Dressed to Kilt (A Scottish Highlands Mystery)

by Hannah Reed

  “Are you saying that you didn’t believe her from the start?”

  Florence shook her head. “Not fer a single moment. Archie neither. Bridie wants Archie tae be dependent on her, but he’s a strong man and won’t bend tae her will. But when I phoned Hewie as I do weekly and told him what she was considering, that upset him, it did.”

  I ventured into the territory of Bridie’s undated will. “If Henrietta had survived Bridie, she would have been allowed to stay in the house.”

  “Another way o’ sticking it tae me. Bridie knew I had my eye on being the mistress o’ the place. Tae leave it tae her housekeeper is a slap in the face.”

  “She was providing for Henrietta, if anything should happen to her.” Not to mention that Bridie was ninety and that possibility existed. “Henrietta wasn’t actually inheriting the house.”

  “She might as well’ve been.”

  “Couldn’t you have moved in also? The house is large enough.”

  “And subject myself tae her barbs on a daily basis without the ability tae let her go fer showing disrespect? I think not.”

  I was surprised at Florence’s bitterness and went on to say, “Others I’ve spoken with describe Henrietta as unassuming, saying she tended to her own business, was rarely seen and then not often heard. Are you saying she could be petty and vindictive?”

  “Ha. That woman was as spiteful as they come. Do more digging and the real Henrietta McCloud will float tae the surface like a rotten fish. She was skating on thin ice even with her own family toward the end.”

  Skating on thin ice?

  I felt a chill because the warning note discovered by Henrietta had used that same phrase. Something about skating on thin ice. That the plans for Saturday night needed to be canceled. A warning not to be taken lightly, according to the author who penned the note, or else.

  “What did you just say?” I asked, watching her closely, my voice sounding colder than intended even to my ears.

  Florence bit her lip. I took that to mean she’d let something slip and realized it. “What I meant,” she said, trying to explain herself, “is that Henrietta didn’t get on with anybody other than Bridie. She even argued with her own sister, who only wanted what was best fer her.”

  “Are you aware that a threat was made prior to the tasting on Saturday night?”

  “Tae whom?”

  “That isn’t clear. Bridie assumed it was meant for her, but it may have been intended for Henrietta.”

  “I don’t know anything about a threat tae anybody.”

  “You just used the same phrase.”

  Florence was beginning to look unsettled, her tone turning as frosty as mine. “And what phrase are ye referrin’ tae?”

  “‘Skating on thin ice.’”

  I went silent, waiting.

  “It’s a common enough expression. And wha’ with the icy weather outside, it came tae mind. Ye aren’t accusing me o’ anything, are ye?”

  “I’m simply stating a fact.” I wasn’t sure where to go from here. “The expression implies that a person is doing something dangerous to their health. Are you the one who sent that note?”

  “I don’t know a thing about any note.”

  “Florence, when was the last time you saw Henrietta McCloud alive?”

  “I resent yer implication!”

  She was on her feet, the chair she’d been sitting in shoved back, teetering on the edge of crashing to the floor, an expression of barely suppressed rage on her unfriendly face. Several diners on the opposite side of the breakfast room glanced our way.

  “These are routine questions,” I told her, lowering my voice a few octaves. “Everyone at the tasting the night Henrietta was murdered has to answer that same question. So I’m asking you again. When was the last time you saw her alive?”

  Instead of offering a response, as she should have, Florence Dougal whirled and stomped out of the room.

  Well, that certainly didn’t go well. Florence had quite the temper.

  As I stared at the festive table arrangement with the ivy, ribbons, and evergreen holly, a Scottish expression came to mind that I was almost positive would apply to Florence.

  She never lies but when the holly’s green.

  Nothing she’d said rang true.

  I immediately phoned the inspector and told him what had transpired. When I stacked everything up, I felt more and more convinced that Florence was hiding something. I summed it up. “Florence had a lot to lose if Henrietta lived and a lot to gain with her out of the picture. And she hadn’t known about the cancer or that her problem would have gone away soon enough.”

