Kilty Pack One

by Amy Vansant

  “I’ll find out what happened,” she said. The words sounded weak.

  Violet huffed and looked away, her hand falling to her side as if the weight of holding her accusatory index finger aloft had been unbearable. Her voice lost its anger and fell to a low murmur. “No you won’t. You’ll protect that man. That’s your job, isn’t it?”

  “No—” Again Catriona found herself tongue-tied.

  Well, yes. But no—

  Violet dropped into her car and slammed the door before Catriona could say another word. The doctor pulled from the driveway, and Catriona watched her go, helpless to do anything else.

  Well, that went well.

  The horrible truth of Violet’s departure occurred to her as the woman drove from view.

  She’s on her way to identify the body.

  She couldn’t blame the grieving sister for her anger, though she wished she’d been able to talk to her. Dr. Violet might know more than even she was aware—might know of other boyfriends or bad blood between Cari and other people in her life. Maybe when the doctor had time to work through her shock they could talk. Catriona did want to make things as right as she could, even if nothing she did could bring back Cari.

  Catriona walked towards her vehicle, recalling the few memories she could summon about her short flirtation with Colin Layne. Could he have killed a girl? He was a player, of that she was certain. His fondness for the ladies was both what drew him to her and what ultimately kept them from getting very far. Physically, Colin was utterly delicious, with bright blue eyes and a wiry, made-for-movies body that played a lot taller on screen than his actual five-foot ten. His attentions had been flattering...almost overwhelmingly so for a twenty-three-year-old, new-on-the-job studio fixer. But on her way to meet him where he was shooting on the backlot, she’d stumbled across a beautiful redhead sobbing to her friend about the brisk love affair she’d been unceremoniously ousted from the day before. She’d almost passed the two women when she heard the name of the cad who’d dumped the ginger.

  Colin Layne.

  The serendipitous eavesdrop had been enough to snap Catriona from her smitten-kitten phase. She’d realized how close she’d come to becoming another footnote in his future autobiography.

  She was flattering herself to even imagine she’d get that billing.

  She’d admonished herself for the mistake that might have been. She and Colin would be working on the same lot for years to come. What had she been thinking? That she’d be the woman he spurned all others for, even as they threw themselves at his feet, day after day?

  Sean had warned her not to get involved with any of the assets, and she’d come very close to breaking that rule after a mere three weeks on the job. Colin had pounced on her as if she were fresh meat and she’d nearly rolled over and exposed her throat for him.

  Still...

  Colin might be a dog, but he didn’t seem like the type to kill a woman with a pickaxe. He’d also never be so stupid as to stuff the body under his own house. Even if, in the heat of the moment, it had seemed like a good temporary solution, he wouldn’t have left it there for a week while he played charity softball games. Anyone who’d ever watched a single episode of CSI or Dateline would know the California heat would soon cause an exposed body to stink. The critters would find the rotting flesh and then there was no telling what might be dragged into the light...

  Catriona stopped with her hand poised on the handle of her car door.

  Anyone would know that.

  Maybe that was the point.

  Every murderer in the world tried to hide evidence, one way or another. Put the body in the ground, take it out to the desert, chop it up and throw it in a dumpster somewhere far from their house...

  No one would leave it under their house.

  Unless they wanted it to be found.

  Was someone setting Colin up? She needed to find out who his enemies were.

  She called Sean.

  “I have an idea—”

  “Hey, glad you called. I forgot to mention, I need you and Broch to go through all the camera footage for Colin’s community gatehouse. I think someone is setting him up.”

  Catriona growled. “Well, you just took all the fun out of my big announcement. It hit me that no one would stash a body under their house unless they wanted to be caught.”

  “I beat you to that one.”

  “Well, we don’t know if you beat me officially... how long ago did you come up with that theory?”

  “Before I called to tell you about the body.”

  Catriona sniffed. “Oh. Okay, fine. You win that one.” She turned her head. “Barely.”

  “I know. But I do think we all need to get our heads around this.”

  “Which this? You have to be more specific today.”

