The Blue Hackle

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The Blue Hackle Page 27

by Lillian Stewart Carl


  Dakota peered back again. “Tina. That’s the Australian lady, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Why’s she in the hospital?”

  It was just as well the Krums had been wandering around Kinlochroy and missed the entire episode. “There was an accident,” Jean said, “and she fell, but she’s going to be all right.”

  Her words plummeted into the room like Tina from the window. Heather said, “You told us the man had been hurt in an accident and it turned out to be . . .”

  “Heather,” said Scott.

  “I’m just saying,” she retorted. “What’s going on here, anyway?”

  “Madam,” Alasdair told her, “that’s what we’re after finding out.”

  The door opened and Diana swept in. “Well now, isn’t this jolly,” she didn’t ask but stated, with the air of Captain Picard on the bridge of the Enterprise saying, “Make it so.”

  “Is that a vintage dress?” Heather asked.

  “Why yes, it is.”

  “Nothing like recycling other people’s old stuff, is there?”

  Diana’s smile froze rather than faltered. “More wassail, Mrs. Krum? What are you having, Mr. Krum? Dakota?”

  Dakota started to speak but Heather beat her to the draw. “No more for her. The kid’s gonna spoil her dinner with that fruit stuff. Isn’t it time to eat yet? All they had at the pub in the village was chips and peanuts, no Buffalo wings or regular food, you know.”

  Fergie didn’t know—or so his blank expression attested. But he rallied quickly. “Yes, yes, let’s go on to the dining room. I’m sure Nancy’s almost ready to serve the starter course.”

  With one last look into the Coffer, annotated by a slow nod, Scott rounded up his womenfolk and followed Diana toward the dining room.

  Fergie stayed behind to stow the Coffer and the Flagon in their cabinets. Locking the doors and slipping the key into the breast pocket of his jacket, he turned to Jean and Alasdair and said, “Well then. All might not be lost after all.”

  “Did Krum have himself a look at the Coffer when he visited last autumn?” asked Alasdair.

  “No, he wasn’t familiar with either it or the Flagon. Or so he said,” Fergie added, his hand raised in a placatory gesture. “I know, I know, if Pritchard did show Krum the Coffer when he was here, then maybe he wanted it badly enough to bump off, to rub out—” Jean heard the quotation marks in his voice. “—a rival from Down Under. Pity, that. If the two men had started bidding against each other—but no, no, mustn’t be greedy. A man’s life has been lost. Dinner?”

  “We’ll be along straightaway,” Alasdair told him, and, after Fergie had made his exit, “Greg was a freelancer. Krum works for an auction house.”

  “Yep,” said Jean, starting for the door, “Scott would need more than Fergie’s ‘what-ifs’ to justify buying the Coffer. He’d need tests.”

  They dodged as Rab plunged through the doorway like a wild boar on his way to a china shop. Despite his barrel chest and short legs, his suit was as well cut as Scott’s, even though its rusty blackness evoked mortuaries rather than art auction houses. “We’ve seen the back of Pritchard, have we?”

  “Aye, that we have,” said Alasdair.

  “Good riddance. We’ve got more than enough incomers as it is.” Rab shut the doors between the library and the drawing room, switched off the lights and the CD player, then seized the drinks trolley and with many a clink and gurgle charged back through the doorway and trundled off in the direction of the Great Hall.

  “What was I saying about the hospitality business and strange bedfellows?” Jean asked as she and Alasdair proceeded to the dining room.

  He opened the door, releasing a warm gust of air and multiple luscious smells, and said nothing about Rab. He said nothing about anything, even as he seated Jean at the table and took his own seat beside Dakota. Tina’s chair had once again vanished.

  Fergie and Diana began batting the conversational shuttlecock up and down the table. Rab reappeared to wield the corkscrew and fill the wine goblets, heavy glasses etched with age as well as designs. Nancy trekked back and forth between table and kitchen, carrying plates and bowls in dishtowel-protected hands. Tonight her ruffled apron covered black silk pants and a silver lamé tunic that complemented her rhinestone earrings and her gray hair, which was adorned by a sprig of holly.

  Jean didn’t know whether it was Diana’s vegetable-carving abilities or Nancy’s culinary talents, but even the usually humble neep bree, or turnip soup, was delicious. Probably each bowl contained the equivalent of a stick of butter, but what the heck, it was New Year’s Eve. The end of another year. The end of the most remarkable year of her life.

