A Circle of Crows

by Kelsey Kingsley

  He grunted a contemplative sound as I shivered again, and then said, “Maybe she’s tryin’ to tell ye somethin’, lass.”

  You did this.

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. “I don’t know …”

  “The dead don’t lie, Rosie. If she’s sayin’ somethin’ to ye in yer dreams, maybe ye should listen. It might help.”

  I swallowed as I slowly opened my eyes and looked at the grisly picture laying before him. “Maybe,” I replied, my voice hoarse as Gracie whispered once again, you did this. “But I hope not.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ALEC

  “So, you’re just going to leave us here all freakin’ day?”

  TJ stared at me through incredulous eyes, gawking in such a way I had to divert my gaze. His mother sat at the kitchen counter, pretending that it didn’t bother her that I was leaving, but her hands were shaking, and her bottom lip was red and raw with worry.

  “Rick will be with ye,” I replied, keeping my eyes trained on the floor as I threw on my coat.

  “But what are we supposed to do all damn day? We don’t even have a car!”

  “Rick can take ye wherever ye want to go. He’ll be here. Besides, I willnae be long.”

  I didn’t wait around to hear another protest, or to watch Rosie gnaw on her lip some more. I grabbed my thermos of coffee and headed out the door in a rush. Because the sooner I was done at the office, the sooner I could get back and work on what I found to be most important.

  Before walking into the office, I had half-expected an immediate air of suspicion, like the entire force was onto me and my covert operation with an American woman and her wise-arsed teenager. But upon stepping through the door, I found that not only were the Constables oblivious to my secret, they were completely nonchalant toward my existence altogether.

  “Good mornin’, Brodie,” Sharp muttered from the coffee pot.

  “How are ye, Sharp?” I responded on my way to my desk.

  He grunted in response. “My wife broke the coffee maker this mornin’, so I’m left drinkin’ this shite, but otherwise, I cannae complain.”

  “Guess it’s a good thing ye live down the road from an Asda,” Constable Peter Colven, one of the friendliest blokes on the force, chimed in from across the room.

  “Down the road,” Sharp groaned, shaking his head as he poured the remaining black sludge from the pot into his cup. “I haftae travel all the way into Inverness to get to Asda. I dinnae have that kinda time.”

  “And what else do ye have to do that’s more important?” Abernathy challenged with a smirk and a cross of his arms. “And don’t say ye have to tend to yer wife. I’ll keep her plenty occupied, don’t ye worry about that.”

  “Ye’ll regret sayin’ that,” Sharp fired back, smirking.

  As the lads bantered back and forth, I situated myself at my desk and watched the jokes and jabs volley across the room. It was impossible not to wonder who in this office had given the order to rule Gracie’s death an accident, and I wondered if it was one of them. I questioned how they could so easily live their lives, knowing what they had done.

  The phone rang and I answered immediately, grateful for the distraction. “Inspector Brodie.”

  “Aye, hello, would it be of any trouble to request a Constable’s assistance at my home?” the elderly voice replied, wavering with age.

  With a long-winded, bored sigh, I pulled out a pad of paper and a pen. “Right. Can ye please tell me what the problem is?”

  “Ah, sure, of course. Well, y’see, my cat, Fritz, the wretched, wee beastie, was off chasin’ a butterfly, when he found a suspicious lookin’ shoe in the woods behind my house.”

  “A … shoe,” I drawled, wishing for a dram and a coma. “And what did ye find so suspicious about this shoe?”

  “Well, it was the ghastliest thing, y’see. Because this shoe—a lassie’s shoe, to be specific—is covered in what appears to be dried blood.”

  “Dried blood,” I repeated, sitting up straighter in my chair.

  “Aye, dried blood. Which is the most peculiar thing, because my neighbor, a charmin’ bloke called Angus, was just tellin’ me about the foot he found the other day. Ah, can ye imagine it? A human foot?” She clucked her tongue. “Poor old Angus. Hasnae been able to sleep for days.”

  “Where did ye say ye live?”

  “Oh, right on Winter’s Crest. Just on the border of Coille Feannag.”

