The Blue Hackle

by Lillian Stewart Carl

  “Don’t you dare cloud up,” she told the sky, a dome of radiant Celtic blue—the Scottish flag, the sea around the Highlands and Islands, Alasdair’s eyes, ever changing, always profound.

  She eyed the desk and a filing cabinet, and her palms itched. This was her chance to snoop. But Fergie wasn’t a suspect. Over and beyond his non-heavy breathing, she found it hard to believe his transparent face could hide any plot deeper than the next day’s menu.

  As for who was a suspect, well, it was a matter of who had an opportunity—or seemed to, right now. Diana. Nancy. Rab. Lionel Pritchard. Colin Urquhart. Any or all of them might prove to have an alibi, something that Tina herself lacked. Scott and Heather were long shots. They were in the area when Greg was killed, but how could one of them have gotten the dirk from the front hall before they’d ever set foot in it?

  Or the deed could have been done by someone from the village or elsewhere on Skye, or even by some sort of Australian mafia hit man working not under the sign of the Black Hand but of the Red Kangaroo.

  Since Alasdair wasn’t there to snort at that one, Jean snorted at herself and sat down at the plywood computer desk in the corner. When she started to type “Greg MacLeod” into the blank box of the search engine, she barely got as far as “Greg MacL” before a second box appeared, holding the complete name plus the word “Townsville.” Whoa. That meant, didn’t it, that Fergie had already done the same search?

  Yes. Of the list of hits, laboriously summoned over Dunasheen’s phone line, several were tinted a been-there, done-that purple.

  Maybe Fergie checked out all his potential guests. Why? Out of curiosity? Caution? Cupidity, with those balance sheets not adding up? Maybe it was Diana who’d checked. But then, her office was at the other end of the house, near the postern gate cloak room. Yesterday Fergie had made a joke about how they e-mailed each other.

  Jean skimmed the hits, finding a few words about the MacLeod Art and Artifact Gallery, which was, as yet, an empty storefront near Townsville’s famous aquarium. She found a few more words about St. Columba’s Museum of Religious Life and Art, ditto. Greg had intended the two places to share the same roof, then. He’d evoked a saint beloved by his ancestors, Columba, known as Columcille in the holy man’s own Celtic language, rather than choosing an internationally known one like St. Andrew.

  Jean clicked on the “images” button and drummed her fingers while the molasses-like connection delivered photos of Greg’s broad, blunt face and rectangular smile. In one shot, he had his tuxedoed arm around an elegantly dressed woman who was not Tina. Not that there was anything wrong with that—the photo was linked to an article about the opening of a posh resort in Cairns.

  Still, Jean couldn’t help but wonder if, like the Krums’ holiday, the MacLeods’ was intended to repair a faltering relationship. If so, well, jealousy was a time-honored motive for murder. Although if Jean had wanted to murder her spouse—and she’d had her moments with both prior and anticipated spouses—she wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble and expense of doing so on the other side of the world. The fact that Tina had effectively trapped herself at the scene implied her innocence.

  Jean moved on to the same factoids Miranda had already turned up, the Waltzing Matilda sale and the donation to the Bible History Research Society. That name made another bony rattle in the overstuffed cupboard of her brain. So, since she had a world of reminders at her fingertips . . .

  Well, look at that. The Bible History Research Society was also already in the search queue. Its website trumpeted its support of archaeological digs exploring not just the historical roots of the Bible, but intending to prove its literal reality. And good luck to them, Jean thought. Stories didn’t have to be literally real to be profoundly true.

  That was where she’d heard of the BHRS, at an academic conference she’d attended in her former, pre-Great Scot, pre-Alasdair life. One speaker, an archaeologist, had been incensed by the rise of the BHRS and similar organizations, no matter whether they were earnest amateurs or predatory con men. Their rejection of rigorous scientific method detracted from genuine archaeological studies of the Holy Land and encouraged the trade in illegally dug, to say nothing of faked, antiquities.

  Just as the human mind always wanted to believe, Jean thought with a polite nod toward Ganesh, the human mind always came up with ways of exploiting belief.

