Kilt in Scotland

by Patience Griffin

  Marta acted as if she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “I don’t know.” Her voice was hard and she’d said it as if she didn’t care whether Rance’s wife knew or not.

  “Moving on. When was the last time ye spoke to—” Rory flipped the page back to find the name “—Leo Shamley? Yere ex?”

  She sucked in her breath. “How do you know about Leo?” She looked at the door and frowned. “Diana.”

  “Did ye speak with Mr. Shamley yesterday? Today?”

  “No,” Marta said coolly, as she eyed Rory with a degree of shrewdness. “I called Leo before I left New York. On Halloween night.”

  “Five days ago,” he said. “What did ye talk about?”

  She looked as if she was going to tell him to walk off. She shifted in her chair and then folded her hands in her lap. “I knew Leo would be feeling lonely. For the last two years, we dressed up as famous couples and went to the Hartford Hill’s Halloween bash. All the big names attend, you know.” She brushed some imaginary dust from her shoulder.

  “What did Mr. Shamley say?” He decided to make it clear. “How did he respond? Was he happy to hear from you?”

  “Of course, he was happy to hear from me.” She screwed up her face and Rory knew there was more.

  “Was he angry?”

  “Not exactly. He just didn’t seem like himself.”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “There was something in his voice. He sounded strong, determined, which was out of character for him. Leo’s a good-looking man, perfect for the photographers at A-List events; that’s important in the business I’m in. But underneath his charm, Leo is really a marshmallow, you know, not much of a backbone. But Halloween night, he sounded as if he’d grown one.”

  Rory could understand why someone with Marta’s personality would want to surround herself with spineless people. Minions were much easier to control than Alphas.

  Rory went straight to the point. “Did Leo know Rance?”

  “A little bit. They met at a Three Seals cocktail party at the MWLM conference.”

  “MWLM?”

  “Mystery Writers Love Murder. It’s a great organization. They put a conference on in New York City every spring.”

  “Tell me, how did Leo react when you broke up with him?”

  Marta looked away, staring at a stack of publishers’ catalogues on the office shelf. “He took it badly.”

  Rory would have to choose his words carefully here. “Was he upset? Violent?”

  “Heavens, no. He cried. It’s the reason I paid for the spa. He’s getting therapy there.”

  “Speaking of the spa, did ye know Leo has left?”

  Marta halted. “What? How do you know that?”

  “It’s my job to know,” Rory said.

  “There’s no reason for him not to be at the spa,” Marta said. “I paid up through the New Year.”

  “Do you think Leo would want to exact revenge for you breaking up with him?”

  Marta guffawed. “Leo is harmless. He wouldn’t kill a mosquito if it bit him. Actually, he wouldn’t know how to.”

  Rory was surprised that Marta seemed oblivious to the logic that her ex could be the killer.

  He leaned toward her to drive home the point. “I assure you, he’s gone. The Malibu Hills receptionist said he’d been missing for at least a couple of days. Do ye know where he might be?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m really the only family he has.”

  “Do you think he would come to Scotland to find you?”

  “No. Maybe.” She paused, then screwed up her face. “I don’t know. I told you, he seemed different on the phone. How do you expect me to know what he’s thinking?” She looked down at her ruined clothes as if her disheveled appearance explained her lack of knowledge.

  “Sometimes,” Rory started, “when people get hurt, they become capable of doing awful things.” He’d seen it more times than he cared to think about. Crimes of passion kept him very busy.

  “Leo couldn’t have done this to Rance,” Marta said stubbornly. “Talk to Tilly. She’ll tell you about him.”

  “I’ll do that.” Rory pointed to her phone, which she’d laid on the table between them, when she sat down. “But first, ye’ll find me a picture of Leo and text it to me.” He slid his card with his mobile number over to her.

  She glared at him. “He didn’t do it.” But she swiped her thumb over the screen anyway, exhibiting combativeness, rather than cooperation. A second later, she snatched up his card to complete the text, muttering, “Here’s your picture.” Afterward, she stood, holding her phone at her side. “Anything else?” But her tone was contrary to her words.