  “No, I don’t. That’s my point. I just got a call from Teena Milagros. She’s received a death threat.”

  Catriona recognized the name of the studio’s triple threat. Teena was a singer, dancer and actress... bit of a looney tune as well. “You think Colin, Timmy and Teena are all connected somehow?”

  “I don’t know, but things are starting to feel a little forced at this point.”

  “You think someone’s out for Parasol?”

  “It’s a possibility we can’t ignore. Is Broch with you?”

  “No. He had to get a shower after his ordeal with Timmy and showers are like a religious experience with him. I left him to it while I went to talk to Violet.”

  Sean uttered a low grunt that expressed his appreciation for how difficult talking to Violet must have been. “How’d that go?”

  “Not well. The police had already gotten to her though, so at least I didn’t have to be the maker of false promises and the bearer of bad news.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. You didn’t kill her sister.”

  “I know. It still sucks.”

  “What about Timmy? Have you talked to him yet?”

  “I called his sister. He’s still sedated, should come out of it soon.”

  “Okay. Gather Brochan. My office in half an hour.”

  “Will do.”

  “I think I have a theory on why the hole in her head was full of expanding foam.”

  “Great...wait, what?”

  Sean hung up and Catriona stared at her phone.

  What did he say?

  She looked at her watch to find it was only eleven o’clock.

  It felt as though she’d already lived a lifetime.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Edinburgh, Scotland 1833

  “Fiona?”

  Brochan stood at the edge of the forest, scanning for signs of life. Fiona had finished her meal at the tavern and asked him to rendezvous in four days’ time to meet her friends.

  He hadn’t committed to the meeting then, but he’d been unable to stop thinking about the larcenous vixen. He knew from the moment he awoke that morning he’d be unable to ignore her invitation. It had something to do with her name, certainly...that she should carry the label forced upon his love by her murderous father. Fiona wasn’t an uncommon name in Scotland, but was it so common amongst American girls?

  He needed to find out more.

  “Fiona?” he called again, the dense forest seeming to swallow the sound.

  Something moved in the shadow of the trees. A head poked from behind a great pine. Broch trained his gaze on it, and a moment later more shadows stirred until four people manifested from the gloom. They drew together as they walked towards him from their hiding places, with Fiona leading the pack. Behind her walked two men, one of average size and one stouter fellow, both trailed by a smaller figure he suspected to be another girl dressed in men’s leggings, much like Fiona had worn during their midnight introduction.

  Today, Fiona modeled a dark blue and red striped earasaid fashioned as a skirt below and tied beneath her breasts with a brass buckle. The top half of the cloth draped behind her back, wrapping over her shoulders and pinned beneath her thr
oat. Broch recognized the carved images of stags in the brass buckle around her middle as his neighbor’s favorite adornment. He’d noticed her wearing the item many times, since she was an exceedingly plain woman and his father had joked the buckle seemed overwhelmed by the job of improving her appearance. The earasaid itself appeared familiar as well, though he couldn’t recall which neighbor might have donated the item to his light-fingered dinner guest.

  Fiona strode forward to meet him as the others slowed to remain in the shadows of the trees. The average-sized man spat, and even in the dim light, Broch could tell none of them seemed eager to receive him as their guest.

  “Brochan,” said Fiona, her arms outstretched. She seemed very different than the hungry creature he’d watch gobble meat scraps at the tavern. Her cheeks appeared fuller, her color better.

  “Ye look well,” he said.

  She smiled, dazzling white teeth flanked by dimply-laugh lines on either side. “We’ve had time to learn the area. I feel more at home now thanks to the kindness of strangers like you.”

  He eyed her dress. “Ah think that belt wid feel mair at hame in mah neighbor’s hoose.”

  She glanced down at the stags and giggled as if his accusation of thievery had been the funniest joke she’d heard in some time. She reached for his hand and pulled him forward.

  “Come meet my friends.”

  He allowed himself to be led.

