by Hannah Reed
I called Sean’s cell phone. He answered promptly. “Constable Stevens,” he stated with pride. “Servin’ the residents o’ Glenkillen. To whom might I be speakin’ with?”
“I know you have Caller ID,” I pointed out.
“It’s habit, is all. What can I do fer ye?”
“Patricia Martin is supposedly visiting Bridie.”
“Aye, she arrived a ways back. Got away from ye, did she?”
I ignored that. Or tried to. I was about to ask Sean to speak with her. But after that flip remark, it didn’t seem like such a good idea. Actually, she had slipped under my radar. And wasn’t she my responsibility, not Sean’s?
“Make sure she doesn’t leave,” I said instead. “I’m on my way.”
“Okay, then. I’ll cuff her if she tries tae escape.”
“Please don’t do that.”
“I was only jokin’ with ye. No need fer ye tae get testy. Did yer sense o’ humor get away from ye, too?”
I hung up without comment. Apparently my sense of humor really had flown out the window.
The drive to the distillery took only a few minutes. It was hard to believe it had only been yesterday morning that I first came here and met Henrietta and Bridie. It felt like ages ago, eons since I’d pulled Henrietta McCloud out of that tub full of whisky.
Sean greeted me at the door. “They’re having tea and want ye tae join them.”
“You told them I was on my way?” I’d wanted a certain element of surprise, not an organized tea party.
“Don’t worry. I’ll back ye up.”
Back me up?
I was confident I could handle the two women but couldn’t come up with an excuse to extricate myself from Sean. Besides, he might be my buffer against any personal references and discussion of the Elliott clan. So I nodded in agreement. We’d go in as a team.
“Eden,” Bridie called out when I entered the room. “Come join us. Sit here next tae me and have a cuppa.”
I glanced around, searching for Henrietta’s Scottish Fold cat, before I took the indicated seat. Bridie tuned into my thoughts and said, “Snookie is in Henrietta’s room, waiting fer her tae return. It pains me to see the poor thing, so trusting and me knowing she’s never coming back.”
Patricia, sitting erect, her long legs crossed, gave me a head-to-toe appraisal before saying, “Constable Stevens tells me you are a volunteer constable.”
I glanced at Sean, who had stopped just inside the doorway as though guarding against intruders or unexpected problems. Actually, he was part of the problem. What a blabbermouth!
“Yes, that’s right. I’m a special constable.” I sat down and accepted a cup of tea from Bridie, my heart going out to Snookie, wondering what would happen to her. I supposed she’d remain with Bridie.
“We have special constables in Edinburgh as well,” Patricia said. “I keep up on those sort o’ things since my husband, Connor, is up for re-election in May. This will be his second term as a member of the Scottish Parliament, but he’s made quite a name for himself in a short period o’ time. Because of his position, I don’t express my personal views in public, of course, but privately I can’t say I agree with allowing ordinary citizens the full rights o’ our police force.”
I reminded myself that when I first heard about these volunteers, I’d reacted exactly the same way. There was a time I would have agreed with her. Private citizens with police powers wasn’t typical in the world I was used to. But would it be common practice in the States someday? I highly doubted it. Trying to explain the reasoning behind the unusual volunteer policy to Patricia was going to be challenging. Especially after the condescending tone she had affected.
I was about to make the effort, but our gracious host headed off any possible difference of opinion that might lead to an unpleasant disagreement. “Come in and join us,” Bridie called out, addressing Sean.
I could tell he’d taken offense to Patricia’s comment regarding special volunteers by his coloring. He was several shades redder than normal as he reluctantly sat down in the only available chair next to Henrietta’s sister and said, “Many o’ the special constables are cut o’ the same cloth as the others on the force.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Bridie said, hastily.
I looked at Patricia. “I have a few routine questions to ask you,” I said, deciding we could debate that issue another time. “We can proceed in a more private setting if you wish.”
“I have nothing to say that can’t be said in front o’ others.”