  Stealing a piece of paper and a pencil from Fergie’s desk, Jean jotted down the URLs and several notes about gallery, museum, and BHRS. Police minions would turn up the same evidence. Whether Alasdair and his pro-MacDonald sensibilities heard it from her or from them didn’t matter. Facts were facts, especially when they pointed to Greg’s interests coinciding with Fergie’s. And then there was Scott Krum and his auction house.

  She ran a quick search on “Scott Krum + auction + Maryland” and established not only that he was who he said he was, but also that Fergie had looked him up as well.

  Surely Fergie wasn’t planning to sell the Fairy Flagon. Things couldn’t be that bad, financially . . . wait. He was going to show her and Alasdair something else, something special for her article. Scott was right, valuable collectibles could be tucked away in the corners of an old house like Dunasheen. Was Fergie sitting on something so valuable it would overwrite the red on those balance sheets with black?

  Jean slumped down in the chair. Yes, she believed in synchronicity, the way coincidences happened with what seemed like intention aforethought. But when it came to murder, when did coincidence become enemy action? While she sure didn’t want to think of Fergie as the enemy, maybe he was capable of hiding dark schemes and devious plots. Or maybe it just hadn’t occurred to him that whatever he was up to was dark and devious—not, at least, until Greg died.

  Fergie’s e-mail program probably wasn’t password-protected, but she wasn’t going to snoop or sneak or slink around any further than she already had. Let the pros do that. Even so, maybe, just maybe, she’d finally grasped the end of a thread—threads, plural—leading to that elusive motive.

  She set the computer to standby, folded the paper into her pocket, stood up—and noticed the portrait hanging beside the door. In three steps she was across the room and looking up at it.

  The plaque on the frame read, “Seonaid, Lady Dunasheen, 1799–1822. Beloved wife of Norman MacDonald.” And yes, oh yes, the painted face was that of the Green Lady. Except in life, roses bloomed in Seonaid’s cheeks, the light of a summer’s afternoon shone in her smile, and the fabric of her gown glowed a rich emerald green. This painting wasn’t one of Fergie’s. The touch was both more precise and more spirited, the colors subdued, the drape of the gown and the shawl expertly rendered, and the shadows subtly realistic. It had been painted from life, by a professional.

  Odd to find an aristocratic woman in that time period with a Gaelic name. Jean sounded out the word beneath her breath. Sho-NADE, the Scottish version of Irish Sinead. Janet, in other words. Almost her own name.

  She was not surprised to see that Seonaid had died, relatively youthfully, the same year the church was completed and Tormod was transported for murdering the laird’s wife. For murdering Seonaid MacDonald. No wonder her spirit lingered, if not actively seeking revenge, then at least not finished with this plane of existence. And yet, as Alasdair had pointed out—twice, now that she thought about it—there was something irregular about Tormod’s fate. Perhaps his trial had ended in that peculiar Scots verdict of “Not Proven,” the sort of ambiguity that had shaped much of Scotland’s turbulent history. The sort of ambiguity that shaped real life.

  “Thank you,” Jean said to the image, “you know, for the stairs.” She heard a distant voice or three, but none of them issued from Seonaid’s painted lips.

  Onwards.

  Jean didn’t always learn from experience, but last night’s encounter had taught her where the tripping stane was located. She breezed on past it and into the Charlie suite, where she found Dougie hiding beneath a chair looking like a pincushio
n with eyes. “What’s wrong?” she asked, with a tremble of her own hackles.

  The bedroom door was shut. She’d probably left it open. That was something she was still learning, to shut doors. After all, she’d lived most of her life in a climate where air movement was something to be encouraged, not stopped.

  One step, two, three . . . she threw open the bedroom door.

  Oh. The bed had been made, fresh towels laid out in the bathroom, and the wastebaskets emptied—not to mention Dougie’s litter box. Now that was service. “Nancy or Rab, Diana or Fergie, somebody made you get off the bed, is that it? Poor little guy.”

  Petting and crooning eased the serrated edge of Dougie’s backbone and produced a rumbling purr. That was no doubt soothing to the moggie, but did little for Jean’s own nerves. They felt like telegraph wires humming with a torrent of dots and dashes, signals hiding a message she didn’t know how to read. Or had Morse code been supplanted with emoticons and text-speak?

