by Hannah Reed
“The inspector, so I have no cause to doubt it.”
Had someone started that fire in my room, perhaps entering—or exiting—through the bathroom window? It wouldn’t have been difficult; my room was only on the second floor, not that hard to scale the outer wall. Once inside, they could have set the fire and exited the same way they’d come in while I was sound asleep in the next room.
I shuddered at the thought. How creepy would that be? Who would do such a thing? And why? And would anybody believe me when I insisted I had nothing to do with what happened?
But if Vicki’s good news was that the fire had begun in my room, I didn’t want to hear the not-so-good news.
“The other news,” she went on before I could properly prepare myself, “is that the inspector is coming round, and it can’t be for a social visit.” She glanced over my shoulder in the direction of the entryway. “And speak of the devil, there he is.”
Sure enough, her words were followed by a knock on the door. Pepper and Coco started barking after the fact, and Vicki rose to let a very damp Inspector Jamieson into the house.
I wondered if I’d have been so quick to let in the police if this had been Chicago. Letting a cop into your home without a warrant wasn’t the American way, especially if said cop is out to get you. But here was Vicki not only welcoming the inspector, but offering him tea while taking his umbrella and seating him across the table, where he could study me with those questioning, intelligent, penetrating eyes of his.
I shifted awkwardly, self-conscious in Vicki’s nightgown. At least I’d showered and washed the smoke out of my hair last night.
“According tae the fire chief, it wasn’t an electrical fire,” the inspector announced, addressing me. “Besides, yer electric appliances were still packed away inside yer luggage with the proper transformer beside them.”
Despite his clearly intending this to console me, knowing he’d gone through my things felt like a major violation. What exactly were my rights in Scotland? Did I have any, as a guest in their country? I forced myself to relax, deciding to face his interrogation with confidence. After all, I knew I hadn’t set the fire.
“Perhaps,” he continued after preparing his tea, “it wasn’t accidental at all.”
“Yes. Perhaps,” I retorted, feeling myself bristle, even though I had no idea what he was implying, “it really was arson on someone’s part, that someone not being me.”
“We’d never think you had anything to do with it,” Vicki said. “Not on purpose.”
I continued firmly, wanting to force the inspector’s hand. “Now that you’ve ruled out an accident, isn’t the only other explanation that it was set intentionally?”
The inspector remained silent, staring at his teacup.
I kept going. “I didn’t stuff flammable material in the garbage and light it on fire before turning in for the night, if that’s what you think. What kind of nut would that make me?”
Okay, so he didn’t know me. I could be a nut.
“I’ve had just about enough of your insinuations,” I burst out angrily, even as part of me realized that the inspector had actually said very little. It was what was left unsaid that was most important. “I’m sure you are perfectly aware that my background is spotless.”
“I’m aware o’ that.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Background checks are routine,” the inspector said, rather stiffly, “in situations such as these.”
“Fires, you mean? Or murders?” I was so angry, although I had to admit to myself that my anger might be misdirected at this man who was charged with investigating, when it was the circumstances themselves that had me frustrated and fuming.
“Now, calm yourself down,” Vicki said. “Do either of you want a nice almond biscuit?”
I wasn’t finished with him yet. “Do you mind everybody else’s business so thoroughly? How about Vicki? Did you do a thorough background check on her?”
A moment of silence ensued.
“Well, did you?” Vicki said, hands on hips now that his investigation might broaden to compromise her personal life as well.
Of course he would have. But apparently she hadn’t thought that far.
“I do my job as I see fit,” he replied to her, not answering directly, then he turned to me. “I apologize if I’ve offended ye, but ye might be more sympathetic if ye looked at the situation from my point o’ view.”
“It’s been an exhausting few days,” I muttered in my defense. A real understatement.
“I’d like tae hear yer opinion o’ what happened in that room,” he said. “Without ye feeling ye have tae get defensive.”
“I’ll get those biscuits,” Vicki said with traces of anger still in her tone. She hurried to get them and returned to the table in a flash.
After careful consideration, and without being sure if he really valued my opinion or if he was hoping to lead me down a path of self-incrimination by letting me talk myself into a corner, I responded. “Bear with me for a moment and consider this possibility,” I suggested, breathing deeply to calm down. “I wonder if whoever set it didn’t want to actually harm me or anyone else staying at the inn. If that were the case, the person responsible wouldn’t have left the window open for the smoke to escape.”
“Ye mean it wasn’t ye who left it open?” the inspector asked, clearly surprised.
I shook my head. “When I went to bed, the window was closed.”
“Did you remember latching the window before bed?” Vicki asked.
“No, but I didn’t notice whether it was locked or not, either.”
“Must o’ been unlocked,” the inspector said. “There was no evidence of a forced entry.”
I continued. “What if the Whistling Inn was the target? Maybe the arsonist wanted to shut it down for some reason, at least temporarily. Since I only just arrived, and no one in all of Scotland could possibly have a grudge against me, I’m going to guess that my room was chosen at random. Maybe my window just happened to be unlocked.”