Bridie cut in. “The last I saw o’ my dear Henrietta was about four o’clock yesterday afternoon, several hours before the whisky tasting. That’s when I left fer the hairdresser.” She carefully handed a cup of tea to Sean, who gave me a slight nod, implying that her whereabouts had been verified.
“Your appointment was in the center of the village. How did you get there?” I asked, assuming that at her advanced age and with the road conditions treacherous that day, someone surely would have driven her to Glenkillen.
“Archie took me and waited at the pub”—Bridie’s voice began to quiver—“and brought me back around half past five. We didn’t see Henrietta on our return, so I automatically assumed she’d decided to remain in her room. That wasn’t unusual fer her. She hasn’t been well.”
Bridie gave a little gasp of anguish and buried her face in a handkerchief.
“I woulda got around tae askin’ that very question aboot her transportation,” Sean assured me, giving himself away. He hadn’t even asked that? Sean had been assigned to Bridie. For now, she was his only job. Shouldn’t he have been more thorough? At the moment, I could understand the inspector’s ongoing frustration with his trainee.
“About her illness . . . Patricia . . .” I said, steering the questions and answers over to Henrietta’s sister. “Besides Bridie, who knew about Henrietta’s prognosis? I imagine Gordon did.”
“Yes, my son knew. And my husband, of course.”
“I didn’t tell another soul,” Bridie added, then, after a pause, amended her statement. “Other than the local vet, who happened to be here when Henrietta had a wee bit o’ a fainting spell. Even Archie and Florence were kept in the dark. Henrietta insisted and made us promise, didn’t she, Patricia?”
Henrietta’s sister nodded. “It was a secret only a few of us shared.”
“Secrets have a way o’ getting out,” Sean said. “Like they have a life o’ their own.”
Sean was right. Secrets are hard to keep.
“Perhaps, but we did our best,” Bridie continued, “In any case, Archie and Florence weren’t informed, at least not by me. Henrietta couldn’t abide by the thought o’ any o’ us taking pity on her. And she refused to let me hire someone tae help her with the more strenuous household chores. Her efficiency was slipping, but I pretended not tae notice. It woulda hurt her tae the quick if I’d brought in others tae keep up. She was a proud woman, determined tae continue with her duties.”
“She was stubborn,” Patricia agreed. At the tasting, Henrietta’s sister had expressed frustration with Bridie, but hopefully she now understood that the old woman really cared about her companion’s well-being. The truth had been that Bridie couldn’t slow her down.
“Do either of you know of any reason why someone would kill Henrietta?” I asked. “Did anyone hold a grudge against her that you were aware of?”
“She rarely left the house,” Bridie said, “only tae run the occasionally personal errand. Florence always takes care of my own purchases and the household supplies. And Henrietta didn’t have any friends tae speak of, although in the past I encouraged her tae have a life o’ her own. She always claimed my family was enough fer her. And her sister and nephew were important tae her. She adored ye, Patricia.”
Tears gleamed in Patricia’s eyes as I addressed the next question to her. “When did
you last see her?”
“Friday morning,” she said without hesitation. “And since you will certainly ask, she appeared to be exactly the same as always. We spoke of the upcoming tasting and its preparation, and when I attempted to address her condition, she refused to discuss it. Typical Henrietta.”
“So she wasn’t upset about anything? Had no personal issues of concern other than her health? She didn’t give you any indication that might be associated with prior circumstances leading to her death?”
Patricia shrugged, helplessly. “No, nothing at all. My sister never was very social, even less so as she aged. We were exact opposites in that regard.”
“Did Henrietta have any psychological issues?” I asked, delicately.
“What do you mean?” Patricia’s tone changed.
“She spent her life in virtual seclusion,” I said. “She’d basically withdrawn from society. That could mean a number of things. She might have had a social anxiety disorder. I wonder why is all.”
“It was her personality. There doesn’t need to be a reason.”
