by Hannah Reed
“Or boozing it up at the pub and announcing the crime tae the rest o’ the customers,” Leith added. “That’s happened a time or two in these parts.”
“Or falling asleep in the victim’s home and waking up surrounded by police.”
“People can be right foolish.”
We grinned at each other.
“Anyway, that’s what I thought at first,” I said, “that the killer had a rather low IQ. But our man—or woman—went to a lot of trouble to get all that pig’s blood. I’m starting to wonder if there was another reason for it.”
Leith shook his head. “Some dolt thought he could fool the coppers, that’s the amount o’ it.”
“I can’t explain it any better at the moment,” I admitted. “It might have been a dolt, as you suggest, but I still want to know where the blood was purchased.”
Leith thought about that. “It could still have been bought at the grocer’s,” he decided.
I disagreed. “The killer wouldn’t have wanted to draw too much attention by buying buckets of blood.”
By the look on his face, Leith thought otherwise. “Pig’s blood comes dried in a sack.”
Well, how was I supposed to know that? “Dried? Then it’s mixed with water?”
Leith nodded. “If I remember correctly, it’s one part blood tae six or seven parts water, or thereaboots.”
“Oh.”
I felt my initial excitement about the blood source as a possible avenue of exploration draining away. If the killer hadn’t had to lug around gallon jars of blood and could have whipped up a batch right at Gavin’s cottage without anyone noticing, what chance did I have of tracking down the killer from that angle? It had probably been wishful thinking, but I’d really hoped for limited sources, maybe one or two places to obtain pig’s blood, and a short list of customers to sort through as potential suspects.
The inspector would have already checked with local outlets anyway. I hated starting from scratch when he probably had a huge lead on me. A smart woman would bow out gracefully, let the police do their jobs, and concentrate on writing the best book she could. But how could I focus on fiction with all this real-life intrigue going on around me?
“Don’t be discouraged,” Leith said, walking me to my car. “Everything will work out in the end.”
I really hoped he was right. As he opened the Land Rover’s door, I thought of something. “Leith, you’ve known the MacBrides a long time. How did the father get along with Kirstine and Alec?”
“James MacBride was a private man. He was difficult tae read, but there were never any outward signs o’ problems. Most likely they had their share, working together as they did, but nothing unusual.”
“He approved of Kirstine’s handling of the shop, and of John’s tending to the farm?”
“They do a fine job. It’s prospered under their care.”
I smiled, and said, “Well, thank you for answering all my questions, and enjoy your fishing trip.”
We both got into our cars, Leith with Kelly in the passenger seat, and me following behind. Before I turned into the MacBride driveway, Leith stuck his arm out the open window and waved a farewell as he headed for the open sea.
As I drove past Sheepish Expressions, it dawned on me that I had taken a stance firmly in support of Vicki, and I hadn’t had a single doubt about her today. A good sign that I’d successfully weathered her deception over her meeting with the sheep shearer and had come out still cheering for her. She’d saved me. Now it was my turn to try to save her.
I just hoped, in my eagerness, that I didn’t end up pounding in a few of Vicki’s coffin nails instead.
CHAPTER 33
When I checked on Coco and Pepper, they were thrilled to see me, reacting as though I’d been away for weeks and weeks instead of a couple of hours. I took a moment to bask in the glory of their admiration. Then, while they ran around outside, I plopped down in the same outdoor chair Vicki favored.
Putting my frustrating efforts to follow the trail of blood on the back burner, I turned my full attention to pondering the motive for Gavin Mitchell’s murder. Love, money, revenge: they all sounded good in theory. But they were only words. Without some proof, they didn’t mean a thing.
And just because Vicki and Gavin had been seen together the day before his death didn’t mean she’d killed him. Vicki had opportunity and means, but so did a whole lot of other people. Since the sheep shearer had been such a likeable guy and his craft had taken him out and about, he’d probably had many interactions in the days preceding his death. Those shears could have been picked up and used by nearly anyone.
So it really boiled down to finding the right motive.
The inspector would have to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Vicki MacBride had committed murder. Until then, he couldn’t charge her. At least, I thought he couldn’t. Truthfully, all my knowledge of police work came from crime shows on TV, but at least the British ones seemed similar enough to ours in that regard.
I still couldn’t understand why James MacBride would bequest his entire estate to only one of his three children. And to the one who wasn’t an active participant in the workings of the farm, who didn’t even live in Scotland. What father would do that? And why? Especially since there was no outward conflict between the father and the other children. It didn’t make sense that he’d intended to cut his other children out; either there was a missing new will, or—possibly—he’d just never gotten around to updating it. But if that were the case, and one or several family members were plotting to eliminate the heiress, shouldn’t Vicki be the person dead?
Could Gavin have gotten wind of their intent, overheard them making their plans in the same way I had listened to that disturbing conversation between Kirstine and John inside Sheepish Expressions? Only, unlike me, who’d managed to escape unseen, had he been found out? Maybe so—which meant that they’d had to change their plan. They’d stabbed Gavin to death, and efforts were put into motion to frame Vicki for his murder, which had been working out just fine until she “accidentally” lost control of her car and plunged over a cliff. Had someone become impatient?