  “Ye sound a wee bit worked up,” the inspector said.

  I carried on, without acknowledging his comment. “She’s an unpleasant woman who thinks everyone is against her, which they probably are, since she’s so disagreeable. She also claims she didn’t believe Bridie was going to sell out, but that is certainly arguable. She also mentioned her son, Hewie, and told me he was upset at the prospect of losing his future inheritance. And people become very protective when their children are concerned. And she used the exact same idiom the sender of that note used!”

  “Ye think she sent the warning tae which one o’ the women exactly? Bridie or Henrietta?”

  Good question. I was still working out the finer points. “That isn’t clear at the moment. Bridie probably. Or both of them. And she refused to answer when I questioned her about the last time she saw Henrietta alive.”

  “Is that how ye broached it? Like that?”

  “Yes. How else should I have worded the question?”

  “And she got riled up, did she?” The inspector asked.

  I paused to consider the approach I’d used with Florence. Okay, it could have been smoother. Bold and brash worked much better in the States. Here, I needed to learn to tiptoe.

  Our conversation had gone along fine until she’d used the exact same expression as written in the warning. Then I’d lost my cool. And then she had.

  Jamieson never allowed his emotions to get away from him. Sometimes I wondered if he had any. But of course he did. They were buried under perfectly proper professionalism. The exact opposite of my current demeanor. With discomfort, I realized that if he and I played bad cop, good cop, I’d be the bad cop!

  “Still with Janet Dougal?” I asked, changing the topic while I considered how I might have done things differently so future interviews were less volatile.

  “She’s in the waiting room. No one is allowed intae the girl’s room, and if I’d had my wits about me, I would have used doctor’s orders tae my advantage and wouldn’t be committed tae puttin’ that woman back in my vehicle. Right now, I’m in the hallway, waiting fer the doc tae finish up. As good a time tae rid myself o’ my passenger as any other.”

  “I could have done a better job with Florence,” I admitted aloud.

  “Sometimes a suspect overreacts with anger tae cover up,” the inspector said. “She had no business refusing tae cooperate with a member o’ my team. I intend tae back ye up.”

  Which made me feel slightly better. “Florence was in and out of the tasting room throughout the day,” I said. “With plenty of opportunity. She could be our killer.”

  “Aye,” he said, sounding tired. “Ye managed tae get some new information before ye had her flying out o’ the inn. The fact that her son was concerned about Bridie sellin’ the company is worth a follow-up. But,” he added quickly, “I’ll handle him. And as tae the information she refused tae supply ye with, she claimed yesterday that she never laid eyes on Henrietta that entire day. At the present time, we have no way o’ confirming the truth o’ that. I’d say she’s the one skatin’ on thin ice at present.”

  “Very funny.”

  As we disconnected, I thought I heard him chuckle.

  CHAPTER 16

&nbs
p; I didn’t want to place too much stock in Florence’s analysis of Henrietta McCloud’s unsavory character, mainly because Bridie’s daughter-in-law could have been describing herself rather than the house companion. But I decided I should at least spend a short time pursuing her claim, as frivolous as it probably would turn out to be.

  According to Florence, Henrietta McCloud was a spiteful woman. She’d implied that Henrietta had a mean streak and was capable of acting out. My first impulse was to disregard anything coming from Archie’s wife, but then I remembered what Gordon had told me. Henrietta’s nephew had said she’d expressed unspecified regrets, had wanted to make things right. If she wanted to make amends, with whom? And why? And did she get that chance before she was killed?

  The only people who knew Henrietta’s full history were her sister, Patricia; Bridie; and Gordon. And all three of them were considered suspects. Not at the top of the list, but suspects just the same. No one from that night had been eliminated.