I dropped that line of questioning. “And you didn’t speak with her on Saturday?”
“I assumed she’d be busy with the upcoming tasting and that I would spend time with her that evening. But as you know, she didn’t leave her room, didn’t pick up the phone when I rang her.” Here, she paused to consider other options. “Or . . . perhaps . . . she was already . . .”
Sean, who’d exhibited remarkable restraint until now, piped up and agreed. “Most likely she had passed tae the great beyond by then.”
Which caused the two women to break down together. I waited an appropriate amount of time, then said to Patricia, “I’d like to discuss your sister’s past with you. Perhaps there is something there.”
“What do you want to know?” Patricia straightened, dabbed under her eyes, and pulled herself together somewhat.
“Anything you can tell me about failed romantic relationships, any private matters that have been hidden away.”
Henrietta’s sister looked disgusted. Her lips curled in distaste. “It’s obvious to me that you and this officer”—her eyes shifted to Sean—“and that inspector don’t have a single shred of useful evidence to work with, and so you are grasping at straws, trying to make this Henrietta’s fault.”
I didn’t respond immediately, startled by her outburst. A moment later she went on. “Instead of attempting to dredge up nonexistent dirty laundry, I would expect you to be focusing on the present situation and who might have committed this horrific crime.”
Patricia’s pain over her sister’s death was expressing itself in anger directed at me. I shouldn’t be surprised. She had to be an emotional mess, and I was an intrusion she was forced to deal with against her will.
“I’m sorry to have to put you through this,” I told her, “but it’s important.” Then I turned to Bridie. “Tell me about the rest of your afternoon once you arrived back home.” That translated as a request for an appropriate alibi. Not that I expected the chieftain to need one, but it was a lead-in to Patricia Martin’s whereabouts.
“Archie went off tae make sure everything was in order fer the tasting. I wanted tae rest a spell, but I couldn’t lie down after visitin’ the hairdresser, so I sat in a chair in my room with my feet up, reading a book fer half an hour. Then I dressed fer the evening. Oh, and I should mention that today I had that little family meeting that was postponed after what happened. Archie is relieved that I’ve decided not to sell and that the business will remain in the hands of our family.”
“That’s good news for all of you.”
“’Tis.”
“And yerself?” Sean asked, his attention turned to Patricia. “Where were ye between four in the afternoon and yer arrival at the tasting?”
“In my room at the inn,” came the pat reply, delivered in a clipped manner.
Terrific. Janet, Bridie, and Patricia were all in their rooms.
“Do you have someone who can vouch for you during those hours?” I asked.
“I was alone, of course. Who could possibly have been with me? My husband wasn’t able to join me as he had to be in Edinburgh with his constituents. And I resent the implication that I need an alibi! This is my sister we are talking about!”
Wonderful. Just dandy. Three women under suspicion had been in their rooms, with no one to confirm or deny their claims.
“Welcome,” the inspector would have said, “tae the wonderful world of crime solving.”
I could just hear him.
CHAPTER 11
“Tae recap,” the inspector said as we ate a late lunch of fish and chips at my favorite table at the Kilt & Thistle, “ye accused the sister o’ blabbin’ tae others aboot Henrietta’s cancer.”
“I’m pretty sure Sean was the one who alluded to that,” I said defensively, before popping what I’d call a thick-cut French fry in the States into my mouth, after seasoning it with salt and vinegar.
“And then ye challenged her sister’s mental state.” The inspector dipped his hearty potato wedge into chippy sauce, a mix of vinegar and brown sauce.
“Well, there could be a psychological reason that Henrietta chose to become some sort of hermit,” I argued.
“I’m surprised that ye didn’t accuse the victim o’ hiding out from her own criminal activity.”
“That’s absurd,” I said, detecting a hint of humor in his tone.
“And ye couldn’t have made a fast friend when ye told Patricia Martin ye wanted tae air the family’s dirty laundry.”
“I said nothing of the sort!”
The inspector chuckled and dug into his meal.