  In a hurry, I told the old woman I would leave straight away and hung up the phone, just as Finley sauntered into the office. He headed right toward me with purpose, his glare hardened, and his mouth held in a tight, thin line. Whatever he had to say to me, I wanted nothing to do with it, not when there was the potential to learn more about Gracie’s murder, but before I could thwart his interrogation, he sidled up close and grasped my shoulder.

  “I need to talk to ye, mate,” he muttered, speaking from the corner of his mouth.

  “Well, I’m about to—”

  “I’ll come with ye.”

  We always worked as a team, and while I didn't want to raise any questions, I also had to fly solo on this one. “Y'know, I think I’ll be fine—”

  Finley leaned in close, putting his mouth only a breath away from my ear. Goosebumps trickled over my arms and spine, as I fought off the urge to push him away.

  “Somethin’ isnae right here, man,” he hissed. “I dinnae ken what it is, but it has somethin’ to do with this American woman.”

  I was at a crossroads. I knew I was better off alone, especially when I had no idea who in this town I could trust. But Finley’s suspicion warranted curiosity. What if he knew something I didn’t? Would it be wise to pass up an opportunity to learn more?

  “All right,” I grunted with resolve, while grabbing my jacket. “Let’s go.”

  ***

  “Right over here, laddies,” Wilma directed us, tottering her way over an uneven and hilly landscape, with a wee woolen hat perched precariously on her head. She had nearly lost her footing too many times to be comforting, and Finley shot a concerned glance in my direction.

  “I'm sure we can find the way,” I insisted.

  “Och, no,” she spat, throwing her hands in the air. “Why send ye on a wild goose chase, when I can just bring ye to the grizzly thing myself?”

  A cool wind whistled around us as we neared the edge of the forest, and Wilma's funny woolen hat was nearly lifted clear off her head. Finley choked on a laugh, as I bit my tongue, and Wilma held tight to the brim with one hand while she pointed with the other.

  “Right there,” she said with affirmation.

  I walked ahead of her and crouched down to the grass, clearly seeing the high-heeled shoe that perfectly matched the single shoe Grace Allan wore in death. There was also no mistaking the crusted blood, splattered along the toe and smeared across the sole.

  I glanced at Wilma, standing over my shoulder, clutching both the cross around her neck and the hat on her head, and asked, “Can ye tell me if ye touched the shoe at all?”

  “Oh, Jesus, no!” she exclaimed, shaking her head. “I have seen far too many of those true crime programmes. I know better than to tamper with the evidence. But I never wouldae guessed I'd be usin' that knowledge. Nothin' of the kind ever happens in our wee town, does it?”

  “No,” I agreed, nodding solemnly. Or so I had thought.

  “Are ye suspectin' foul play?” she asked, widening her eyes and glancing between Finley and me.

  “We cannae say just yet,” Finley replied, looking at me and holding my gaze. “But we ken where to find ye, if we need to ask ye anymore questions.”

  Wilma nodded, satisfied with his reply. “Well, if ye dinnae need me any longer, I'll be on my way. Fritz will be wonderin' where I've gone off to, and I dinnae need him wanderin' over here again.”

  I smiled. “I think we can manage from here. Thank ye for yer cooperation.”

  With a firm nod, she turned and headed back up the hill to her co
ttage. But not before another strong gust of wind nearly sent her hat sailing. Finley and I watched in unabashed amusement before she disappeared behind the door, and then, he turned to me, as serious as he was back at the office.

  “Brodie.”

  “Hm?” I grunted in reply.

  “Were ye the one who declared the American's death an accident?” he accused with a furrowed brow.

  It surprised me that he would ask, especially given his nonchalant demeanor the other day, but I didn't let it show as I shook my head.

  “No.”

  Nodding, Finley crouched beside me, pulling a pen from his pocket, and lifted the shoe from the ground, with dried, dead leaves adhered to one side. Then, he muttered, “It was dropped here when the blood was still fresh.”

  “Aye,” I agreed, nodding and studying the shoe, hanging before us.