While I wasn’t sure I believed my own theory, it did have some merit. And if there was a way to get the inspector to look for the real culprit, I’d give him as many theories as he could process.
“Or,” Vicki added, “it was an inside job. Whoever cleans the rooms might have left the window unlocked for an accomplice.”
“Whatever the case,” the inspector said, “I’m afraid that the smoke damage won’t be cleaned up anytime too soon. Which reminds me, I have yer bags in my Honda. I put them there as soon as the fire brigade told me it was safe tae go up. Wouldn’t want anybody rummaging through yer personal belongings.”
He read the look on my face, and added, “Anybody who isn’t conducting official business, is wha’ I meant tae say.”
“Well, thanks,” I said. I still wasn’t happy he’d gone through them, but I was grateful he’d brought them over.
A few moments passed while we all savored Vicki’s biscuits and sipped our tea. Then the inspector glanced out the window. He let out a heavy sigh, and said, “Bugger. The fool managed to track me down.”
I followed his gaze to where volunteer police officer Sean Stevens was hurrying up the walkway.
“Ye will never guess what I’ve just found out!” Sean fairly shouted when Vicki let him inside out of the rain, after stopping briefly to shake himself like a wet dog.
“I’m not in the mood fer games,” the inspector roared at him.
“Most o’ the blood on the floor wasn’t belongin’ tae the sheep shearer after all,” Sean told us with great excitement. “The results came back while ye were out and aboot, Inspector.”
The inspector looked pained. “If this is official business,” he said to his trainee, “ye best be keepin’ it between the two o’ us and not go shouting it from the rooftops.”
But the newbie
cop was too excited to contain himself. “It weren’t Gavin Mitchell’s blood on the floor o’ the cottage,” Sean announced.
“Stop!” The inspector was on his feet.
But it was too late. “It was pig’s blood, cannae ye believe it?”
Inspector Jamieson looked about to explode. He practically hauled Sean off by the scruff of his neck.
The last thing we heard from Sean as he was whisked outside was, “Wha’s the matter? Wha’?”
“Ye have a big mouth, is wha’!”
The inspector came back with my bags, his face set and grim as he placed them on the floor, then whirled around and stalked out without another word.
Then they drove off separately, the inspector gunning it down the lane, the special constable attempting to keep pace.
CHAPTER 12
“Well, my dear authoress,” Vicki said when we were alone again, “what do you make of all that?”
I shook my head, remembering how much blood had been spilled at the scene of the crime. “Pig’s blood on the floor around the body? I don’t know what to think. Other than that I’m completely confused.” And disgusted.
“Do you think some sort of werewolf thing got Gavin?”
I glanced at Vicki, who looked perfectly serious.
“You’re kidding, right?” I said.
“Not a bit. But instead of being part wolf, his attacker would have been part pig, part human?”
I spotted the hint of a smile on Vicki’s face at the absurdity of this new direction, so I teased her by saying, “What I think is that you lived in California too long.”
“Don’t laugh at me, or I won’t give you any more biscuits.”
I rearranged my face into a more somber expression, because her biscuits were delicious. “There, is this better?”
“Much.” Vicki rose to clear the table, and I pitched in. “I’m sorry to be making light of such a grim situation, but if I don’t, I think I’ll begin crying and never stop.”
I gave her a hug. “I understand perfectly,” I said.
“What are you up to today?”
“I have something to take care of regarding a certain vehicle.”
My first project of the day would be to get over my fear of the rental car.
“I think I’ll stay indoors and tend to my knitting,” Vicki said.
After happily discovering that the clothing inside my luggage still smelled fresh, and even more happily accounting for everything else—passport, cash, bank cards, etc.—I scooped the car keys out of the vase near the door and tackled the issue of the rental car.
Except it wouldn’t start. Wouldn’t even turn over. I tried every gear, every possible combination. Nothing.
Vicki came out and joined me wearing a rain jacket, the hood up over her head. “I called the car hire for you and told them to pick up this sad sack.”
What a friend! I smiled. “Are they bringing me an automatic?”
She shook her head. “Even better. I have one of my da’s cars for you to use, same as I am. No sense wasting your hard-earned money.”
I followed her to the barn, where she threw open the massive doors. There, beside the blue Citroën I’d ridden in last night, stood what I gathered was the offered transportation.
“What is it?” I asked as we moved inside to take shelter from the rain.
“An old Peugeot that’s been here since I was a bairn,” she told me, beaming. “She’s seen much of the land in these parts, I’m guessing. And with the keys in her ignition, all set to go.”
“Automatic?” I said, ever hopeful.
“Afraid not, but you’ll manage.”
“Does it run?” I said, not wishing to appear ungrateful, but hoping it wouldn’t.
“I couldn’t get it to turn over, but that doesn’t mean much. She might just need a battery charge. We’ll soon find out. Leith will be here anytime now to put the tools to her.”
I couldn’t think of a single tactful way out. “I can’t let you do this,” I said weakly. “You’ve already done so much for me. How could I ever repay you?”
She waved me off, ignored my protests, and went back to the house.