  Like, she thought, CU. See you.

  It wasn’t only young people who texted. Anyone could have used that abbreviation. Just because the handwriting on the card looked like a man’s didn’t mean it was Colin’s. There was another question for Gilnockie to grind through his mill.

  Still sitting on the floor, Jean checked the phone. There was no message from Miranda, not that she expected one. No need to rattle her gilded cage. Jean punched Michael and Rebecca’s number, and the man of the house answered almost before the phone had rung.

  “Hey, it’s me,” said Jean. “Would you believe the sun is shining on Skye?”

  “I’m having it on good authority that it does from time to time,” Michael replied. “I’m also having it on good authority—as in the morning Scotsman—that you’ve had a murder at Dunasheen.”

  The Scotsman had probably not indulged in “stately homicide,” but you never knew. “Yes, I’m afraid so. And as these things go, the skies may be clear but the case is murky. Heck, even the cops are a bit murky.” She gave him the abstract but omitted her conclusions, such as they were so far. “And Fergie says Linda’s welcome to the MacDonald family cradle.”

  “Ta for that, then. Rebecca’s saying something about buying a baby pen, as we’ll be needing one in any event, but just now she’s had to go in to work.”

  “Another meeting about a fake collar? What’s all that about?”

  “Holyrood Palace was by way of paying a small fortune for a collar, one of those elaborate neck ruffs, supposedly worn by Mary, Queen of Scots. Then one final test showed that it’s a genuine sixteenth-century piece, but Mary’s monogram was sewn onto it recently.”

  “Didn’t they check what the thread was made of?”

  “Oh aye, no fools they. But the villain’s worn down the thread and the needle holes, then smeared the lot with dust from a medieval dig or artifact. He’d have his money if Rebecca hadn’t questioned the style of the monogram. That’s when they sent the piece to us, we set it beneath a high-resolution microscope, and abracadabra, there’s polyester molecules beneath the dirt, likely picked up when the faker’s thread was stored next to the polyester sort.”

  “Well done!” Jean said. “You see that a lot these days, a perfectly respectable artifact tarted up with an inscription or something linking it to a famous person or event, whatever.”

  “Tarting up the price,” said Michael.

  “Speaking of museums and artifacts, our murder victim, Greg MacLeod, was starting up a museum of religion and an art and antiquities gallery in Townsville, Australia. Have you heard of him?”

  “No, not a word, though I can ask about if you like.”

  “Yes, please. I bet you’re familiar with the Bible History Research Society, though.”

  “Oh, aye. Well-intentioned folk, unlike some in the business, but you’re minding what that road to hell is paved with . . . There’s the baby waking from her nap. We’ll be seeing you for the wedding, Jean, unless you and Alasdair go losing your nerve and elope. Or are put off by the murder.”

  “No, we’re committed, to the wedding and the investigation as well. Happy New Year!”

  “A good one to you when it comes,” he returned, “in spite of it all.”

  Committed. Yeah, that was about it, no matter which meaning you attached to the word.

  With a groan, Jean regained her feet and punched the number of Hugh Munro, musician extraordinaire and her next door neighbor. Alasdair’s neighbor, too, now.

  “Forward into Scotland’s past!” answered Hugh’s voice, like a shot of single malt, brisk with a subtle sweetness.

  “Hi Hugh, it’s me. And yes, The Scotsman is right, we’ve had another murder.”

  “I hadn’t seen the paper this morning, Jean, I’ve just now tuned up my fiddle and rosined my bow for Hogmanay. A murder, you’re saying? Ah, bad luck.”

  Again Jean delivered the abstract, this time finishing, “You’ve toured Australia, haven’t you?”

  “Oh aye, the lads and I played in Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane, and Perth. No Townsville, though I did meet a grand fiddler with a group named Kilbeggan based there. We exchange e-mails from time to time, bits of music and the like.”

  “Could you ask him—her—a couple of questions about Greg MacLeod and his gallery and everything?”

  “Her,” said Hugh. “Trying to work round Inspector Gilnockie, are you? I was thinking that was Alasdair’s role.”

