Kilt in Scotland

by Patience Griffin

  Diana slipped her feet to the floor, but instantly pulled them back, as the hardwood was cold. But she couldn’t lie in bed all day. Finally, she stood and hurried to dress. As she threw on a pair of jeans, she became aware of the rain slashing her bedroom window. She peeked out and saw rivulets flowing down the pane and decided to dig out the dressy trench coat she’d picked up at Neiman Marcus. While her suitcase was open—and since she was freezing—she donned a white cowlneck sweater and her thickest socks—though she feared they’d be no match for the wilds of Scotland. After getting dressed, she rushed down the hall with her notebook. At the boot mat by the front door, she spied a pair of Wellies, kicked off her red flats, and commandeered the sturdy black boots before heading into the rain. At the door of Partridge House, she hesitated, but remembered Rachel’s words: Treat the B and B like a hotel, and come and go as you please.

  Quietly, she went in and took off her wet trench coat. She hung it on the hook and left her muddy boots on the boot mat. She listened for a moment, but no one seemed awake. Looking for signs of activity, she peeked into the living room, and spied Jacques lounging on the couch with his back to her. She assumed he was awake, because there was a mug sitting on the side table next to him. She wondered if Tilly was up, too.

  Diana walked farther into the room and quietly said, “Morning.”

  Jacques must not have heard her.

  She spoke a little louder. “Is Tilly up?”

  But as she said the words, something felt off. The air was still. And Jacques was, too.

  That’s when her veins turned icy—not from Scotland’s chilly weather, but from the quilt she noticed wrapped around his shoulders—the Bear Paw quilt from the eighth book in the Quilt to Death series!

  Oh, no. “Jacques?” she said hoarsely. “Are you awake?” She felt sick. She didn’t want to get any closer, as if death might be contagious.

  She forced herself to the fireplace, where the fire had gone out. Finally, she turned around and faced him.

  She’d expected blood or something gruesome, but his eyes were closed peacefully. The only thing amiss was that Jacques’s face was a strange shade of gray.

  “This can’t be happening,” she said aloud. It has to be a bad dream.

  Tentatively, she inched forward and reached out a hand toward his shoulder, hoping he was only sleeping. She thought about grabbing the poker from the stand by the fireplace. But she’d look ridiculous if Jacques woke up and found her poking him with wrought iron. A note was pinned to the front of the quilt, but Diana ignored it. This. Can. Not. Be. Happening.

  She finally touched him. “Jacques? Are you okay?”

  He didn’t move.

  She didn’t want to do it! She really, really didn’t want to do it! But finally, she laid two fingers to his cold neck and checked for a pulse. . .

  * * *

  Gravel skidded under Rory’s tires as he came to a stop in Gandiegow’s parking lot. He’d made record time, breaking more than a few traffic laws along the way, prepared to show his badge if he was pulled over.

  To keep from thinking the unthinkable—Jacques—Rory concentrated on Diana, worried about her. She’d sounded calm on the phone to him, like one of the dispatchers at headquarters reporting a crime. He agonized over Diana, plain and simple. Which was strange. He wasn’t the type to agonize over women. He may have let Jacques down, but he wouldn’t let anything happen to Diana. Or to any of them. If his supervisor called him off this case again to attend mindless meetings, Rory would decline, no matter the consequences.

  He turned off the car and pulled out his phone, texting Diana:

  I’m here.

  Rory got out and hurried toward Partridge House, which would only take a couple of minutes to reach. Diana could probably holler from the porch of the B and B and he’d be able to hear her above the crash of the waves.

  A moment later, she stepped into the path in front of him. Without a second thought, he gathered her into his arms, glad he’d come alone.

  She looked up at him. Rory had expected to find her red-eyed, if not hysterical, but she was as calm as she’d been on the phone, reporting the facts about Jacques. Rory decided she must be in shock. What else could explain why she wasn’t distraught? She had the same cool head about her as she’d had around the American’s body back in the alleyway of the bookshop.

  “How are ye doing?” he asked.

  Her face scrunched up in disbelief and she pulled away from him, her arms hanging at her sides. “I told you; Jacques is dead.”