  “This is Harry,” Fiona motioned to the stout man. His head, nestled in the fat of his neck, wobbled in a subtle sign of greeting. Broch guessed him older than himself, perhaps in his mid-thirties. He seemed too old to be running with a pack of young thieves, but nothing about his disheveled clothing implied his life had gone as planned.

  Fiona gestured toward the person Broch suspected to be female, though standing closer to the creature hadn’t made him more confident in his guess.

  “This is Greer. She does most of our cooking and camp chores.” Greer raised her gaze to steal a glimpse of him before looking away. Her teeth hung from her mouth in such a fashion it would be impossible to tuck them away in any permanent or natural way.

  Fiona leaned close to him and whispered. “She doesn’t speak much.”

  He nodded as she turned her attention to the last man. “This is Mathe. He took me into the group when I found myself alone here in Scotland.”

  Mathe stared at Broch with hard eyes and spat again. Broch watched the foamy gob land a foot from his boot. Mathe continued to stare in his eyes, as if silently daring him to complain.

  Brochan took a deep breath to keep his anger at bay. “Hello.”

  Without another word, the three bandits turned and faded into the forest. Fiona remained at Brochan’s side.

  She offered him a sheepish smile.

  “None of them are very talkative.”

  “How come did ye ask me tae come ’ere?”

  She laughed and put her fingers on his elbow, stroking down his forearm until she took his hand in hers. “Maybe I needed someone to talk to.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Aye. Ah’ve met yer friends. Ah could see that.”

  She locked her arm in his. “You seem like you need a break from your toils as well.”

  Broch frowned, ashamed that his dissatisfaction with his life might appear so obvious to a stranger. When Fiona asked him to meet her at this place, far on the edge of town, her mysterious plan had excited his blood. Foolish, he knew, that a clandestine meeting could raise in him such a thrill, but true, nonetheless.

  Fiona guided him behind the path of the others and Brochan fell into step beside her.

  “Ah dinnae hae any plan tae become a thief,” he warned.

  She shrugged. “We only take what we need to survive.”

  His gaze fell to her midsection. “Ye wid die withoot that buckle?

  She tittered. “You’d rather I walk around naked?”

  He looked away and let her comment die on the vine. He knew poisonous fruit when he saw it.

  “Why dinnae ye find work?” he asked. He hoped changing the subject would erase the picture conjured in his mind by her naughty comment.

  “You work. Are you happy?” she asked.

  Broch took a deep breath. “Ah wis.”

  “What changed?”

  He shrugged. Catriona had changed everything in his world, but he wasn’t ready to share his precious memories of her.

  Fiona released his arm, spinning away to jump in front of him, blocking his path. “Stay here with us.”

  He shook his head. “Ah tellt ye, ah’m nae a thief.”

  “So don’t thieve. You can be our muscle. Or a watcher.”

  He didn’t answer.

  With a flourish she took his arm once more, leading on until they reached the group’s camp. The others had found places around a large fire pit. Above it, a small deer roasted on a spit. Greer fussed with it, turning it to keep the cook even.

  Two horses stood tied to a tree and Fiona stopped to stroke the neck of one.

  “At least spend the night. We have a barrel of ale and Mathe shot a stag this morning. We’re going to have a feast.”

  Broch considered the offer. It wouldn’t hurt to stay. The meat did smell good and he had nothing awaiting him at home except the same routine he walked through every night.

  “Mebbe a while—”

  The gelding Fiona stroked flattened his ears and kicked out with its hind leg, striking the other horse. The mare squealed and circled the tree to escape her attacker.

  Fiona jumped away, falling into Broch’s arms. He swept her away from the animal.

  “Dammit Fiona, ah tellt ye tae stay away fae the horses.” Mathe sprang from his seat and moved to calm the beasts.

  Fiona looked up from her place in Brochan’s arms, grinning. “I guess I don’t have a way with some beasts.”

  Staring down into her comely face, Brochan felt a stir in his loins. He released her and took a step back, nodding towards the makeshift spit.

  “If ye lik’, ah could make ye a proper spit.”

  Fiona rolled her eyes. “That would be nice. Come sit with me.”

