Dressed to Kilt (A Scottish Highlands Mystery)

by Hannah Reed

  Actually, at this point, I wasn’t sure myself.

  But true to form, I made the call.

  A woman answered. I asked to speak with Henrietta McCloud and was put on hold. After a rather lengthy wait, the same woman’s voice came on and said, “This be Henrietta. But herself wishes to speak with ye instead.”

  Herself? I attempted to explain myself. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake, which I hope to rectify. I was calling to speak with you about tonight’s whisky tasting and the invitation I received. It seems that . . .”

  She cut me off. “I’m aware o’ the reason fer yer call, and as I stated, Bridie wishes tae speak with ye.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll need her telephone number unless you can connect me.”

  “In person, herself says.”

  “The roads will be slippery. Does she have a driver?”

  There was a pause, then Henrietta said, “There’s no fireplace like herself’s fireplace.”

  Huh? Oh. I was being summoned. “An hour, then.”

  “Ye know the way tae the distillery, ye do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Drive around the eastern end, and ye’ll see the house. She’ll be expecting ye.”

  I hung up. Things were getting stranger and stranger.

  “I’ve been asked to meet with Bridie Dougal,” I told Vicki, who had been immersed in sorting through a new shipment of woolen wear. At my announcement, she glanced up sharply and said, “Now what could you have done to catch the attention of the chieftain of the entire Dougal clan for a private audience?”

  “Chieftain? A woman is head of a clan?”

  “And why is that such a big surprise?”

  I stammered around a bit, at a loss for words, embarrassed by the realization that I might actually have prejudices I didn’t know about and they were raising their ugly little heads.

  Why not? Why couldn’t a woman be a chieftain? The idea appealed to my senses. This day was getting more interesting by the minute.

  Vicki went on, “Not that the Scots care much about clans and lineage in this day and age. It’s a much bigger deal in the States. But Bridie will enjoy being treated like royalty, if you decide to bow to her.” Vicki giggled.

  “Should I really bow?” I didn’t know the proper protocol, having never met the head of a clan before. I imagined a Highlander wielding a broadsword, adorned in tartan, kilt, and sporran, living among misty Scottish hills. A reclusive woman residing in a distillery just didn’t do justice to that romantic image.

  Vicki was laughing now. “I should encourage you to bow for the fun of it. But really, in this more modern world, chiefs can be gardeners or hill farmers or pub owners. Clans were needed long ago—for basic protection and sustenance. Solidarity was necessary to defend territories. As to proper etiquette in this century, treat her with the same politeness and respect as you would any other elderly woman with massive wealth, privilege, and title.”

  “Oh, great, thanks. I feel so much more confident now.”

  Vicki was having great fun. “Call her Bridie. Everybody does. And she isn’t the chief of the clan. She’s a chieftain, which means she’s the head of one branch of the Dougal clan.”

  I hadn’t realized there was a distinction between chief and chieftain. Okay, that didn’t seem quite so formidable. Which was what I told myself as I trudged to the barn where we kept our cars during the winter months. Predictably and thankfully, John had cleared away the snow that had drifted against the barn doors. Vicki’s brother-in-law might be a burly Welshman of few words, but he knew how to keep the farm running on schedule.

  Jasper, our resident barn cat, had developed his winter coat and appeared to be twice as large as he really was. When the days and nights grew colder, I’d made a fuss about leaving him outside in the elements and even tried to bring him into the cottage. But he wanted nothing to do with what he apparently considered nothing short of incarceration and was very vocal with his opinion on the matter. He also expressed himself physically by shredding my kitchen curtains in protest. After that, I was forced to accept his decision, but I still didn’t agree with it.

  I spent a few minutes cuddling with him now that we were on speaking terms again, enjoying his purring machine. Then I eased the old Peugeot out through the large barn door. I was an old hand at working the clutch and maneuvering through the gears that were housed on the left side of the driver’s seat instead of the right. When I drove again in the States, I’d have to relearn what had come naturally to me in the past.