  “Do ye remember if the other shoe looked at all like this?” he asked, turning to me.

  He didn’t know that I'd been studying the photos of Grace's corpse for days, or that I knew with certainty that her other shoe didn't look anything like the one hanging from the tip of his pen. So, I shrugged and replied, “I dinnae ken. I want to say it was clean.”

  He grunted as he nodded. “So do I.”

  The shoe was placed on its bed of leaves and dirt, and the two of us stared at it, seemingly together in the uncertainty of what to do. It couldn't be used as evidence, seeing as there wasn't an open case. And we knew any mention of it to the Chief Inspector would be brushed under the rug, just like my insistence days before that this wasn't like any accident I'd ever seen. But it felt like a crime to just leave the shoe here or throw it in a rubbish bin, as if it never existed at all.

  “There was somethin' else I started thinkin' about,” Finley grumbled, staring ahead, his eyes cutting through the trees and deep into Coille Feannag. “After that day.”

  “Hm.”

  “Where was the blood on the stone?” I turned my eyes on him and watched inquisitively as he continued with his brow furrowed and his head shaking. “Ye werenae there when they moved her, but … the back of her skull was crushed, man. Completely fuckin' obliterated. And never mind that fallin' from that height never wouldae caused damage that severe but ye would think there'd be blood, right?”

  “Aye, there'd have to be.”

  “Well, there wasnae anythin’ there,” he replied, meeting my eye.

  “So, what're ye sayin'?” I asked, needing to hear him say it.

  Incredulous, he scoffed and thrust a hand toward the thick of woods. “She was fuckin' put there! You were right before; this is no fuckin’ accident. Ye cannae tell me ye havenae been thinkin’ about it for days, because I sure as fuck have.”

  Pulling in a deep breath, I nodded slowly, allowing him to cross just the very threshold of my inner trust and no further. “I have,” I admitted, turning my gaze on the trees. “And ye’re right. She wasnae killed in there.”

  He grunted his agreement, then as he got to his feet, said, “I'm gonna go look at the stones. Are ye comin'?”

  Finley started toward a break in the trees without waiting for my response, and I watched him with growing suspicion. I hadn't known him for long, only three months. But I liked him enough. We got along well, and never before had I suspected him capable of cold-blooded murder. But now, I could see him with my mind's eye, brutally beating a woman without any obvious motive. I had to wonder, was he luring me into the woods now with the knowledge of my suspicion and private investigation fueling his decision to kill me?

  I moved slowly behind him, following between trees and over snapping twigs and crunchy leaves, staying aware of every passage and possible escape in case I needed to make a quick getaway. I considered grabbing a stray branch, to use as a weapon if needed, but I decided against it. There was no reason to raise suspicion just yet, and once we came to the clearing, I soon realized I wouldn't need it at all.

  Finley immediately rushed toward the stone, smooth and spotless. “See?” he shouted, thrusting his pointer finger at its surface. “There's nothin' here!”

  “The rain couldae washed it away, or—”

  “There would be somethin' here. A fuckin' speck. But look at it! There's nothin'!”

  I reasoned with myself that his panic could have been an act. But if it was truly a theatrical display of paranoia and fear, then the man was working in the wrong field.

  Finley raised his hand to the back of his neck and shook his head, as he surveyed our surroundings with bewildered, worried eyes.

  “I dunno, man,” he muttered, swallowing. “I dunno. I've been workin' in this department for fifteen years. Fifteen fuckin' years. And never once have I seen somethin' like this. Not once.”

  Madison Lang came to mind then, the tourist Rosie had read about after talking to Roland. According to the article, she had been found just a few years ago. If Finley had been working in the Fort Crow police office for fifteen years, then surely he would remember her.

  “What about Madison Lang?” I dared to ask, casually keeping my gaze from his.

  “What?”

  “Wasnae there another dead woman found here just a few years ago? I thought I remembered hearin' about somethin' like that,” I said, turning in the direction of a cackling crow.

  An eerie quiet settled over the world and not even a bird's wing could be heard above the deafening silence. I prepared myself to act quickly. I spotted a heavy-looking branch from the corner of my eye, and every hair on my body stood alert and ready, just waiting for the moment to lunge for it and swing.

