenty-fifth?"

  "I don't know!"

  "Where were you the night of September twenty-seventh?"

  "I don't— Wait!" Macintyre's eyes lit up. "Amsterdam! I was in Amsterdam!"

  Russell's face had become beet red during his assault. He blinked slowly. "What?"

  "Amsterdam! I was in Amsterdam! At a conference! From September twenty-fourth to October first. I must have over two-hundred witnesses!"

  Macintyre's face had exploded into a giddy smile. "In fact, I led a discussion group the morning of September twenty-seventh. That was a Friday, wasn't it?"

  The policeman put his hand to his head, covering his eyes. After a long silence, he admitted, "Yes."

  "No, sorry," Macintyre beamed. "I was in Amsterdam."

  Russell lowered his hand and turned away, taking a few absent steps toward the frosted window.

  "Am I free to go now?" Macintyre's question held a nervous honesty rather than the relieved triumph it had displayed with the word 'Amsterdam.'

  "Not quite, perfesser." The smile returned to Russell's still red face. "Take off your shirt."

  Macintyre's mouth fell open. "Pardon?"

  "We've reason to believe the murderer may have suffered an injury during the last attack," the lieutenant explained. "Now let's see your arms, mate."

  Macintyre sat still for a moment, considering the request.

  "Is this legal?" he asked at last. "I mean, do I have to?"

  Russell sighed. "Do you want to talk to Mr. Kirby?"

  "Who?"

  "Your lawyer?"

  Macintyre laughed nervously. "Oh," he recalled the conversation with the two police officers in the hallway of Taylor. "No, he's a copyright lawyer. He reads over my publishing contracts. No, he'll be of no help at all. I'm asking you."

  "Well, I'm not your lawyer," Russell was sure to say, "so I can't give you legal advice. But I can tell you that's it's legal if you consent to it. And if you don't want to consent to it, then I'll have two choices. One is to let you go without having confirmed information I truly need to know for this investigation. The other is to arrest you on probable cause of murder and ask a magistrate to issue a warrant. Then it won't matter if you consent or not. Guess which I'll choose."

  "Probable cause of murder?" Macintyre stammered the words back.

  "Aye, mate. Your student and your lover is dead. She'd threatened to expose your plagiarism and your adultery. And I couldn't care less about Amsterdam—you've no bloody alibi for last night! So what'll be, perfesser?!"

  Macintyre stared at Russell, eyes wide with shock. Then without a word, he slowly unbuttoned his light blue button-down dress shirt. He wiggled out of it without standing up and let out a small sigh.

  Russell saw it immediately. A large yellow-purple bruise on the shoulder muscle of Macintyre's right arm.

  "Well?" That was enough; the question was clear.

  "Janet." Macintyre looked away.

  "What?"

  Macintyre pulled his shirt on again quickly. "Janet. My wife. She wasn't happy I didn't come home last night, stumbling in this morning, hung over and with no real explanation. I could hardly tell her why I'd been drinking. She accused me of being with another woman, one of my students. She's pretty smart, Janet is. And she's a strong arm. She threw a lamp at me."

  Russell didn't reply.

  Macintyre laughed to himself—a pathetic, defeated laugh. "I've lost her anyway," he muttered. "Probably be gone by the time I get home."

  "Okay, mate," Russell commanded his attention. "Here's the deal. You're not under arrest." He held up his hand, index finger and thumb only millimeters apart. "But you're this bloody close. We'll be watching you. If you so much as sneeze without covering your mouth, you'll be in a cell awaiting arraignment. Amsterdam or no. Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  "And do not leave Aberdeen. For any reason. If you do, you'll be arrested. Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Get out of here," Russell turned away and pointed to the door.

  Without delay Macintyre stood up and scurried out of the room, his shirt still half unbuttoned.

  * * *

  "Well that went bloody well!" Russell's exclamation was punctuated by the crash of the observation room door smashing into the wall behind it and the ping of his cigarette lighter as it bounced off the wall behind Inspector Cameron, before hitting the ground and sliding to a stop at Sgt. Warwick's feet.

  "Amsterdam, eh?" Cameron smiled.

  "Can you believe that?'

  "No, actually," Warwick replied as she kicked the lighter back to the lieutenant. "I probably would have arrested him."