I placed the potential suspects in an imaginary lineup:
Kirstine had a strong motive to eliminate Vicki. Her livelihood and childhood home were on the line. I could have chalked up her behavior in the pub to duress, as she’d buried her father the same day and learning about the will couldn’t have been easy—if only I hadn’t later overheard her plotting with her husband. She wasn’t on my list of likeable characters. Although, I had a difficult time imagining her thrusting the shears into Gavin’s body.
I shuddered and pulled my sweater tightly around my torso.
My thoughts turned next to John Derry. In the short time I’d known him, I could tell that he was seriously rough around the edges and thought nothing of spreading rumors and threatening whoever got in his way. I could easily picture him plunging the shears into Gavin Mitchell’s body. And he was a strong man. Moving Gavin would have been easy for him. And motive? He had the same one Kirstine did: His livelihood was in the balance, thanks to an outsider who didn’t belong.
Alec was next in the lineup. In theory, he could have had the same motive as his sister—protecting his financial future. But only if he were personally involved in the business, which he wasn’t. He had his own source of income as a private accountant, and so had no cause to suffer nearly as much as his sister by being excluded from the will. And from our first meeting and subsequent conversations, he had sympathized with his sister and suspected Vicki of murdering Gavin Mitchell, but he hadn’t expressed any interest in the operation of the farm or any inheritance. Flirting and selecting the proper golf club were his top priorities as far as I could tell. It must be great to be that financially secure.
So there we had it. If this was the only will, and I had no proof otherwise, then John and K
irstine Derry had killed the sheep shearer because he’d overheard them plotting to kill Vicki, then changed their plan to frame Vicki for his murder instead.
I’d love to connect Paul Turner to that bunch. I didn’t like the man on a personal level and found his professionalism and ethics seriously on the dicey side. Turner was in the other side’s corner. That was obvious.
Only, the sticky part was going to be how to prove any of this.
Before I had time to ponder another scene—in which there had been a second will and some kind of cover-up, which would have had to involve Vicki—Kirstine’s husband, John, the man who never seemed to move from the top of my suspect list, walked past, heading toward the shop with a sheep following behind on a short rope. The ewe was limping. Part of me wanted to hustle back inside until he was well past. From my brief association with him, he was a despicable character—not to mention a potential killer—and he might have nearly killed me with that fall. The other part decided to approach him anyway.
In spite of my bravado, I was immensely relieved to see some Sheepish Expressions customers milling about outside the shop. They were a distance from us but within shouting range. Knowing they were there gave me some extra reassurance that I was safe from any sort of attack by John. I walked in his direction.
The man really was an imposing figure up close. Tall, rugged, hairy, and gruff—exactly the caricature of an old billy goat. Only a gigantic old goat. I’d really only ever seen him from a distance, and even then he’d seemed more immense than any of the other locals.
“Whereto is the woman?” he asked as I came alongside and joined him. “Still in hospital?” He had a different accent, too, which I’d noticed earlier, with even more rolled “R”s, stretched vowels, and songlike sentences than the lovely Scottish accent. It seemed contrary coming from so much mass.
“Still in the hospital,” I answered, matching his steps since he hadn’t paused, and feeling I didn’t owe him much of an explanation. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”
“Southern Wales.” I’d watched rugby tournaments between the European countries. All the players on rival teams were huge, but the spectators from Wales were just as large as their countrymen playing the sport. They were all big boys in Wales, I’d gathered. That explained his size.
After the first glance, John hadn’t given me another look, had kept his eyes straight ahead.
“What’s wrong with the sheep?”
“Must oof turned a leg.”
“What will happen to it?”
Now his eyes slid over to me, so he had to notice mine were glued to him, watching for reactions. “What’s it ta you?”
“Just concerned. I’m an animal lover and hope the poor thing isn’t going to end up on someone’s dinner plate.”
“We don’t make meals oof our sheep on this farm,” he said, somewhat more gently, which reminded me of the inspector’s earlier observation about how sensitive John was to animals. If only he showed the same courtesy to his own species. “But she’ll produce a mighty fine carpet,” he added.
What? “You’re going to make her into a carpet? How could you!” This was an outrage. The beast was going to make her into a sheepskin floor covering?
He stopped then and his face crinkled up. I wasn’t sure what was about to happen. Was he going to blow his top, show his stripes? Instead, he burst out laughing. “Our sheep’s wool makes fine carpets as well as tweeds,” he sputtered still chuckling. “As for the ewe, she’ll be as good as new by tomorrow. The MacBride sheep are good milkers as well, so she could always turn to that if the injury doesn’t heal well, but there’s no good reason it won’t. Now it’s my turn ta ask questions. What are you still doing on our land?”
“Our” land? In a matter of seconds, his expression had gone from merriment at my expense to shades of anger boiling right below the surface. “Vicki invited me to stay with her after my room at the inn caught on fire,” I explained, sure that he already knew about that. “And since she’s in the hospital, I’m taking care of her dogs.”