  “Madison Lang,” Finley finally said, cutting the hush with the timber of his voice. “Another American.”

  “Aye,” I replied, watching him with wide-eyed unease.

  “I wasnae on the case,” he went on, wandering in a slow circle, and keeping his eyes on the ground, “but I remember. She was found somewhere in these woods. Not here, but … somewhere. They said she fell, what a shame, and …” He shook his head and waved a flippant hand. “That was the last I heard.”

  Then, he stopped walking and turned to me. “I never thought a fuckin' thing about it then,” he admitted, his voice rough. “But now …”

  “How could ye not?” I offered gently, watching for any sign to be wary of him. The slightest tick, the tiniest twitch of an eye or a finger. But it never came.

  “Aye,” he replied in a whisper, nodding. “I'll dig out the case file tomorrow. I'll, I'll compare the two situations, and then, we'll …” He looked to me then, asking silently if he was alone or if I would be as I'd been assigned—his partner.

  I nodded and said, “We'll do what we haftae do.”

  Finley relaxed and gave me an unsettled smile. I returned it, offering one of confidence, while my busy brain watched him with a dash of uncertainty.

  But y’can bet yer arse I'll be keepin' ye at arm's length until I can trust ye again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ROSIE

  I quickly learned that Rick was an awkward, quiet man who couldn’t seem to carry a conversation to save his life. Despite numerous attempts to rope him into something to help pass the time until Alec returned, the conversation would always dwindle and drown in my now cold cup of coffee. And I was growing increasingly bored and more uncomfortable with every passing minute.

  In Rick’s defense though, neither of us had planned on keeping each other company that day. So, I assumed he just hadn’t been prepared to entertain my moody son and me.

  “Are ye hungry?” he asked, peering over the binding of his hardcover book.

  I shook my head. “No. I’m okay. I had a big breakfast and—”

  “Aye,” he nodded, seeming to suddenly remember how it was him who had made the toast and eggs. “Right. Well, ye just make yerself at home. Do whatever ye like.”

  “There isn’t anything to do around here,” TJ groused, flicking a balled-up piece of paper around an ornately designed end table beside the couch.

  Rick lower
ed his book and looked off toward a door in the living room. “Well, I have puzzles and games. Are ye a fan of Chess?”

  “Dude, you would play Chess,” TJ grumbled in reply, rolling his eyes.

  “TJ, try to be nice, okay?” I muttered, shielding my eyes with the palm of my hand, to block my view of Rick’s reaction to the insult.

  But he laughed. It was a much lighter, less throaty sound in comparison to Alec’s husky chuckle, and I abruptly wondered if Alec was a smoker. I didn’t care much for smokers, so I found myself hoping that he was. Just to give my brain an excuse to not find him so unreasonably attractive and appealing.

  “I certainly fit the stereotype, I’ll give ye that,” Rick replied. “My dad taught me to play. It was the only thing he and I ever truly enjoyed together.”

  “But you still took over his business?” I asked, grasping at the opportunity for conversation.

  Rick nodded, lowering his gaze to the worn, leather binding of his book. It was a Hawthorne novel, The House of the Seven Gables, and I thought, if anybody was going to read the classics for leisure, it was Rick.

  “It wasnae what I wanted for my life,” he said, offering a detail that felt confidential for a man as seemingly private as him. “But when he left the business and house to me, I felt I had no other choice. If for no other reason than to appreciate how it was the only thing my father truly wanted for me. He had never liked that I wanted to get wrapped up in the law and forensics. He thought that was risky and reckless, like I was the one joinin’ the force.”

  “Hm,” I muttered, nodding. “My dad never cared what we did, as long as we were making money. He never wanted for either of us to rely on a man for support.”

  “What do ye do?”

  I sniffed a laugh as I shrugged. “I’m an aide to a local politician.”

  Rick laughed at that, tucking a bookmark between the pages and closing it entirely. “My father wouldae been just fine with a job like that. Nice and safe.”