  Did that mean I should also take Gordon’s observations with a grain of salt? He might be lying. Florence could be lying. Any of them might be. How was I supposed to wade through all the information they offered and sort truth from fiction? That was the hard part.

  Briefly, I wondered if forensics was uncovering anything useful. Would damning evidence come to light in the next day or two? A fingerprint on the side of the washback would be the perfect solution. But if the killer knew the warehouse wouldn’t be used that day, there would have been plenty of time to wipe away any traces of evidence. And didn’t those of us who tried to save her touch the washback? I had. Leith and Gordon certainly did. Who else had?

  While I was pondering which of Saturday’s guests to bother next, I decided I’d better adopt the inspector’s method of eliminating one at a time. Jeannie came over to clear away the plates.

  “Two of your guests claim they were in their rooms all afternoon on Saturday,” I said. “I’m hoping to substantiate their assertions.”

  “Ye’re referrin’ tae Janet Dougal and Patricia Martin, I’ve no doubt.”

  Sometimes I tended to underestimate Jeannie.

  “Don’t look so shocked,” she said, reading my thoughts. “Ye’re an investigator, investigating a crime, and those two are on yer short list. I didn’t see either o’ them until aboot six thirty or so when they came down tae go tae the tastin’.”

  “How did they get out to the distillery?”

  “They both have rental cars, but there had been the snowstorm so Gordon Martin came round tae fetch them. Although it was a bit awkward noo that I’m rememberin’ it.”

  “Awkward?”

  “Janet rushed over tae Patricia, who was mindin’ her own business waitin’ in the lobby, and told her that she was tae ride with her out tae the tasting. Patricia said she didn’t know anything aboot that and who was she anyway tae be making such demands. Janet was cheeky, actin’ like she expected service, sayin’ she’d planned tae drive herself but the weather had turned bad and she was afraid o’ the roads.

  “When Gordon came in tae collect his mum, he didn’t know aboot it, either. But Janet wouldn’t let up, and what could they do but take her along and sort it out later. That’s a pushy one, that.”

  Yes, she was. Janet would do pretty much anything to get what she wanted. With her attention focused on pursuing the inspector, I pitied him.

  Then I asked, “How well did you know Henrietta McCloud?”

  “By sight only. She rarely came intae the village. She kept tae herself.”

  “I’ve heard that she had a nasty side, that she could cause her share of trouble.”

  Jeannie snorted. “If she did, I woulda heard, and I didn’t. Who’d say such a thing?”

  “Scuttlebutt only,” I said evasively.

  A few minutes later I wandered over to the Kilt & Thistle Pub. Outside, the owners’ redheaded twin boys, Reece and Ross, were lobbing snowballs at each other. Since I spent so much time in the pub, we were on friendly terms. A snowball caught me in the back, and suspecting it wasn’t an accident, I joined in for a few lobs of my own before scooting inside.

  Dale, the proprietor, took one look at the evidence on my coat and tried to apologize.

  “They’re just being boys,” I assured him.

  “Their mum is taking them sledding in a bit. A few climbs up the likes o’ those hills will wear them down some.”

  Still determined to eat lightly today, I ordered more tea while presenting the same questions about Henrietta to several of the regular customers, and with the same results. The dead woman hadn’t been around town much, but when she was, she was polite, respectful, and proper.

  I wondered how much more evidence we’d need to arrest Florence Dougal for the murder of Henrietta McCloud. It was amazing how much proof was required in these cases. Just because she had a motive, the means, and plenty of opportunity didn’t mean we’d get a warrant. My boss was probably working on the finer details right now.

  Something concrete like fingerprints, DNA, a witness, or a confession would be required to proceed. Most likely a witness to the murder would have come forward by now. We’d have to wait and hope for fingerprint or DNA evidence. On that front, I wasn’t nearly as positive. And a confession was the least likely.

