by Hannah Reed
Was that why she’d wanted to meet with me?
Of course. She’d been ready to tell me her story. Maybe she thought I knew where my father was. She would have been hoping for news of him. She would have been horribly disappointed to find out that I didn’t know anything about him, hadn’t heard from him for thirty-some years. We could have exchanged sad stories, commiserated together, because as it turned out, Dennis Elliott had horribly disappointed both of us.
Thinking of the cad who had been my dad, who had broken a young woman’s heart (no matter that he’d left her for my mother), brought a fresh sense of loss, a new pain shooting through my own heart.
I reminded myself that it might not have been what it seemed. Just because a woman falls in love doesn’t mean her feelings are reciprocated. It could have been one-sided. Not that it mattered. My father wasn’t around to tell his side of the story.
Did Bridie know about them?
I didn’t think so. She wouldn’t have been able to contain herself this long. Bridie wasn’t one to exhibit restraint. No. My guess was that Henrietta hadn’t shared that part of her past with her employer.
Halfway to Glenkillen, my mind turned dark, which I’m learning to recognize as a curse of an overactive imagination. What if my father had murdered Henrietta? What if he had been lurking about? He obviously had a gift for disappearing at will. Why not appear at will just as easily?
I forced that thought away mainly because I couldn’t come up with a workable motive. He hadn’t snuck in and drowned her because she might tell me about their romantic interludes. And, carrying that farfetched premise to its end, he’d have had to be the one who attacked me. Even my resentful, bitter mind couldn’t imagine that.
So I shelved those gruesome thoughts. I didn’t have a high regard for Dennis Elliott, and I didn’t want him to fall further than he already had. If that was possible.
Maybe his disappearance and Henrietta’s death were related.
Or maybe they weren’t.
In the world of the investigator, I would need to prove those two knew each other, then confirm without a shadow of a doubt that they’d been romantically involved.
Did I want to? In the end, would it matter?
I drove into Glenkillen with an hour to spare before taking tea with Bridie, so I drove to the inn and parked. Everything was snow covered and decorated for Christmas, which was only two weeks away. I paused outside the Whistling Inn to imagine the lackluster Christmas awaiting me back in Chicago. Then I opened the door and entered the inn.
“Janet Dougal is back,” Jeannie said from the reception desk. “And playin’ the part o’ royalty in me best suite at this very moment.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I’d wonder if ye hadn’t. It’s all aboot town.”
What would Jeannie have to say if she knew that she’d supplied at least one of Janet’s alibis, the one proving that Janet hadn’t attacked me at the hospital, the one leading to the inspector’s own moment of doubt and her release?
“Is Patricia Martin here?” I wasn’t sure exactly how I would go about confirming the rumors that had been uncovered, but asking her was the logical first step. I’d have to do it gingerly, dredge up more tact than I usually practiced, or she’d react as Florence had the day I’d quizzed her. This would have to be done delicately.
I was almost relieved when Jeannie said Patricia wasn’t in. “Stormed out o’ here like she’d been launched from a cannon when she found out aboot that other one being let loose. I almost went with her tae voice me own complaint. Tae think I have to put up with the likes o’ her again!”
Back in my car with time to spare before tea, I called Vicki.
“How are you feeling?”
“About the same, but I’m going crazy lying around. The Internet is back up and running, so I did some research from the sofa.”
I heard Sean in the background. “Against me orders, I might add.”
“Ignore him. He’s trying to do what’s best for me without understanding exactly what is best. Anyhow . . .”
After a split second of fumbling around, Sean’s voice came on loud and clear. “Yer car is missing and ye aren’t in yer cottage as ye promised. Ye haff no business givin’ me the slip. It isn’t safe and I took ye at yer word, not that that did me a bit o’ good . . .”
Vicki had seized control again. “You’re being careful, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ve done some digging. Dennis Elliott was on a passenger list, that much is certain. But he wasn’t on that flight.”