  Okay, maybe she wasn’t as calm as she seemed.

  “The Dixon sisters? Did you get them out of the house okay?”

  “Yes. The Gandiegowans are guarding them now. At Quilting Central.” Diana started walking and he followed. “I had Rachel and Brodie take them. I stayed with Jacques.”

  He was amazed at how brave she was. Most people wouldn’t stand watch over a dead body.

  “Marta is asking for another bodyguard. Two, if she can get them,” she said as she walked briskly along. “Did you know Rachel, the owner of Partridge House, has a young daughter?” Diana shivered.

  “Aye. I met her,” Rory said.

  “Thank goodness little Hannah had been spending the night at her great-grandfather’s. I’m sure her parents are upset at the thought of their daughter being anywhere in the vicinity when it happened.”

  “My team will be here soon,” Rory said soothingly. As though that explained how he was going to keep any of them safe.

  When they reached Partridge House, Rory laid his hand on her arm. “Do you want to wait outside while I examine the crime scene?”

  She hugged herself. “I’d rather stay with you.”

  He paused for a moment, then nodded. He didn’t want to admit he wanted to keep her close, too.

  Only to keep an eye on her. Nothing else.

  Rory went into Partridge House and then slipped on a pair latex gloves and booties. “Where’s the body?” It was best not to think of the victim as Jacques. A lesson he’d learned long ago. The only way to do this job, and to do it well, was to immediately disassociate himself from the victim…even if they had been drinking buddies.

  She pointed. “In the living room.”

  He didn’t expect two people to be waiting—Bethia and a tall man of thirtysomething. Rory felt nothing but relief at seeing them. Their presence meant Diana hadn’t been babysitting Jacques’s dead body alone.

  Diana stepped forward and gestured to the pair. “You remember Bethia from Quilting Central. Doc, this is Detective Chief Inspector Rory Crannach. Rory, Gabriel MacGregor is Gandiegow’s doctor.”

  “Was the body covered like this when you found it?” Rory asked Diana.

  Bethia answered. “Nay, I covered him with the sheet out of respect. I was careful not to touch anything.”

  Okay, he’d have to live with it. “Dr. MacGregor, help me remove the sheet. You get that end.”

  “Call me Gabe.”

  At opposite ends, the two of them carefully lifted the sheet and laid it on the desk by the hallway.

  Rory didn’t see any blood.

  “No signs of blood,” Gabe echoed his thoughts. “I wondered if he was poisoned.”

  Rory turned to Diana. “Is this quilt from one of the books?”

  “Yes,” she and Bethia said at the same time.

  “It’s the quilt from the eighth book,” Bethia said.

  “The victim was poisoned with foxglove,” Diana added, as if she’d known what he was going to ask next.

  “Possibly bradycardia or tachycardia, then,” Gabe said. “Foxglove is essentially digitalis.”

  Rory noticed Diana staring at Jacques. “Are ye okay?” Maybe he should have Bethia take Diana to Quilting Central, away from the body. But she’d said she wanted to stay with him. And he wanted to keep her in his line of sight.

  Instead of answering his question, she asked quietly, “Why would someone want to kill Jacques?”

  “Maybe
to get him out of the way.” Rory didn’t have to drive home the point that someone was killing people associated with the Quilt to Death series, even seemingly innocent bystanders like Judy Keith.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Gabe asked.

  “Stick around,” Rory said.

  Rory carefully examined the scene, knowing only a toxicology screen would confirm the foxglove theory. But he’d bet money on it.

  “Any idea whose quilt this might be?” he asked.

  “I have an idea.” Bethia looked worried. “May I lift the corner there, where it’s resting on his legs?”

  “I’ll do it.” Rory pulled out the same pen he’d used when checking the crime scene at the bookshop. He carefully lifted the quilt and a tag appeared.

  Bethia leaned over to look. “Oh, dear.”

  “What?” Rory asked. “Who does the quilt belong to? You?”

  “Nay. It’s Deydie MacCracken’s.”

  9

  Diana backed away and stood at Partridge House’s fireplace. When she realized she was standing next to the wrought iron fireplace tools, she scooted away from them, too.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about the photos her dad would sometimes bring home and spread across the kitchen table as he worked. Those dead bodies hadn’t fazed her. But those weren’t of people she knew. Had spoken to. Had liked and known to be good people.