  “Send yere sister in to see me.”

  A minute later, Tilly crept into the room, her eyes darting this way and that, as if she was a small mouse watching for a hawk as she stepped into a clearing. Tilly’s awkwardness seemed to be her defining trait, while Marta’s might be the negative energy she exuded. Rory couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened in their screwed-up childhood.

  He stood and pulled out the chair for her. “Have a seat.” He’d hoped to put her at ease, but her eyes went wide, and he knew his attempt had only made both her, and him, more uncomfortable.

  When she slipped into the chair, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. He’d seen the way Marta treated her—like an unwanted dog. Tilly seemed like the type who was willing to be kicked over and over, but always faithful, hoping for a little love and attention in the end.

  Expediently, he asked his questions and learned Tilly had been positioned off to the side, behind Marta, while Marta gave her speech.

  “Did ye see the woman who threw the dye at yere sister?” Rory had noticed earlier how Tilly didn’t have a speck of red dye on her face. And her clothes, well, it would be hard to tell, as she was covered in dark gray from her dark baggy slacks to her nondescript tunic.

  For a moment, something flickered in Tilly’s eyes, maybe embarrassment. “It was awful. Marta was really upset. I hid behind the bookcase when the woman with the buttermilk can started yelling.” Which explained why the dye was nowhere on Tilly, and everywhere on Marta.

  “Can you tell me if Rance had any enemies?”

  Tilly looked embarrassed and whispered, “Rance is married. Was married, I mean. Maybe his wife found out he and Marta were…dating.”

  Rory made a note to find out about his wife’s whereabouts this evening. He put his pen down. “Do you know if Leo knew about Rance and Marta?”

  She nodded. “He did. I was there when Marta told him.”

  “How did he take it? Was he angry?”

  Tilly looked more uncomfortable, if that was even possible. “He cried. Marta had to call his sister to come and take him away.”

  “Where was this?” Rory asked.

  “In Malibu,” Tilly said.

  “What’s his sister’s name and where does she live?”

  “Her name is Tiki.”

  “Last name?”

  “Shamley. She never married. Like Leo. She lives in Los Angeles. I can give you her number if you need it.”

  “Yes. I’ll need your mobile number, too.” He offered her a clean sheet in his notebook.

  When she was done, she passed it back.

  “All right then,” he said. “Thank ye for yere time, Ms. Dixon. Ye and yere sister are free to leave.”

  One by one, he spoke with everyone in the store. When he finished, only the store owner and Diana remained.

  Diana handed him a stack of paper, maybe sixty sheets in all. “Here are the death threats.”

  “You said there were thirteen.”

  “What can I say? The number grew as news about the Buttermilk Guild got out.”

  Rory offered her his card. “If any more threats arrive, send them along. We’ll check out every one. And if you think of anything else, ring me up.”

  She was chewing her lip again. “Can y
ou do me a favor?”

  “Depends.”

  “Marta needs a bodyguard. Can you point me in the right direction?”

  “I know a couple of people. I have your number. I’ll get you some names and their contact information, when I get home tonight.”

  The store owner hung the Closed sign in the window and picked up a quilt with a rook sewn into it. She walked over to Diana and held it out. “Will you get this back to Marta?”

  “Sure,” Diana said, examining the quilt to see if any dye had gotten on it.

  He nodded to Diana, but spoke to the both of them. “How are you getting home tonight?”

  The store owner pointed up. “My flat is above stairs.”

  “And you?” Rory asked Diana.

  “My hotel is a couple of blocks away.” She gazed out at the crowded streets. “I should be fine. A lot of people are out tonight.”

  But he wasn’t taking any chances; someone had murdered an employee of Three Seals Publishing tonight. And Diana was a Three Seals employee, too.

  “I’ll walk you,” Rory said, before thinking it through.