“That’s strange.”
“I’m still digging. If he was on a later one, I’ll find him. Good thing this happened so many years ago when lives weren’t as private. In today’s world, I wouldn’t have this kind of access. There’s a lot online to sort through.”
Vicki sounded excited in spite of her illness. She’d discovered she had a knack for historical research.
“Thanks, Vicki, I appreciate it,” I said, truthfully, although when she was better, we were going to have to have a serious discussion about some of her recent deceptions. She wouldn’t see them as such, but I did. I’d lost some trust in her. Which was one of the reasons I chose not to confide in her regarding the visit to Katie in Inverness.
If I shared with her, she’d tell Sean, and then Jamieson would find out in record time. The inspector would chastise me for interfering in his investigation, and he might well put someone more capable than Sean on my tail.
For now, I was going it alone.
If and when I had anything concrete, I’d turn all that I’d learned over to the inspector.
I drove over to the estate of the Dougal chieftain for a little tête-à-tête.
Except instead of a private audience with Bridie, she was holding court. Again.
Archie met me at the door. I hadn’t seen him since the tasting, had only spoken to him on the phone once, but he greeted me with the warmth and charm of an old, dear friend. I was immediately suspicious, remembering well that this man had a good motive for murder.
“You’re expected,” he said with a smile, leading me down the hall. My heart sank as I heard all the voices ahead. A private chat with Bridie about my family would have to wait.
And, yes, I recognized the irony. I’d been doing my best to avoid the subject, not that my best had been good enough. But I’d put a lot of effort into it. Now I desperately wanted to learn as much as I could.
Go figure.
CHAPTER 27
Leith Cameron rose and came forward to greet me while Archie returned to a chair next to his wife, Florence. “What are you doing here?” I asked Leith quietly as he led me to a vacant seat to the right of his, the last one at the round table, which was mounded with sandwiches, biscuits, and savories. I counted seven place settings, seven of us for tea.
He leaned close and whispered in my ear. “Same as yerself. Doing Bridie’s bidding.”
The next few minutes were taken up with small talk, although no introductions were necessary. We’d been together Saturday evening when Henrietta’s body had been discovered facedown in a vat of whisky.
The only one missing was Katie Taylor, and I knew exactly where she was and why she wasn’t here. Someone had gotten very close and almost succeeded in killing the young woman. One of these guests might very well be responsible for that attack as well as the one against me.
Going around the table from my right, Bridie reigned from her position as perfect hostess. Next, a scowling, obviously distressed Patricia Martin. Up in arms about the release of Janet Dougal, no doubt. Gordon Martin sat to his mother’s right, his expression neutral. Then Archie and finally his wife with her standard knitted brow.
“Thank you all fer coming on such short notice,” Bridie said to the group. “I suppose everyone has heard about Janet Dougal’s disturbing rele
ase from custody.” She turned to me. “I’m afraid our tea fer two has grown by leaps and bounds, but it couldn’t be helped under the circumstances.” Her eyes darted to Patricia, implying that Henrietta’s sister had something to do with this gathering.
“It’s a travesty o’ justice,” Patricia said. Her anger was palpable. “That woman killed my sister!”
Bridie edged back in, and for the first time, I noticed how powerfully she commanded a room in spite of her slight form. “We . . . or rather Patricia . . . thought if we all got together, meaning those of us who were at the tasting that night, maybe we could work on a solution that puts Janet back in jail.”
“Where she belongs,” Gordon said, loyal to his mother.
“I’d like to know why that menace is running loose,” Patricia said, addressing me.
“I’m no longer part of the investigation,” I told her, relieved because I wasn’t sure what Patricia would have done to me if I’d been responsible for the present situation. I wasn’t about to recite the rules of law to her, either. She’d simply dismiss them as another example of foolish bureaucracy, on par with special constables.