  I focused on sustaining my continuing good health after sliding out onto the main road from the lane, quickly realizing that the roads might be clear, but the surface was still snow covered and treacherous.

  After white-knuckling the steering wheel for what seemed like forever, I turned off the main road onto the one leading to the distillery, which was located just above Glenkillen, directly before the descent to the harbor and the village. The distillery appeared and I followed Henrietta McCloud’s directions, heading for the east end of the distillery, driving along the expanse of its nondescript brown stonework. A few moments later, what I first thought must be a royal castle appeared before me.

  The stonework structure didn’t have a moat, drawbridge, or battlements. And I would bet there wasn’t a dungeon below a circular staircase. But the granite building was stately with Gothic gables and soaring turrets. Altogether fitting for what I imagined was the residence of the chieftain of Clan Dougal.

  I drove the car into a circular driveway, got out, gazed around me at the carpet of snow, and then rang the bell, hearing it resounding within.

  And resisted the urge to hum “Hail to the Chief.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The estate had presence, but the individual who opened the door had character.

  I expected a servant (manservant, wearing white gloves, carriage erect, formal air about him). Instead, the head of the household greeted me through the partially opened door. Or so I assumed. I’d been told that Bridie Dougal had turned ninety recently, and I didn’t need to be a detective to know this woman was advanced in years.

  “You must be Eden. I’m Bridie,” she said with a strong and commanding voice that belied her size and age. She was small and delicate with a lived-in face, and she had trouble fully opening the massive door until I stepped up and gently assisted her.

  Bridie Dougal wore a furry Cossack-style hat, better suited for outdoor activity, and a plum-colored dressing gown. She leaned heavily on a walking cane. Once she recovered from the ordeal of managing the door, she took a step back at the same time that I took one forward. As I entered the hallway, I saw an expression of wonder cross her face. She raised a liver-spotted, blue-veined hand and placed it over her heart.

  “I would have recognized you anywhere!” she exclaimed.

  Behind her, I heard thick-heeled footsteps approaching from down a long hallway.

  “Ye’re impossible,” the arriving woman said. I guessed her to be around the same age as my mother would have been if she were still alive, midsixties. She was tall but very thin, with a raspy voice and coarse complexion. She wore a black housedress with a large white collar and a dour expression. I assumed she must be Henrietta McCloud, although she didn’t introduce herself. Ignoring me, she closed the door and took Bridie’s free arm without giving me so much as a sideways glance. “I coulda seen her in,” she said to her charge.

  “I couldn’t wait,” Bridie replied. “But now that you have taken charge, Henrietta, perhaps you can assist us to the sitting room. This old coffin dodger could use a helping hand.” We walked slowly through the great hall with its elaborate stone fireplace, and past a well-stocked library into a brightly lit sitting room where tea service had already been prepared at a table set near a roaring fire. “I must say that it was great fun luring you away from your writing obligations and all the going-ons
at the MacBride farm,” Bridie said to me. “I’ll sit nearest to the fire, Henrietta, if you don’t mind. I’m a bit chilled.”

  “And right ye should be, opening the door, hardly dressed at all.” Henrietta scowled, then was seized with a cough attack. Once she recovered, she settled her ward into an upholstered chair and went about serving tea after I chose an embroidered chair directly across from my hostess.

  My attention was drawn to the chair next to Bridie where a most unusual cat slept on its back. White, long hair, a round face, and ears creased and lying flat to its head, it looked like an owl.

  “That’s Henrietta’s feline companion,” Bridie said, noticing my fascination. “Snookie is a Scottish Fold. Folds originally came from Perthshire and are quite affectionate creatures.”

  “She’s beautiful,” I exclaimed.