  He could tell she was flirting with him. It didn’t seem a terrible thing except everything about Fiona felt like trouble.

  A passing thought of Catriona bounced through his head and made his chest tighten with guilt and regret.

  She isnae coming back.

  Why couldn’t he accept that?

  Brochan found himself a seat by the fire and Fiona scooped him a tin mug of ale from their stolen barrel. Chubby Harry’s mood changed with each mug he quaffed. After wobbling to the barrel for his fourth helping, he regaled the Highlander with tales of the group’s exploits. He shared the places they’d robbed, what they’d taken and most excitedly, the ways they’d nearly been caught. He told Brochan how they’d begun to think they were cursed when Fiona crept into his blacksmith shop and he’d given her a meal. That same night, Greer and Mathe had stumbled onto the ale and a cache of vegetables that had kept them fed until Mathe scored the deer.

  Harry grinned and took a swig before continuing in his own Sassenach accent. “Fiona says you’re our good luck charm.”

  Broch hooked his mouth to the right. “Ah dinnae ken aboot that.”

  “Tell me more about blacksmithing.”

  “Lik’ whit?”

  “I heard you tell Fiona you could pound us a proper spit. How would you do that?”

  Brochan fell into a lengthy discussion about what it would take to fashion a spit and how one builds a sword from scratch. By the time he was finished talking, he found Fiona had left his side and now sat beside Mathe. The two spoke in low tones. Fiona did most of the speaking, smiling and flashing looks at Broch as she did so. Each time her eyes wandered, Mathe grew more agitated.

  Broch found it difficult to continue his story with Harry.

  Aye. She’s trouble.

  Fiona cast a final furtive glance in Broch’s direction before standing. As she rose, she smoothed her
hand along Mathe’s arm. The man stiffened. His hand shot up to grasp Fiona’s wrist, holding her in place beside him.

  “Let go,” she said.

  Mathe sneered, his grip tightening, his eyes locked on Brochan’s.

  Fiona tugged. “Let go. You’re hurting me.”

  Certain Mathe’s stare was meant to provoke, Brochan set down his mug. “Let her gae.”

  Mathe stood, his hand still clamped around Fiona’s wrist. “Or whit?”

  Brochan rose from the log on which he’d been perched. “Or ah’ll teach ye some manners.”

  He heard Harry mumble, Here we go again, but didn’t have time to wonder what the man meant. Mathe jerked Fiona towards him, holding her in front of him like a shield. His filthy fingers kneaded her porcelain throat and her eyes flashed with fear.

  Brochan took a step forward.

  “Let her gae.”

  Mathe squeezed harder and Fiona gasped for air.

  “Nae yin wants ye here. Ye gae.”

  Broch smiled. “Ah ken ye need tae use her as a shield. Ah’m much stronger than ye.”

  Mathe’s nostrils flared. He threw Fiona to the side and she yipped as she struck the ground. Her hand on her throat, she scrambled away from Mathe, staring at Broch with pleading eyes.

  Broch widened his stance.

  Mathe wasted no time.

  Roaring, he launched himself at Brochan.

  The Highlander stepped back with his right foot to brace for the attack. Though Mathe was a smaller man, Broch knew his estimation of the thief’s strength had fallen shy of the mark the moment they grappled. He could overpower the thief, but Mathe’s smaller, wiry frame allowed him to move with the agility of an adder. Each time Broch thought he’d captured him, Mathe appeared in a new place, peppering him with punches.

  “C’moan ye great stupid lump,” screamed Mathe.

  Broch absorbed a smack to the jaw and moved with the punch to lessen the blow he couldn’t avoid. As his head turned, he spotted Fiona leaning by a tree, watching the two men fight with great amusement. Her expression could be described as nothing less than glee.

  Ah’ve fallen for it.

  Fiona had goaded Mathe into the fight. Brochan knew it as sure as he knew his own name, for he’d seen it many times before. His friend Gavin had managed to date every such woman in town, until Broch felt his own part-time job was ensuring his less athletic friend wasn’t pounded to death by jealous husbands and lovers.