  “No, I’m trying everything I can think of to get this case settled, solved, whatever, before the wedding.”

  “I’ll be doing what I can, then. Sorry this had to happen.” Hugh went on, “You’re also phoning to ask about the work at your flat, I reckon.”

  “Well yes, except I bet no one’s working today.”

  “No one’s there the day, no, but last night they punched through the wall between the two sitting rooms and began clearing away the older kitchen. Loads of grease round the cooker, the old lady must have been frying up every night.”

  “She was. I could always smell it. Better than eating it, I guess. Thanks, Hugh. I know your concert tonight will bring in the new year properly.”

  “I’ll be obliged to play the newer tune for ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ not Burns’s own, if I want a singsong. A good year to you and Alasdair when it comes, and I’ll be there with my clarsach to play you down the aisle on Sunday.”

  “Happy New Year.” Jean plumped down on the window seat. Okay, she’d set her partners in crime to asking questions—and she hoped to heaven they and the official crew found some answers by Sunday. If she’d thought about it, she could even have had Michael contact his opposite number at the Scottish Services Museum . . .

  No. How could they identify the owner of the missing dirk when they didn’t know his name? Just because a few threads in this tapestry of an investigation were starting to form warp and weft, if hardly pattern, she had no way of knowing if the Royal Scot dirk-owner was one of them.

  She’d been hearing voices for a minute or two, she realized, and swiveled to look out the window. If she’d been a painter like Fergie, she’d have reached for her brush and colors.

  The black peaks of the Cuillins pierced the far horizon, the only sharp angles in the entire landscape. Coppery, rust-gold-green hills, dozens of little waterfalls making shining stripes down their flanks, rose behind the white-painted houses of Kinlochroy. The village clustered between the hills, the deep blue of the loch, and the stone wall marking the boundary of Dunasheen Estate. A pitted asphalt driveway looped between the garden wall and the grass sloping down to the loch, avoiding several large if windblown trees.

  Jean imagined a coach-and-four rolling up an earlier incarnation of the drive and decanting Queen Victoria and her tartan-swathed ghillie, or marching redcoats searching for Bonnie Prince Charlie, a royal on the lam, or Vikings pulling boats up onto the shore.

  Today’s equivalent of Viking berserkers, reporters with cameras and microphones, were still clustered outside the front gate. Halfway along the drive,
just past the manager’s cottage, Fergie, Pritchard, and both the dogs herded the Krums toward the house. As they drew closer, Jean could make out their expressions, Fergie bewildered, Pritchard angry, Heather resentful. Scott looked as though he’d been sucking on a pickle. Dakota darted up to the main garden gate, pushed it open, and was brought to heel by her father with the same gesture Pritchard used with the dogs.

  No rest for the curious. Jean grabbed coat, scarf, gloves, and phone, made her apologies to Dougie, and charged out of the room.

  Chapter Twelve

  Down the stairs she went, passing the tripping stane with neither physical stumble or psychic ripple, and emerged onto the porch just as the motley crew arrived.

  “Why can’t I walk in the garden?” asked Dakota, her high-pitched voice less whiny than simply weary.

  No one replied.

  “Mrs. Krum,” Fergie said, his bewilderment puckering into hurt, “I really don’t think it’s necessary to . . .”

  “What? You have something against freedom of speech? You’ve got that here, too, don’t you? Don’t you think honesty is a virtue?” Heather shot a glance at Scott that was obviously intended to be the equivalent of a dirk between the ribs. “I mean, we’re setting an example for the kid here.”

  Yes, thought Jean, trying to hover invisibly beside the protuberance of the porch, you’re setting an example for the kid. And right now the kid was looking from face to face but finding nothing for her there.

  “You have to consider,” Pritchard explained, “whether your honesty is going to have a detrimental effect on others. Telling the reporters that Dunasheen serves poor food, which is, after all, your opinion—”

  “That steak pie thing last night, the meat was overcooked and the dough was heavy, that’s all I said. And the house is cold and the bed lumpy. I’m just saying.”

  “Heather,” said Scott, “Lionel here’s got a point. What if the reporters go off and repeat—”