  At loose ends and not feeling very productive, I decided to relieve Sean of his security duty. I drove over, and armed with my laptop to help while away the hours, I found Vicki’s main man in a small waiting area across the hall from Katie’s room where it was easy to keep an eye on her door. Sean was eating bakery from a plate on a counter and drinking coffee from a disposable cup. Life as a bodyguard wasn’t all that rough.

  “Are Katie’s parents here?” I asked, as I watched a nurse wearing a navy blue tunic and navy trousers enter Katie’s room with a stethoscope around her neck.

  “No, some bossy head nurse came by early this morning and scolded them fer botherin’ the girl. ‘She needs her rest,’ says that one, and she’s not tae be disobeyed. The parents haff been by her side since they were called, even though Tainwick isn’t that far off, and now she’s out o’ the woods and tae go home tomorrow, they went off like they were ordered.” Sean finished a cinnamon roll and helped himself to another. “That nurse is a real battle-axe, if ye ask me.”

  “Anything new on your end?” I asked. “Have you heard anything?”

  “Nothin’. What brings ye by? I was hopin’ ye’d haff news that I’ve been let off this hospital floor or that a murderer is in custody. Or that a robber’s been apprehended. Something tae give me a free day.”

  “Not anything nearly as big as a criminal in custody.” I went on to tell him that Vicki missed him terribly and that he was free to leave for the farm. “I’ll fill in for you until Katie is released tomorrow.”

  “That would be swell,” he said with a big grin. “I’ll be back in a crack if ye need me, but this assignment is one tae put ye tae sleep. Don’t count on seein’ any action. Have ye informed the inspector o’ your decision?”

  “No, but I will shortly.”

  “All right then. Would ye like tae borrow my baton tae reassure yerself?”

  He turned to display the black club resting in a holster on his side. As far as I knew, this was a new addition to his wardrobe.

  “No, thank you, I’ll be fine.” I couldn’t see myself using a baton on anybody. The pepper spray I carried would do the trick in a dangerous situation. Besides, I didn’t expect one.

  With that, Sean made a dash for the elevator, almost colliding with the nurse exiting Katie’s room. A few minutes later, I peeked into my charge’s room and found her asleep. I settled at a table in the waiting room, facing the hallway and her room, powered up my laptop, and considered working on Hooked on You, something I’d determined to avoid for the short term. Now here I was—back to writing. Or rather, thinking about writing.

&n
bsp; The biggest problem with taking a few days off from the novel is that I lose forward momentum and have to backtrack, refreshing my memory, which hasn’t been serving me as well as it should. I was past the dreaded middle, where it’s so easy to let up on the conflict, which can be a death knell if the reader’s interest wanes. That’s the reason for plenty of additional sexual tension and several turning points throughout to keep the reader guessing. At the current stage, it was up to me to give Jessica and Daniel some final dark moments before a joyful resolution. That was the beauty of romance novels. They always had happy endings.

  If all went as planned, I’d have the first draft finished by the end of the year and then a long winter in Chicago to make revisions.

  The thought of Chicago reminded me of Ami. E-mails had been few and far between with both of us busy. Briefly I considered sending one to her, except not much had happened since my last update. She already knew about the tasting and the murder. With no new developments to report, and not much in the way of progress on the novel, what could I say of interest? Then I remembered that I hadn’t responded to her last e-mail.

  Procrastinating, which was a particular talent of mine, I reread it and paused at Ami’s reference to the invitation confusion. That really had been a mess, a minor one considering the larger picture that night, but at the time it had seemed huge. Then to discover it had been a big manipulation by Bridie Dougal . . .

  Something about Ami’s e-mail bothered me. I went back and reread the one I’d sent that prompted her reply.

  Nowhere had I mentioned the invitation mix-up.

  So how had she known? Unless she was communicating with someone on this side of the pond. Leith? Certainly not. Jamieson? I couldn’t imagine those two becoming pen pals. Vicki, then. Which struck me as very strange, especially since neither of them had mentioned their communications to me.