  Henrietta watched carefully as I complimented her cat. I had caught her studying me several times when she thought I wasn’t looking. She was especially intrigued after the cat roused, stretched, and sauntered over to my chair. Snookie leapt up onto my lap, arranged herself in a comfortable position, and began to clean herself.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Henrietta said. “Snookie doesn’t take tae just anybody.”

  I never considered myself a cat person, having been raised with the occasional rescued dog here and there. But I liked Jasper, enjoyed going out to the barn to spend time with him, even though I’d had to woo him shamelessly to gain his friendship. This one was warm and friendly.

  When Henrietta finished pouring each of us a cup, Bridie said, “You may go now, Henrietta. We won’t need anything more at the moment.”

  “I’d prefer to stay in case ye—”

  “That will do fer now. Thank you.” Bridie’s voice had taken on a commanding tone. Then more softly she said, “Go on. Put yer feet up, take a rest.”

  Henrietta shot a glance my way from the corner of her eye, picked up Snookie from my lap, and reluctantly left the room. I watched her go before turning my attention back to Bridie, who was now staring openly at me. I thought I detected something akin to awe in her gaze. But that was impossible.

  If my name were Ami Pederson, I would be able to understand her fascination. Ami’s full-color photograph adorns the back cover of every one of her bestselling novels, and fans are always recognizing her and asking for autographs. But my first book hadn’t been published yet. And chances were that my picture would be in black and white and located on one of the back pages. If it was even there at all. So she couldn’t possibly be a fan of my work.

  So why did she say she would recognize me anywhere? And why was she staring at me?

  A random and uncomfortable thought crossed my mind, one I hoped wasn’t anything more than a figment of my imagination. I set my cup down. Bridie confirmed my growing suspicion by saying, “You’re the spitting image. Ye have his eyes.”

  “What is this all about?” I demanded when I found my voice, already feeling my temper rising.

  “Simple, ye see. I wanted tae meet ye,” Bridie said, leaning forward. “So I had Henrietta arrange for ye tae come tae the tasting. This private tête-à-tête is an unexpected gift ye dropped intae my lap without realizin’ it. When ye phoned, I chose tae seize the opportunity. Don’t look so perplexed, my dear. Like I chust said, it’s simple. I had tae meet Eden Elliott, Dennis Elliott’s visitin’ daughter, while I had the chance.”

  It was a good thing I wasn’t holding my teacup, or I might have dropped it. “I wouldn’t have come,” I said, manners forgotten, “if I’d known that.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I didn’t tell ye.” Bridie carefully lifted her teacup to her lips, managing to look innocent.

  “You concocted this charade?”

  Bridie slowly returned her cup to the table. “I see this foolish old woman has shocked ye,” she said. “That wasn’t my intention. Rumors have been circulating since yer arrival in Glenkillen. They say Dennis abandoned yer mum and yerself when ye were just a bairn. I couldn’t believe that possible. Is it true? I can see from yer expression that it is.”

  Speechless, I listened as she continued.

  “I wasn’t sure if ye’d accept my invitation or turn it down, but I didn’t want tae take the chance. I knew ye’d come if Leith Cameron invited ye. And the only way I’d get that rascal interested in a little hobnobbing is with an invitation from yerself. It almost worked, didn’t it? Until the two o’ ye compared notes. Am I right? Ye caught on tae my scheme?”

  She didn’t wait for a response. I caught the twinkle in her eye. Merriment at my expense? A little fun in an isolated life that must be dreadfully routine? I could just imagine her plotting. All good fun.

  Except I wasn’t having a good time. I felt manipulated and decided to extricate myself from this awkward encounter as quickly as possible.

  “Thank goodness fer all the typical village gossip,” she went on. “Or I wouldn’t have known about yer friendship with Leith. Or is it more? Ah, humor an old woman. Do ye fancy the lad?”

  “I’m not interested in discussing my personal life with you,” I blurted, “or hearing about my father. Or learning of your connection with him.”