“Janet Dougal was also at the tasting,” Gordon pointed out unnecessarily. “She should be here tae explain herself and offer an explanation fer what happened tae Aunt Henrietta.”
No one mentioned Katie. Good. Let them forget her. She’d been part of the décor for all they noticed her.
Leith gave me a light squeeze at my elbow. When I glanced at him, he winked. The grin on his face was standard Leith, but his eyes were serious. The wink was reassuring, though. He was the only one at the table who I could trust.
“We know what happened, Gordon,” Florence said, taking a finger sandwich from a three-tiered server, an indication to the rest of us to follow suit. “She killed Henrietta. Then had the nerve tae show up at the tasting and act like nothing happened. She’s a mental case.”
“And back on the fair streets o’ Glenkillen,” Patricia fairly shouted.
“Not on the street, actually.” Archie corrected her. “She’s been told tae keep a low profile, tae stay in her suite and out o’ trouble. The inspector told me when he rang up my mum this morning with the disturbing news that the woman had been released.”
Of course, Jamieson would have shown that consideration to the involved parties, advised them of his unpopular decision. I wouldn’t want his job for all the homegrown tea in Scotland.
I studied the tiered server closest to me and selected an egg and cress finger sandwich, with a future eye on a smoked salmon, lemon, and dill for my second.
“Delicious,” I told Bridie. “Who made all these wonderful treats?”
“Florence gets all the credit.”
I gave Florence an appreciative nod. Her scowl only deepened, and I wondered if she ever smiled and if she was still holding a grudge against me for our exchange of words early on.
I’d been alert to the group dynamics from the start in case anyone said anything that might be useful. This was the perfect opportunity to listen and learn. I went over the cast in my head. Archie and Florence were now free from Henrietta’s claim to remain on the estate for the long term. They gained by her death. Patricia, Gordon, and Bridie didn’t have any obvious rewards based on her death, nothing that I could determine anyway. Patricia and Gordon had lost a family member and Bridie had been deprived of a longtime companion. But images can be deceiving.
I reviewed what I’d learned about Patricia from Katie’s research. She’d had a difficult young adulthood, a poor home life, but she’d persevered and had a lot to show for her efforts—a son who seemed to be doing well for himself at the distillery, a husband with a successful career, a good life from what I could tell.
“I’m in the same inn as that murderess!” Patricia went on, and I felt another pang of sympathy for the inspector and the characters in this case he’d had to deal with. “Forced by the local authorities to stay in Glenkillen with a killer free to kill again. I should be allowed to return to Edinburgh. I could be next!”
“I doubt that Janet Dougal is some kind o’ serial killer,” Leith said, speaking up for the first time. “And our local authorities are the best in all o’ Scotland. The inspector wouldn’ta released her without sufficient reason tae do so.”
“Good God, man”—this from Archie—“ye aren’t suggesting that one o’ us knocked her off?”
“That’s a cold way of describing it,” Patricia said to him.
“I’m not suggesting that at all,” Leith said, “I’m tryin’ tae say that the inspector knows what he’s about.”
“Janet Dougal is obviously unhinged,” Bridie said. “She’s off her head. We’ve all seen examples of very bad behavior. Before we start off accusing each other, I believe with my whole heart that Janet Dougal killed our dear Henrietta. And Inspector Jamieson had tae let her go because he doesn’t have enough evidence tae charge her, is my guess. So . . . how are we goin’ tae help the inspector prove it?”
The table went silent as we ate, sipped, and thought.
“Someone called in an anonymous tip,” I said. “Somebody saw Janet leave the inn late Saturday afternoon.”
Everyone turned and stared at me. That comment hadn’t been a slip on my part. I intended to give the conversation a lively boost. I no longer had an obligation to secrecy, although I’d never do anything to jeopardize the case.
“She was seen coming here?” Bridie asked. “While I was having my hair done?”
“Around then, yes,” I said. “But the caller didn’t mention her destination, only that she’d been out and about.”