After all my determination not to rely on a man for help, here I was waiting for one to help me. And the same one again to boot. Well, when it came to vehicles, I guess I’d just have to accept any help I could get.
A few minutes later, Leith’s Land Rover pulled up next to the barn.
He hopped out, his border collie, Kelly, right behind him. My heart gave a little involuntary flutter, not a reaction I had expected—but neither had I expected to see Leith climb out of his car wearing a kilt. Not the whole formal getup, like I’d seen on the MacBrides at the funeral or on the occasional bagpiper; Leith wore his kilt paired with a black T-shirt and laced-up boots. A manly look I could definitely get used to.
He headed for shelter from the rain and grinned when he came up beside me, then whispered, his mouth close to my ear. “I see ye staring at my kilt, and I bet yer wondering what’s worn under it.”
I felt my face heating up. Were my thoughts that transparent? Because in a flash I had recalled Ami’s airport comment about finding out what was under those Scottish kilts.
“Well, are ye?” he pressed.
I shrugged, willing the color in my cheeks to return to normal.
“Nothin’s worn under my kilt,” he said with a naughty twinkle in his eyes. “’Tis all in working order.” Then he winked and burst out laughing at the expression on my face.
I felt myself continue to blush through the involuntary smile on my lips. He’d rattled me, which I was pretty sure had been his intention.
Thankfully, at that moment Kelly came up to me, and I quickly bent to greet her, hoping to hide my schoolgirl reaction to Leith’s double entendre.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked Leith when I recovered, seeing that he’d opened the Peugeot’s hood and had turned his attention to wires and mechanical parts. “Why the kilt?”
“I promised my girl I’d wear it fer her. I’m on my way tae see her next.”
“Ah,” I said, my stomach dropping involuntarily. But I quickly regrouped. Not only was I not interested in the man—or any man, I scolded myself—but I’d also suspected Leith was taken from the very beginning. I guess the flirting had made me forget.
Feeling embarrassed, I took advantage of a pause in the rain to leave Leith puttering under the hood while I wandered down to Sheepish Expressions.
And, once again, soon found everything spinning in a new direction.
CHAPTER 13
It was still morning, and Sheepish Expressions could only have been open for a short time. The parking lot was completely empty on this rainy Saturday, but a tour bus pulled in just as I arrived.
Upon exiting the bus, a woman turned to her male traveling companion, and said, “The Loch Ness Monster is only a legend. Just another tourist attraction, if you ask me.”
The bus driver heard her, and piped up, saying, “Oh no, it’s real for sure. Enough o’ us have seen Nessie tae confirm her existence. And bones of another huge sea serpent were recently found in Russia, a cousin to our famous girl, their researchers say.”
The woman harrumphed her disbelief. I figured the bus driver had a good line; whether or not the tourists believed in the giant lake dweller or not, they sure were showing up in one busload after another hoping for a sighting.
I stepped inside the shop behind the skeptic and took a sharp turn away from the counter. I slunk amongst the fine woolen clothing, enjoying the textures of all the lovely apparel. July hardly seemed the right time of the year to buy woolen products, but that wasn’t stopping these shoppers. The woman next to me picked out an armful of brightly patterned cashmere scarves. When she noticed my interest, she said, “I know it’s still July, but Christmas will
be here before we know it. My friends and family will love these!”
After making a mental note to do some holiday shopping myself before flying back to Chicago, I ducked into the attached knitting room, where I pored over binders and magazines filled with patterns. They could have been Greek for all that I understood of the directions, but the photos of the finished products again lured me into thoughts of retrying my hand at knitting.
When I returned to earth from a dreamworld of possibilities, the knitting room was empty. So was the shop, judging by the lack of voices. Presumably the previous tour bus had departed for its next destination, and the next one hadn’t arrived yet.
I heard a male voice call out, “Anybody left inside the shop?” and before I could figure out my plan of action, a female voice responded, “They’re all gone, John. Next bus arrives in about five minutes.”
John. That must be John Derry, Kirstine MacBride’s husband, the one who tended the farm’s sheep, the same one who had egged on his wife when she verbally attacked Vicki in the pub. I couldn’t see him at the moment, but I had a visual in my head of the big, brash bully. I’d been about to declare myself, but now I only wanted to hide. I ducked down on the other side of the wall.
“Can I have a word with ye, Kirstine?” I heard him say to his wife. My ear had adjusted to the local accent enough to recognize that John’s was different—somewhat similar, but not exactly the same. Nor did it sound like the rest of the MacBrides’.
I panicked, hearing their voices coming closer. Hiding had been a stupidly rash move on my part. It’s one thing to be discovered alone in a back room, paging through magazines, blissfully unaware of your surroundings. It’s another to be caught hunkered down, listening like a Peeping Tomette.
But that’s exactly what had happened.
I’d hunkered.
And I was about to be busted with no good explanation to offer.
“The inn had ta close,” John said from way too close, right on the other side of the wall. “And now the nosy American is here at the farm, those two gettin’ tight like herrings in the salt.”