He fell silent and continued on his way with me still keeping pace, not much of an effort, since he was taking it slow in consideration of the sheep.
“I could have been killed on the loft steps,” I said. “And I’ve learned that they were tampered with. Who would have done such a thing?”
John didn’t look over at me, but his face reddened and his eyes narrowed. “You’ve been properly warned,” he said in that musical Welsh lilt. “Stay out oof our affairs,” he said softly, which struck me as more threatening than if he’d raised his voice. “And ta help you with that, I’ll give you twenty-four hours to clear out, you and the wee barking beasts.”
I stopped and stood in the middle of the lane, watching him continue on.
Could he do that? Throw me out?
I picked up my jaw, which had fallen close to the ground, and stomped back to the house.
Where I called Paul Turner and told him about John’s threat to throw me out. Turner may have been in another camp, but he still had to pretend to ethically abide by the laws of the land. Besides, he was my only option at the moment.
“He can’t force you to leave as long as Vicki is fit to make responsible decisions and tells you you can stay,” the solicitor told me. “But right now that’s debatable. It’s within Kirstine MacBride’s rights to go into court and request a temporary order to manage the farm’s affairs. She will be required to prove her stepsister has been incapacitated by the car accident and that her request is in the best interest of all concerned.”
“Vicki opened her eyes and spoke to me, and she was perfectly coherent,” I told Turner with a rush of relief and confidence that she would be perfectly capable of handling her own affairs just fine without any outside help from the others.
“Perhaps you don’t see the situation in the proper light.”
“Have they started those legal proceedings?” I asked next, suspicious now. And for good reason. He was advising them; I was sure of it.
“Kirstine,” he informed me after a noticeable pause, “has been in touch with the courts. A hearing has been set for Friday morning. Kirstine appealed for a timely court date due to the condition of the hospital patient. As Vicki MacBride’s solicitor, I’ve been duly and appropriately advised.”
“And when were you going to tell us?” I felt the heat of anger rising.
“I wasn’t aware that I owed you anything at all, Ms. Elliott. I’ll be speaking with my client as soon as the police and hospital staff clear me. Until then, I will handle the situation as I see fit on Friday.”
This wasn’t even going to be a fair hearing. The MacBrides were going to railroad their agenda through. It didn’t look good for our side. “Please,” I said, taking as much disgust out of my voice as possible. “Vicki needs you, and she’s asked me to get as much information as I can and relay it to her. I’ve been able to come and go from her room.”
Not exactly the truth, but I didn’t care at this point.
“Very well. Please let her know that I will be there, representing her best interests.”
Yeah, right! “What are Kirstine’s chances of success?”
“Very good. She and her husband have been managing the farm for years. If you were a judge, how would you rule?”
He was right. Kirstine would certainly win the temporary order. “And the hearing to decide the bequest?” I asked next. “Will that be postponed due to Vicki’s condition?”
“That date is set and will be heard in a few weeks regardless. Kirstine is determined. The will maker would have felt that he had a moral duty to his other children, and his daughter is in great financial need.”
Paul Turner was actually gloating. I could hear it in his tone. “You seem pleased,” I couldn’t help saying.
“And you seem unable to accept facts,” he replied. “As the sayi
ng goes, one eats an elephant by starting to nibble at its toes.” Then he hung up.
I sat with the dogs for a long time, churning over every detail of the conversation, hoping for a hole in the opposing side’s argument.
Big bad John couldn’t boot me out in twenty-four hours like he’d threatened, but he might be able to in a few days. I wasn’t too concerned about myself—I would find someplace else to stay—in Inverness, if nowhere else—but for Vicki, this would be yet another uphill battle. If she didn’t recover quickly and dodge the murder charges, the rest of the family would get exactly what they’d wanted all along.
But how in the world could they be stopped?
CHAPTER 34
After I hung up, I went to steep a pot of tea in the kitchen. I decided that my one hope for any kind of reprieve on Vicki’s behalf was through an appeal to Alec MacBride. He didn’t have nearly as much at stake as his sister. Although I had little information on his personal or professional life—other than that he had an accounting background and, in his words, had managed to dodge the marriage bullet—he seemed free from the responsibilities that go along with a family-run business. And he hadn’t been hostile toward me. More importantly, he’d been respectful with Vicki the time he’d called the house for me and spoken with her on the phone.
Of course, that was before the crime scene had turned out to be in the MacBride barn and Vicki had been caught on camera with the victim right before he was murdered. After that had come to light, Alec’s attitude toward her had cooled significantly.
That had led to a heated discussion about her involvement in Gavin Mitchell’s death. He was convinced she’d murdered his father. I had made it perfectly clear that I didn’t agree. But we’d parted on better terms, or at least he’d made the effort to patch up our differences. In hindsight, I should have accepted his olive branch.
Another plus for Alec: He’d brought the unpleasant scene in the pub the night of the funeral to an end instead of escalating it, and until recently he’d seemed okay with the terms of the will. It wasn’t until more information came out that he’d formed a more cynical view. Could I blame him? It did look bad for Vicki.