  “Why, dear girl, I don’t know where he is or what he’s been up tae since his father died all those years ago. Shamed by his actions, I suspect. It’s yer grandfather who I cared very deeply about, taken too soon from this life. He would have been immensely disappointed in his only child.” She shook her head in wonder. “Ye resemble him so much. Roderick Elliott, or Roddy as I called him. We were lifelong friends, and seeing ye sitting here in front of me is like having a few more precious moments with him.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. Great. She was going to cry.

  Please don’t cry! It was going to be difficult to remain angry and indignant if this little old lady started to sob.

  I sprang to my feet.

  “Please,” she sniffed. “Don’t go! I’m sorry if I offended ye. But I have a much more pressing reason fer wanting ye tae attend the tasting tonight. Ye see, I’ve been following news of ye ever since I discovered yer connection to Roddy. I’m fully aware of yer value tae Inspector Jamieson as his assistant. That ye’ve solved several crimes since yer arrival in Glenkillen . . .”

  “I haven’t been responsible for closing those cases,” I insisted, shaken that this woman knew so much about me. “I only assisted in small ways.”

  Bridie smiled. “Ye also have yer grandfather’s humility and grace.”

  I started for the door. I’d heard enough about the wonders of my grandfather. He was buried and gone. And in my opinion, so was his son. My so-called father might really be dead. If not, he was dead figuratively, at least to me. I was bitter and planned on staying that way. And some conniving dinosaur of a family acquaintance wasn’t going to change that.

  “Please. Ye can’t walk out on me,” she pleaded, and I heard desperation in her voice.

  Just watch me, I thought.

  She raised her voice. “I asked ye here because of a serious threat tae my person.”

  I could tell she was good at getting her way. Very good. Well, at ninety years old she’d had a lot of practice.

  I paused and considered. It was one thing for me to take offense over a personal matter that wasn’t any of her business. It was quite another to ignore a plea for police protection, having taken a pledge to uphold the peace. Although I was pretty sure she wasn’t above conveniently embellishing her situation, judging by her recent deception.

  But when I turned around, she was holding out a piece of paper; her hand that had been so steady only a few moments ago was shaking. I took it from her and read the crudely fashioned block letters. You are skating on thin ice. Cancel plan for Saturday night. You only get one warning.

  “I never ice-skated a day in my life,” she said, as I sat back down. “But o’ course that isn’t what the person
who wrote this meant. Henrietta found it several days ago, mixed in with the regular mail. So ye see, Constable Elliott, someone really is threatening my life.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Inspector Jamieson sat across the table from me inside the Kilt & Thistle Pub. We’d greeted the pub owners, Dale Barrett and his wife, Marg, and put in our order. From my position, I could see the local drunk, Bill Morris, slouched at a table close enough to the bar to eavesdrop, yet tucked in a corner far enough away to remain out of sight. I always wondered how much information managed to seep into his sodden brain.

  “Blutered again,” the inspector observed when he followed my gaze over to Bill.

  The Scots have a bottomless pit of synonyms for drunkenness. I’ve heard “hammered” here, which is used stateside, and “guttered.” I’d also heard it referred to as “legless,” and now “blutered.”

  “Bridie wants to keep the investigation unofficial, at least for the moment,” I told him while we lunched on brown bread and cock-a-leekie soup, a combination of chicken, leeks, carrots, and rice that warmed up my insides on this nippy winter day. “In fact, Bridie was adamant. She doesn’t want you involved, didn’t want you to know. She tried to swear me to secrecy.”

  The inspector humphed as I continued, “I refused. If anything were to actually happen to her, and I’d kept information from you . . . well, you see that I couldn’t in good conscience. I told her in no uncertain terms that the only way I’d agree to attend is with your full approval. She argued, but finally acquiesced when she realized I wasn’t going to change my mind.”

  “Ye did the proper thing,” he assured me, finishing his soup and leaning back to study me with sharp eyes, a habit of his that still makes me uncomfortable. “Does she have any idea who might be behind this threatening message?”