Reflecting on the interview, I said, “I didn’t accomplish much, did I? Aside from alienating Patricia.”
“On the contrary, you confirmed that she hadn’t seen Henrietta around the time o’ her death. And ye established the lack of one more alibi tae join the pile o’ others without them.”
That didn’t sound like much progress to me. I wish I’d mentioned Katie Taylor and Tainwick to Patricia. I’d intended to, except things got quite heated before I had the opportunity. I wasn’t used to taking heat, and even though I’d remained cool on the surface, I’d come away with a few wounds to lick.
“It wasn’t easy questioning Patricia,” I told him, using one of the excuses I’d concocted to make myself feel slightly better. “Bridie kept jumping in.”
“The old hen is used tae the limelight,” he agreed. “While ye were havin’ tea, I’ve been following up on the victim’s brother-in-law. Connor Martin was campaigning in Edinburgh on the afternoon o’ the murder.”
Jamieson was a man of many surprises. I wouldn’t have thought of following up on Patricia’s husband, at least so soon. Martin wasn’t at the tasting, and he hadn’t been in town at the time of his sister-in-law’s murder. At best, his whereabouts would have been an afterthought, if I were in charge. A good reason to defer to the experienced inspector.
“Where was he after that? In the early evening?” I asked, joining in. “Could he have driven to Glenkillen? And, more importantly, what would have been his motive?”
“It’s over a three-hour drive. He’s not our killer, but I hadn’t thought he was. The only reason I pursued any line o’ questioning with him was because he phoned me, all blustery, aboot solving his sister-in-law’s murder promptly, as though I’m not in any kind o’ hurry without him having tae pester me. I imagine Connor is most worried aboot his own aspirations and how something like this on his wife’s side o’ the family could affect him politically. He said he wanted tae come tae handle the situation, but his wife talked him out o’ it. Then he tried tae strong-arm me intae releasin’ his wife tae go home. Anyhoo, he’s in the clear.”
“A murder for hire?” I suggested. Then, when the inspector frowned, I muttered, “Playing devil’s advo
cate.” It was farfetched, but my personal opinion is that no theory should be discounted, no matter how unlikely, without at least a cursory glance.
But I’d misunderstood the frown. The inspector seemed to be actually considering that. “Those things have a way o’ surfacing,” he said. “Especially if the employer is in the public eye. He’d have tae be mad as a hatter tae arrange fer murder. Connor Martin is known fer his integrity. And he isn’t afraid tae take responsibility in times where it’s needed. Besides not havin’ a motive.”
I sighed after considering the scope of our problem. “It’s going to take forever to establish alibis for every single person who is related to someone who was at the distillery that afternoon.”
“Aye, process o’ elimination. It’s how we plod along.”
“And who else have you eliminated as a suspect?”
“No one, and that’s the unfortunate truth. The postmortem examination is underway. It’s doesn’t take much detecting on my part tae foresee the ruling as a drowning. Only it won’t be one o’ misadventure.”
I must have looked bewildered because he said, “Accidental drowning. It won’t be ruled an accident, not considering the circumstances. And I’ve already been informed by the coroner regarding an approximate time—he won’t be able tae narrow it down as much as we’d like.”
“So we’re on our own,” I said, finishing the entire plate of fish and chips. “Bridie is sure she last saw Henrietta around four, but has anyone else been able to substantiate that one way or the other?”
“Are ye suggestin’ she might be mistaken aboot the time? Granted, she’s gettin’ up there in years.”
I shook my head, confident in the old woman’s mental faculties. “Bridie seems extremely sharp to me. If she says four, we can believe her. I was out there that morning myself, as you know, and had time to assess Bridie. She’s amazing in her awareness.” I paused then, remembering that scene, how she’d blindsided me with mention of the Elliott family. I hadn’t shared that topic of conversation with the inspector and wondered if she had. I hoped not. “What I meant to ask was if anyone else saw Henrietta after four.”