  Fergie said, “Hogmanay stems from ancient rituals and customs determined by the working of the land and the passing of the seasons.”

  “Such pagan customs lingered here in the western isles,” said Diana.

  Heather sucked in her soup. “This is turnip? You’re kidding.”

  Nancy swept in with the next course, haggis rounds on diced potato. “What?” asked Dakota.

  “Boiled guts,” Scott told her, and excavated his potato from beneath the brownish, browned patty without touching it.

  Considering the tarted-up stunt-cooked haggis—haggis pakora, haggis wonton—Jean had recently encountered, Nancy’s no-frills version of the national dish was tasty indeed. And not because Rab kept cruising by topping off every glass except Dakota’s and, Jean noted, Diana’s.

  The child looked from Jean to Alasdair and back as though assessing the prospect of such elderly people holding a wedding. Or maybe her thoughtful looks indicated a siblinghood of the ghost-allergic, one with its own passwords and secret handshakes. Maybe she was simply bemused by the stately home lifestyle, since her gaze rested on Rab and Nancy as long as they were in the room.

  Fergie began recounting the legend of Rory MacLeod, his lady love, the vengeful sword, the leap from the tower into death and a local, at least, fame.

  “Mom,” Dakota said, making the one-syllable word into two, “we haven’t been to the old castle yet.”

  “And we’re not going,” Heather returned. “It’s dangerous.”

  “We’ll walk down the path toward it,” suggested Scott. “You know, far enough to take a photo.”

  With a heavy sigh, Dakota’s gaze fell to her boiled guts.

  Jean offered Scott a narrow-eyed look. He and Heather did not have proper alibis for the time of Greg’s murder. What they had was a motive of sorts, competition for the artifacts needed to support a high-maintenance lifestyle. He’d parked the car near the place Pritchard had found the card. When he’d brought in the luggage, his muddy boots left prints on the tile floor of the entrance hall . . . Well, Gilnockie and Young were teleconferencing over the preliminary crime scene reports right this minute. Maybe they’d match tread and mud.

  At Fergie’s signal, Rab stepped up to the sideboard and sacrificed yet another bottle of wine on the altar of conviviality. Jean turned her studious gaze to him.

  Pritchard’s alibi might depend on the testimony of his female friend, but he also had the backup accounts of other pubgoers. Rab and Nancy, though . . . Well, Jean reminded herself, first Thomson had seen Rab in the pub, then Fergie had seen both him and Nancy in the kitchen, cooking dinner.

  The heritage industry wasn’t Rab’s thing, any more than incomers were his thing, but how did that translate into a motive for murder? Diana was right—why would she, or Nancy or Rab, or even Colin, the collateral suspect, murder their golden goose? Fergie could still auction off the Coffer, but most buyers would ask questions. Even the BHRS needed their pump primed by Greg’s archaeological dirt, and they were more credulous than curious.

  Rab whisked away her empty plate and Jean tuned back in to hear Alasdair making a few remarks about his own childhood holidays in Fort William. Fergie contributed an account of a London Christmas. Jean offered several snack-sized tidbits of historical gossip. Dakota asked about the prog
ress of the murder investigation, and was quelled right smartly by her parents.

  Nancy delivered salmon in pastry, lamb bundles and vegetables and sauces, and eventually a dessert of Tipsy Laird, layers of cake and custard laced with sherry and topped with cream. Dakota took one bite and made a face.

  Jean was not a fan of sherry, either, although it was palatable when spiked with sugar and cream. Nibbling, she wondered whether Nancy could cook anything that didn’t include some variety of full-fat milk product.

  Heather scarfed the lot, laughing merrily, while Scott egged her on with double-entendres. Fergie smiled on them all, benignly if a bit out of focus, embodying the laird who was tipsy.

  Although, Jean thought when she followed Diana’s example and stood up, she should speak for herself. This time the walls shimmied, so that the faces of all the warriors seemed to nod and wink.

  Alasdair glided around the table to take her arm. “You’ve got no head for drink, have you now,” he murmured.

  “I know, I’m a disgrace to my Celtic ancestry,” she replied, and stepped gingerly into the corridor.