  3

  Diana walked beside Rory, her insides churning. She must be in shock. She was half numb and half jumbled, like a stone in a rock tumbler. She felt pretty certain though, by the time this was over, she wouldn’t be as polished and beautiful as a gem.

  She glanced over at the policeman—Detective Chief Inspector Crannach. He was six-feet-something with perfect light brown hair—the kind of rugged-looking hair she wanted to run her hands through. He had a sexy five o’clock shadow, and earlier at the bookstore, she’d noticed he had the most piercing aqua blue eyes she’d ever seen.

  If not for the dead body tonight, she could almost imagine they were on a date. What was she thinking? She didn’t waste time on whimsical, romantic longings. She was a down-to-earth New Yorker. Even more importantly, she never dated cops.

  They looked like they were out on a date, though, didn’t they? Rory was wearing jeans and a black leather jacket with a white Oxford underneath, the top button undone, showing some manly chest hair. Yeah, she had a thing for men looking like men, and not like they’d been using the same place she had her bikini wax done. She was decked out in her purple zip-front silk-blend dress and wrapped up twice in her double leather belt. Her heels made her feel like she was closer to his height, as her legs were nearly long enough to keep up with his stride.

  But this wasn’t a date. Besides, the current generation of men seemed to be lost.

  Like all the rest of her Sex and the City peers, Diana had bought into the fairytale for a little while, but in the end, she’d been burned. Mr. Big and the happily-ever-after at the finish was a fantasy and nothing more.

  She peeked over at the Detective Chief Inspector. She had to hand it to him; he wasn’t the coming-on-to-her type. If she looked up Rory Crannach in the Merriam-Webster dictionary, there’d be only one definition beside his name: Serious. Serious about his job, nothing else.

  Okay, maybe a second definition: A straight arrow.

  And she had to add just one more: Brooding.

  Oh, what was wrong with her? She could admit she was attracted to him—who wouldn’t be? But now wasn’t the time. And he was a cop! She should be a blubbering mess, like the clerk who’d found Rance dead. Or at the very least, she should be more unnerved than she was.

  But being in the presence of Rory Crannach made her feel safe.

  “Thanks for walking me to the hotel.”

  “It’s the least I could do. There’s a killer on the loose.” His voice was hard. Again, she couldn’t help but see him as the epitome of seriousness. “You need to take precautions, Ms. McKellen. Be on the lookout.” He stopped and stared at her. “Where are you from?”

  She laughed as if he could lecture her on taking precautions. “New York City.”

  “Ah. Then you understand a little.”

  “I can take care of myself all right,” she said, defensively. She and her sister had been taught growing up that safety depended on being constantly aware of your surroundings. As all New Yorkers were.

  “What I mean is, one person from your place of employment is dead. I just don’t want it to become two.”

  That was sweet of him to say. Sort of. Except he wasn’t trying to be charming.

  “When are you headed back to New York? Tomorrow?”

  “We have other events scheduled here in Scotland.” Diana expected many more venues would cancel once the news got out about the Buttermilk Guild’s demise—and Rance’s. “Marta is scheduled to speak at the local quilt guild tomorrow.”

  Rory took her arm and guided her to a lamppost, pulling out his notebook. “Give me the details. I’ll make sure someone is there.”

  Diana thought he might be overreacting, but she didn’t mind. “I’ll arrive at Marshdons Community Centre at six. Marta will get there about six-thirty. The meeting starts at seven.” She paused, wondering what he was thinking. “You don’t really believe there will be another murder, do you?”

  “Just being cautious, Ms. McKellen.”

  She resumed walking. “I told you earlier to call me Diana.”

  “Diana,” he said, as if practicing.

  “So,” she said, trying to be conversational. “Where do you live? Here in Glasgow?”

  “I have a flat here, but I go where I’m needed.”

  “Is there a chance you’ll find Rance’s killer soon?”

  “Aye. There’s a chance.” Apparently, that was as much information as she was going to get from him.

  They reached her hotel. “This is me.”

  He nodded and waited, as if he was going to make sure she got in all right.