  “Where’s Deydie? Quilting Central?” Rory asked.

  Diana’s nerves were already a jumble, but now she was worried. Not for herself, but for the old quilter. Deydie’s no killer, she thought. But maybe she should’ve told Rory earlier that Deydie was at the bookstore on Guy Fawkes Day. Or that Deydie had threatened Jacques the first night they were here. But that was ten days ago! Deydie hadn’t had a run-in with Jacques since.

  Bethia stepped in front of Rory. “Deydie couldn’t hurt a fly.” She paused then, as if rethinking her position. “Aye, a fly, maybe, but she’s my oldest and dearest friend.”

  Rory shot Diana a curious glance. Now, how the heck did he know she was feeling complicit? Guilty that she had information he didn’t know yet—that the old woman had threatened Marta, Jacques, and everyone else who got in her way?

  Rory opened his mouth, but his cellphone rang. He pulled it out and answered, never taking his eyes off her. “DCI Crannach.” He nodded. “Partridge House. I’ll send Doc MacGregor to show you the way.” He hung up.

  “You don’t mind, do ye? MacTaggart, one of my team members, has arrived,” Rory said to Gabe.

  “Not at all,” Gabe said.

  “I’ll go with him,” Bethia offered. “I need to get to Quilting Central.”

  Probably to warn Deydie that she’s a suspect.

  “Ye’ll stay here with us.” Rory made sure his statement was a command. “Ye can take me to Quilting Central soon enough…to interview Deydie.”

  Doc left.

  “Deydie wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Bethia repeated. “I’ve known her my whole life. She has a loving heart.”

  And a wicked broom, thought Diana.

  Then she remembered how open Deydie was about being at the bookshop—she didn’t try to cover it up. And when Diana had explained about the murders of Rance and Judy, Deydie had seemed genuinely surprised.

  “Is Leo Shamley still here?” Rory asked.

  Diana frowned. “Yes.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Quilting Central, with the others.”

  A few minutes later, Doc was back, and along with him were Rory’s team—Corey MacTaggart and Reid McCartney, carrying their equipment.

  Rory walked to the entry to greet them. “Get some pictures. Bag and process the evidence. Did you call the Procurator Fiscal?”

  “Aye. The coroner will be here soon to get the body,” McCartney said.

  “Where are ye going?” MacTaggart asked.

  “To speak with the owner of the quilt that’s wrapped around the body.” Rory looked from Bethia to Diana. “Ladies, come along with me.”

  Once outside, Bethia stopped suddenly. “I need to go home. It’s time for my morning remedy…for my arthritis.”

  “It’ll have to wait,” Rory said.

  That’s a little harsh, Diana thought, not letting the elderly Bethia have her medication, but she understood. Rory didn’t want Bethia giving Deydie the heads up before he talked to her.

  When they arrived at Quilting Central, Diana noticed right away how the eighth quilt was missing from its place on the wall. All the other quilts were still hanging in their spots.

  And Quilting Central was packed. In addition to the quilters, seemingly all the men in the village were there. They must’ve felt like they needed to be there to protect the women. Though, from what Diana had seen of the women of Gandiegow, they could take care of themselves.

  “Where do you think Deydie is?” Rory asked Bethia.

  Bethia shoved her hands in her pockets and clamped her lips together tight.

  Rory turned to Diana, but before he could speak, Deydie came out of the restroom with a baby on her shoulder. She handed him off to Cait Buchanan, who was sitting at a table.

  Deydie walked to the stage. “Okay, now that Hamish’s nappy is changed, let’s get down to business.”

  “Thanks, Gran,” Cait called, pushing her empty plate away.

  Deydie nodded, then turned back to the group. “I’ve drawn up a schedule.” She pulled a piece of paper from her skirt pocket and held it up. “I’ll make copies and post it on the board by the front door here, and at the General Store.”

  There was a buzz around the room.

  “Our strongest men will be guarding Quilting Central during the day,” Deydie barked. “And no one goes out alone. Do ye hear?”