  "Aye, well don't think I wasn't sore tempted," Russell picked up the lighter and shoved it back into his pants pocket. "But if I do, then we've only seventy-two hours to arraign him on murder or we have to release him. And if he's telling the truth about being in Amsterdam when the Graham girl was murdered—well, then we'll just have to release him. After every news outlet in Scotland's reported we'd arrested the killer. We'd look like fools. And we'd damage our credibility when we do find the real killer."

  He grabbed onto imaginary jacket lapels and began strutting like a penguin. "'And are you as sure about my client's guilt as you were about Mr. Macintyre's when you arrested him erroneously? Answer the question!'"

  Warwick and Cameron couldn't help but laugh at this impression of a criminal defense attorney.

  "We'll have him on a short leash," Cameron assured his officers. "We'll watch his every move, at least until we can verify that Amsterdam story. Sergeant?"

  "I'm on it," Warwick replied. "I'll get it as soon as possible."

  Cameron didn't bother saying, 'I know.'

  "And we're sure it's the same killer?" Russell tried. "Any chance Macintyre did the Anderson girl, but somebody did the others?"

  Cameron shook his head. "No, the details are too similar. And forensics is rather certain it's the same murder weapons—same wire and same blade, dulling or not."

  Russell shook his head and punched weakly at the air in front of him. "Damn. I thought we had our man."

  29. A Little Knowledge

  Maggie sat on her bed, back against the headboard, knees pulled up, stocking feet shoved under the covers, and the spellbook propped open across her lap. She flipped absently through the pages as she recited, in a low, low voice, what she knew so far.

  "There have been three murders." Her fingers turned to the page containing the unnamed author's introductory thought about the magic.

  "Each about four weeks apart." A page with a crude rendering of a lunar clock passed before her half-focused eyes.

  "Coinciding with the moon cycle?" She reached a page detailing the author's understanding of the bonds connecting the heavens and the Earth. "I'll have to confirm that."

  "All the victims were women." Several more pages passed, including spells for healing and fertility.

  "All were students." A drawing of a stone tablet reflected in Maggie's glasses as it passed.

  "All were foreigners." Her hand reached the section on human sacrifices.

  "All were butchered, with their organs laid out like a stone circle." A diagram of a similar sacrifice sat on the page before her. "Or wait— Were they?"

  She flipped further ahead, almost to the last page. "The paper said Annette was 'butchered,' but no more details than that. And there was nothing helpful in the papers about Fionna." A spell on the transmutation of matter lay half-noticed on her lap.

  "Were they killed the same way or not?" She began flipping back toward the beginning again. Notes about summoning demons passed under her fingertips.

  "Is there really a pattern?" She
flipped a few more pages, then slammed her hands down on the open book.

  "I need to know more about the first two murders." Before she could ask, 'But how?' she looked down at the spellbook. Hiding beneath her now raised hands was some text she hadn't noticed before. She concentrated on the words, written in a dialect that only she understood, making sure she fully grasped their meaning. When she was finished, she set the book solemnly aside. If she had understood the writing correctly, she had stumbled across another magic spell. A spell designed to help those in need of more information. A spell which enabled its user to divine information about an unwitnessed event. From physical samples left behind.

  The hair on the back of Maggie's smooth neck stood up on end as she considered the possibilities.

  30. Unwitting Counsel

  "Thank you," Ellen said in a soft voice to the waitress who brought them their coffees. She turned to her companion, "I love coffee. It warms me up." She paused. "It's been so cold recently."

  Maggie nodded as she poured the cream into her cup. "Yeah, the weather's been awful lately."

  Before, Maggie might have ventured a crack about the Scottish climate, but Ellen was in no condition for even such unoriginal ribbing. If Ellen had truly succeeded in coping with Fionna's death—a proposition Maggie had seriously doubted—then Kelly's murder had shattered any vestige of security in Ellen's psyche.

  "Yes," Ellen replied to Maggie's all too obvious observation. "It has."

  Ellen's tired blue eyes flittered around the coffee shop and landed on Maggie's light brown drink.

  "Thanks for meeting for coffee, Maggie." A sad smile crept across Ellen's face. "I just don't like being alone right now."

  "Me neither," Maggie lied. In truth, alone was the only way she could read the spellbook, and that had become her most urgent pastime. Even as they sat in strained conversation, the book sat silently in her backpack on the floor. "How are you doing?"

  Ellen laughed coldly. "Not well, Maggie. I'm scared. I mean I'm really scared. Some madman has killed three girls here at the college. Two of them were good friends, and I'd met the third. Who's next, Maggie? You? Me?"