  Now that it was time for them to part, she didn’t want to. What if someone was waiting for her in her room? And not a nice someone either.

  Rory’s eyebrows came together, as if he’d just had the same thought, too. “If you don’t mind, I’ll check your room for you, to make sure it’s clear.”

  Diana wondered about Marta and if she was scared tonight, too. But then, Marta lived in a secure building with a scan-in badge and a security guard. Still. . . “You won’t forget to send me the names of bodyguards for Marta, will you?”

  Rory held the door open for her. “Text me about it.”

  As they walked in, she pulled out her phone to type in his number from his card. As they passed the front desk, Diana tried not to imagine what the concierge thought of her returning to the hotel with a man in tow. The hotel staff didn’t know her from Adam, but she still couldn’t stop wishing Rory would flash his badge and say, “Official police business,” just the same.

  When they got to her floor, he followed her down the hall and took her hotel keycard from her to open the door.

  “Wait in the doorway,” he said as he pushed the door open.

  Diana watched him walk in, scanning every inch of the room, and she cringed. He could see her clothes scattered about on the bed, her pushup bra hanging on the door handle of the bathroom, and an unopened box of tampons on the counter next to the electric teapot. Oh, no!

  He turned to her, as serious as ever, betraying no indication he’d seen her messy life strewn about. But I was in a hurry to get to the bookstore! she wanted to explain.

  “All clear,” he said.

  “Um, thank you.” He walked to her door, but turned back and stared at her red face. “You have my number. Call if you need anything.” The door closed behind him.

  “Oh, my!”

  * * *

  Rory stepped into the elevator and ran a hand through his hair. At least that’s over with. Thank goodness he wouldn’t be hearing from Diana McKellen again, because something about her took him off his game. Besides, he was too busy for a bird like her. Fine dinners. Galas. The theater. She was too New York for him. He’d rather meet a Scottish woman at the pub and have a few laughs than get tangled up with a complicated woman like Diana McKellen. Once again, he wondered…why had she b
een so calm in the face of death? Aye, it was best he wasn’t going to hear from her again.

  His phone dinged. He looked down and read the text.

  This is Diana. You said for me to remind you to send the names of bodyguards.

  Oh, hell. He wasn’t quite rid of her yet. Against his better judgement, he saved her number. Och, he could’ve just responded to her and deleted her digits. Instead, he walked in the direction of his flat, pretty sure he was going to use her number to see her again. And it would have nothing to do with a crime scene.

  4

  The next night, a few minutes before six, Diana pulled into the dark parking lot across the street from Marshdons Community Centre. She was glad the lights were on inside the building. Unfortunately, the two streetlamps outside were dead and the empty parking lot was spooky as hell with a stone wall on one side and a cemetery on the other.

  The burning anticipation she’d felt all day at the prospect of maybe seeing Rory again was instantly replaced with alarm at the predicament she was in. Alone. Vulnerable. Unarmed. Was the killer waiting for her?

  Diana remained in the car with the doors locked and took out her phone. The only person she could think to call was him, the Detective Chief Inspector. But what could she say? Can you get here now? I’m scared! But when he’d texted her with the bodyguards’ information, there had been no salutation, no see you tomorrow night, just names and numbers. He’d never said he would be here at all. He’d only said he’d send someone.

  “I wish Parker hadn’t been running behind.” Parker planned to grab a cab and make her way to the meeting by herself.

  The front door to the community center opened and a large figure stepped outside. Instantly, Diana was no longer scared, only relieved. And shocked. It was Rory! If she was fifteen again, she would’ve thought her heart soared.

  She put her phone away, feeling ridiculous, and got out of the car. She went to open the back door to retrieve the signage for tonight’s event. Rory must’ve seen her, because he began walking in her direction. She ogled him for a moment, but stopped herself the instant she realized how nonsensical she was being. She wasn’t a stupid woman who fell for good looks and that sexy Heathcliff quality. She gave herself a mental shake and got back to business. She ducked her head into the car, took a calming breath, and pulled out the first box.