“Who saw her leave the inn?” Archie said, looking around the table. “It musta been one o’ us since no one else in the village knows her. If one o’ ye saw her, what direction had she taken?”
No one said anything for a minute. Then Leith said, “I didn’t know who she was until the tasting when we were introduced. And I’m guessing the same goes fer most o’ the rest o’ us.”
“That’s right,” Bridie agreed. “She just appeared at the tasting room door. Who of us had been introduced to her before then? Did any o’ you know who she was? Well, the person who tipped off the cops knew her, or else how would they have been able to recognize her?”
Gordon and Patricia exchanged glances and held them long enough that I picked up on the interchange. When Gordon looked away, he saw me watching and gave me a polite smile.
“There’s still the issue of how Janet knew about the tasting,” I added. “One of us must have told her.”
Again, no one offered up an explanation. I was disappointed and really wanted to go on to tell them the rest—that Janet claimed Henrietta invited her out before the tasting, then was turned away by the very woman who had extended the invitation. But I couldn’t break that confidence. Besides, the only other person who could vouch for or deny that statement was dead.
I asked Bridie, delicately rather than boldly, “You didn’t ask Janet out to the house prior to the tasting, did you?”
“I wouldn’t think o’ it. First off, she was pushy and demanding when she phoned, and secondly, I was preoccupied with the details o’ the tasting. So was Henrietta. Neither o’ us wanted her underfoot.”
“Henrietta didn’t invite her to the house or to the tasting?”
“A resounding no! Henrietta held her in less regard than I do!”
That passionate outburst brought a few more minutes of silence to the table. We focused on our tea and sandwiches. I helped myself to a toffee cupcake.
I had fresh doubts about Janet’s guilt. What if Janet Dougal had been telling the truth about her final confrontation with the dead woman? It may have actually happened the way she explained. She might have had a call from someone impersonating Henrietta with the intention of sending her speeding off to the estate. That someone could have been the killer, setti
ng Janet up to take the rap.
If true, that meant a clever murderer, sly and calculating.
My eyes wandered the room. No beam of light from above shone expressly on any one particular person. Except maybe Leith, who radiated his own source of heat. Our eyes met and he gave me that lopsided grin of his.
“I ought tae take matters into my own hands,” Patricia said. “And wring the truth out of her.”
“Ye need tae calm down, Mum,” Gordon told her. “And focus on carrying out Aunt Henrietta’s last wishes instead.” His eyes swept over us as he explained. “My aunt had very specific ideas regarding her ashes.”
“Ye aren’t dumping them here, are ye?” Archie said. “Ye aren’t scattering them at the distillery? I dislike the idea o’ people’s ashes thrown willy-nilly.”
“Only a little in the gardens,” Patricia said. “Bridie doesn’t have a problem with that.”
“It’s only fitting,” Bridie said. “Ye wouldn’t think it now that winter is upon us, but the gardens are lovely and Henrietta spent hours sittin’ out there.”
The party broke up soon after that. Everyone departing, subdued compared to earlier. Besides the sadness of the subject matter, I guessed that everyone was stuffed to the gills and needed naps. I knew I did. But I hung around. So did Leith.
“I’d like a private word with Eden, young man,” Bridie said. “Ye can wait outside fer her, if ye wish. It won’t be long.”
“I’m on my way tae get my daughter fer a few days away,” he said, his Scot blues trained on me. “Ye take care o’ yerself.”
When he was gone, I withdrew the sketch from my purse, unfolded it, and handed it to Bridie.
She studied it at length, wiped her eyes several times, and said, “It brings back memories, it does. It’s a mighty crest, one o’ great honor. Ye should be proud tae carry the Elliott name.”
Proud? I hadn’t considered anything honorable about my name. Having Bridie feel it was special was something I hadn’t considered. At least my grandfather had lived up to her larger-than-life image of what a gentleman should be. “Do you recognize this?”