  W.P.C. McCrummin and an unidentified male colleague stood outside the old kitchen, sipping from mugs. Playing the role of tenants, Jean supposed, although their roles wouldn’t be reversed—laird, lady, tenant, servant, or local hermit, a murderer was a murderer was a . . .

  No more alcohol, she informed herself, and let Alasdair’s firm grasp guide her back down the corridor to where Fergie had thrown open the doors of the Great Hall.

  This was Jean’s favorite room of the house, from the intricate plaster whorls of the high ceiling, one pendant dangling an iron lantern, past the silky wood railing of the musician’s gallery and an array of banners that Fergie had bought from a movie prop company, to the somewhat threadbare Hunting MacDonald tartan carpet that matched the backs and seats of several chairs. Here was where the wedding reception would be held. Was scheduled to be held.

  Tonight a massive Yule log burned in an even more massive fireplace, beneath a plaster MacDonald crest, the galley sailing a sea that looked like soot-stained billows of whipped cream. The pungent odor of juniper overwhelmed that of smoke and furniture polish—burning juniper on New Year’s Eve being another good luck custom, not a slap at the MacLeods.

  “Whoa,” said Dakota. “Cool! It’s like a princess’s palace!”

  Heather leaned against Scott with a grope, a giggle, and a nyahh! glance toward Diana, who ignored them. Thank goodness the Krums turned goofy, not even more combative, when they’d been drinking. Jean even forgave Heather for asking Alasdair, “So what do you have on beneath your kilt, huh?”

  Smiling thinly, he replied, “And what are you wearing beneath your dress, Mrs. Krum?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she replied with another giggle.

  “Liqueur?” Fergie made his approach to the trolley, intent on observing a very genuine and much-honored Scottish tradition, that of sliding well lubricated into the new year.

  Jean took a glass of fizzy water with a slice of lemon. So did Alasdair, designating himself the resident adult—as though Diana wasn’t already playing that part. Fergie tuned a radio to dance music, accordions pumping and fiddles flying, and organized word games and charades. Soon he no longer looked as though he was blowing air into a balloon with a hole in it. Even Diana acted as mistress of the revels with more than good grace, with actual laughter.

  Rab drifted in, collected empty glasses, drifted out again, the roll in his step indicating he was observing liquid tradition himself. Nancy placed platters of digestive biscuits and cheeses on the refectory table and guessed at a few riddles. A throbbing soprano on the radio sang Burns’ “Ca the Yowes to the Knowes,” leading to Fergie’s exposition on Scots dialect. Scott and Heather tried a few impromptu dance steps and Dakota inspected the cinematic banners—the raven of Odin, Cernunnos with his horns, the White Horse of Rohan and the White Tree of Gondor from The Lord of the Rings. “Cool,” she said again, and grabbed a chocolate cookie.

  Every now and then, Jean noticed, Alasdair retired into his own thoughts, no doubt trying to wrestle a solution not only to murder but to Fergie’s dilemma by sheer will and brain power. Every now and then she faded out, too, as though the signal on her mental radio station momentarily weakened.

  It wasn’t that she was exerting brain power. She’d done that. Now she was tired and her stomach slightly queasy, not only from the rich food and drink but also from digesting Fergie’s pie in the sky. The gaiety began to seem forced, as though everyone was waiting for something—for Gilnockie to appear and call them all together with his solution to the case, for Alasdair to leap forward and finger the culprit . . . Well, duh, they were waiting for midnight. The witching hour.

  She caught a movement in the musician’s gallery and looked sharply up. But no, her thumbs weren’t pricking and nothing wicked stood there, not even Seonaid. Colin leaned on the railing, smiling wistfully down at Diana—until he realized Jean had seen him and faded back into the shadows.

  Neither of them had alibis for the time of Greg’s murder, either. That they’d admitted to having no alibis was surely a point in their favor. On the other hand, Colin had said he was at the lighthouse and Diana had said he wasn’t, so who was telling the truth? And never mind Young’s overzealous persecution, she had a point—what if Colin had for some reason flipped out, just as he had in the pub—he’d have to have taken the regimental dirk, though . . .

  Alasdair considered the polyester zebra skin draped over a chair, a fabric carrot glued in its mouth. Jean couldn’t speak for him, but she was reminded of Tina and her leopard skin coat and her dead husband, the symbolic ghost at the feast.