  Rory stepped forward. “I agree. Everyone needs to pair up and use the buddy system when going out.”

  Deydie frowned at him. She clearly wasn’t used to being interrupted.

  “For those that haven’t met me yet, I’m DCI Rory Crannach. I’m here to investigate the murder of Jacques Boucher. I’ll be here for several days. I, or one of my associates, will speak with everyone in town.” He stared down Deydie. “Starting with you, Ms. McCracken.” The crowd looked at him as if he was crazy, or brave—or both—for speaking to Deydie this way. “Everyone else get comfortable. We’re going to be here a while.”

  Deydie huffed. “Ye better hurry it up. Sunday service starts at 11:30.”

  Others nodded as Deydie lumbered off the stage toward Rory. She didn’t wait until she was near to speak, but hollered at him from halfway across the room. “What’s this all aboot? Why do ye want to speak with me first?”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” he asked. “Someplace private?”

  “I’ve nothing to hide.” Deydie swept her old arms wide, as if encompassing the room, maybe the whole town. “And nay, there’s no place private. Caitie wanted Quilting Central to be open-concept, whatever the hell that is. There is no separate room except the loo. But we can sit over on the sofa in the library area, if ye want.”

  As he made to follow her, he said to Diana, “The Ms. Dixons will have to find a place to stay other than Partridge House. It’s a crime scene now. Will ye help with that?”

  “But it’s Rachel and Brodie’s home,” Deydie said indignantly.

  “They, and anyone else residing there, will have to leave.” He paused for a second. “Also, are there rooms in the village my associates and I can rent for the duration?”

  Deydie put her hands on her hips. “No.”

  “Yes,” Cait said coming toward them with baby Hamish asleep in a carrier strapped to her chest. “We have several options. Thistle Glen Lodge—the other quilting dorm—is available. Of course, we can always make a place for you and your colleagues at my house.”

  “Nay,” Deydie protested, “not the Big House. Graham is coming in tonight.”

  Rory turned to Diana, his eyes dropping to her neck. Was he checking to see if her pulse raced at the sound of Gra
ham’s name?

  “We’ll get ye settled into Thistle Glen Lodge,” Cait said, then turned to Rachel, her daughter, Hannah and her husband, Brodie. “I’ll have Moira and Bethia help get you settled.”

  “What about Marta and Tilly’s things?” Diana asked Rory. “Can we get them out of Partridge House now?”

  He gave her a pointed look. “In a while.”

  Diana understood his meaning—after the body is removed.

  Rory continued. “When it’s time to fetch the Ms. Dixons’ things, I’d like you to be with me.”

  Diana’s stomach did a serious somersault. The Graham-Buchanan flutterings from a moment ago had been less than a quiver in comparison.

  But she stopped herself in mid-heartbeat. Rory is a police officer! And I made my decision long ago about men like him. When she was seventeen, to be exact.

  Rory seemed to be waiting for Diana to respond, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what she was supposed to be responding to.

  “Ye’ll go with me to Partridge House, when the Ms. Dixons go?”

  “Oh. Yes. Sure.” She stumbled over her words, as if she’d only learned to speak. “Yeah, of course.”

  He stared at her as if he was trying to solve a puzzle. And it all came back to her—everything she’d learned from her father about how cops could read people. And the notion scared the crap out of her.

  Rory Crannach knew that she was thinking about him.

  * * *

  Rory motioned for Deydie to head to the couch. “Let’s speak now, Ms. McCracken.”

  “I told you once before to call me Deydie.”

  He noticed Bethia was chewing the inside of her cheek. Apparently, Deydie’s best friend had forgotten she was supposed to take her arthritis medicine.

  Bethia put her arm around Diana. “There’s something I mean to show ye, lass. Over there, by the library.”

  So that’s what it is. Bethia was going to eavesdrop and make Diana an accomplice in her scheme.

  Rory followed Deydie to the library area, which consisted of a sofa with shelves behind and perpendicular to the couch. As Rory took his place on the couch, near the perpendicular bookcase, Bethia and Diana tiptoed behind it. They weren’t fooling anyone; he could easily see them through the books. Amateurs.