  Fergie checked his pocket watch—Jean expected him to launch into “I’m late, I’m late,” but no, his ears weren’t long enough—and began to explain the custom of first-footing. A dark-haired man arriving first in the new year was good luck, a fair-haired one was bad luck, and how this custom came about was anyone’s guess, except it was an old one perhaps dating back to the Viking raids—Vikings, blond, right? And not to worry, P.C. Thomson, the darkest-haired man in the area, would be doing the honors in just seven, six, five . . .

  From the house came a cacophony of chimes. From the radio came a peal of bells. “Happy New Year!” exclaimed Fergie, positively glowing with bonhomie and booze, and launched into a chorus of “Auld Lang Syne.”

  His surprisingly strong, mellifluous voice was interrupted by the ring of the doorbell in the far reaches of the house. In the further reaches of the house, the dogs began to bark.

  “Come along now, step lively!” Fergie led the procession into the entrance hall and paused dramatically, his hand on the door handle. Diana guarded the rear. Rab, Nancy, Colin, and the two constables gathered in the hall.

  The doorbell rang again. The door rattled beneath several strong blows. And suddenly Jean felt a qualm. “Don’t open the door,” she wanted to call, but no, that was silly, it was only Sanjay Thomson bearing gifts.

  Fergie threw the door open. A gust of icy air fluttered Heather’s dress and Scott’s tie, and they shrank together, Dakota caught between.

  The man who stood on the doorstep had a square, blunt, deeply furrowed face, tanned into leather by years of sunburn. Uneven strands of blond hair streaked with gray shifted uneasily above a wide forehead and bloodshot gray eyes. He huddled into his quilted coat, one hand grasping the handle of a small suitcase.

  Even Diana stared. The color drained from Fergie’s face with an almost audible gurgle.

  The stranger’s lips parted over crowded teeth and the light caught silvery whisker-stubble on his block of a jaw. “Sorry. It’s a bad time, I know, but I’ve just arrived in the U.K. I’m Kenneth MacLeod.”

  Jean felt her own jaw drop down to her chest and static explode in her brain. Kenneth MacLeod. Not Allan and Fergie Mor’s old colleague . . . Alasdair pushed his way to the front of the pack, his severe expression good as a warrant card fo
r claiming precedence. “You’re Greg’s brother.”

  “Yeah, I’m Greg’s brother. Tina rang me, told me what happened. Now she’s gone down as well.”

  “I’m afraid so. Your sister-in-law is in hospital . . .”

  “Sister-in-law?” Kenneth repeated, with a guffaw that came close to being a sob. “No, mate, she’s my wife. And I’ve come to take her home.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  After a long moment tingling with chill, Fergie choked out, “You’d best come in, then. I’m Fergus MacDonald.”

  Everyone took two or three paces back as Kenneth stepped over the threshold.

  Before Fergie could shut the door, Sanjay Thomson came loping out of the—what had happened to the clear night? The murk had returned, veiling the stars and casting the grounds into impenetrable shadow. “He stopped in at the police house. I’ve brought him up to date. Sorry, I meant to arrive first, but he got ahead of me on the drive.”

  “No worries,” said Fergie, as blatant a social lie as Jean had ever heard, and the door slammed.

  Alasdair squared his shoulders. In his best cool and correct voice, like dry ice, he told the Krums, “The party’s over. If you’d be so good as to go to your room.”

  Heather and Scott stared in bleary bewilderment but for once said nothing. Steering Dakota before them, they headed upstairs. “But Mom . . .” The child’s thin voice receded onto the second floor.

  “Tea, please, Nancy,” Alasdair ordered, and pulled the phone from his sporran. “Mr. MacLeod, I’m Detective Chief Inspector Alasdair Cameron, retired. Step this way, please.”

  Kenneth looked around suspiciously, but trudged along without speaking. So did Jean, following the men to the incident room. Behind her Diana issued further decrees: “Colin, Rab, and I will tidy up the Great Hall whilst Nancy makes the tea. Father . . .”

  Phosphorescent computer screens glowed like Scrooge’s ghosts between the dusty vaults and the ashy hearth of the old kitchen. Jean sat down, if not out of the way then not obtrusively in it. Removing her glasses, she massaged their imprint in her nose and temples and thought, January first. Never Day. Ne’er Day.

 

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