by Hannah Reed
“This is yer vehicle, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Aye,” Oliver said, his voice trembling. “Ye know ’tis. But I can’t imagine what she was doin’ in my van. Eden can vouch fer my whereabouts, if need be.”
I could? That was news to me. I could only vouch for the time it took to walk back from the trial field and dismantle the tent, but that was it. Although Oliver would hardly leave Isla’s dead body in his own vehicle, if he were her killer, would he?
I gave Jamieson the slightest of headshakes after Oliver offered me up as his alibi, and the shrewd inspector picked up on it and replied with his own imperceptible nod.
“Dinnae be going far,” the inspector said to Oliver, who ducked back into the group with obvious relief for the temporary reprieve.
My eyes slid to Isla’s mourning husband, still being clucked over by the women, but more in control now, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands and blinking as though that simple act might turn back the clock to an earlier time when his wife was still alive.
More sirens had been drawing closer and now an ambulance pulled into the lot, followed by a nondescript black sedan that came to rest on the opposite side of Sean’s car. Several men were inside. The driver’s window slid down.
“Forensics,” the inspector said to me, then called to the man in the driver’s seat, “Give me some time with the body. I’ll let ye know when I’m through.”
The man nodded and turned off the motor while they waited. The ambulance crew gathered at the back of the ambulance, also waiting.
“The rest of ye are tae remain exactly where ye are until released,” the inspector called out. Then to Sean, “Get names and contact information along with preliminary statements. And if any one of them saw anything suspicious I want tae speak with them immediately. Afterwards they are free tae go, but let them know I’ll be calling on each o’ them individually. All but the husband and the owner of the van. They stay.” Before Sean turned to go, the inspector addressed him, “And I suppose ye have nothing o’ value tae add aboot what transpired here?”
Sean jerked as though he were guilty of something and trying to hide it. “Nothing that would be o’ interest, no,” he said, then quickly changed the subject. “Lily Young and Andrea Lindsey arrived in the van with Oliver Wallace. I’m guessing they’ll need a way tae get tae their homes.”
“See if Harry Taggart can offer Lily a ride. I expect Andrea will want tae stay with her brother. I’ll see tae them. The camper van stays where it is, too, while we sort this out.”
When Sean went off to carry out his orders, the inspector muttered something unintelligible under his breath, whether directed at the situation or something else entirely, I wasn’t sure. Until he said, “Our special constable sat at the same table as this woman, and he didn’t see or hear a thing? Didn’t suspect any goin’ ons? Why am I not surprised?”
I sensed it was my turn. I hadn’t suspected anything, either.
“What about you?” Inspector Jamieson asked, his eyes piercing and sharp as always. “What can ye add?”
“I hadn’t spoken with Isla since morning when you saved me from her clutches before the trials began,” I said. “And she wasn’t around when Oliver and I packed up the tent. Then . . . we went to put the tent in the van . . . and”—my voice cracked; I cleared my throat—“and she rolled out when I opened the door. She must have been up against the back of the door . . . no, for sure she was, otherwise she wouldn’t have fallen out like that.” I realized I was babbling, so I stopped. What more could I offer?
“It must have been quite a shock.”
“Yes, it was. I tried to keep everyone away, but Bryan rushed up and fell to his knees . . .” I couldn’t go on without showing my distress in a less than professional way. After all, I’d been recruited for a law enforcement position that very day, and I wasn’t about to behave as Oliver and Sean had. Bogus title or not, I was going to make a decent showing.
“Ye did just fine,” the inspector reassured me despite the fact I hadn’t been able to secure the scene. “And what was the police trainee doing during all this?”
I couldn’t rat Sean out, especially after all the work he’d done preparing for his entrance exam into the police college. One critical word from his superior could have an adverse effect on his chances of success. How could I say he’d almost passed out? Besides, he’d recovered and gone on to follow my instructions. So maybe he wasn’t destined to handle murder investigations. Sean might be better suited for patrolling streets and traffic direction and other duties that come with less risk of encountering violence.
The inspector gave me a hard look.
“Special Constable Stevens did a fine job,” I decided to say.
The inspector snorted.
Then I remembered Sean and Vicki discussing how Sean claimed to have put Isla in her place, pulling rank with his uniform, and how Vicki said she’d disappeared after that. At the moment, Sean was as dazed and shocked as the rest of us, but it was possible that he might also be feeling guilty for his confrontation with the dead woman.
The exchange of words that drove Isla away from the welcome table could hardly be an important piece of the puzzle, but I figured Sean was already on the inspector’s bad side. I’d give him until tomorrow to recount the incident on his own. If he hadn’t offered up that information by then, I’d do it myself. Which would only set him up for more of the inspector’s wrath.
Sean chose that moment to address those remaining at the scene. “If ye know something, if ye saw something and yer afraid to step forward, contact Inspector Jamieson or myself anonymously. Ye can be safe in the knowledge that nobody will ever know ye spoke tae us.”
“See! He’s doing a great job,” I said, cheerleading. But only got a shake of the inspector’s head in return.
After that, he used a small camera to take photographs of the crime scene from several angles, then he drew on a pair of gloves, squatted next to Isla, and examined her body. Next he rose and peered into the back of the van.
“I need a torch,” he called out and someone came forward with a flashlight. After shining it inside, he seemed satisfied and turned over the crime scene to the forensics team. Then he asked to speak with Vicki privately.
“I want Eden with me,” she said instantly. He granted her wish without question or comment.
“Earlier today I personally witnessed ye standing outside Sheepish Expressions with that same color yarn,” he said to Vicki. “So I would appreciate yer statement regarding said yarn and whether ye can substantiate that the murder weapon is in fact from yer dyed lot.”
Vicki’s lip trembled, but her voice was steady as she said, “I want my solicitor present.”
I glanced sharply at my friend, a bit perplexed at her request.
The inspector said, “Ye aren’t under any more suspicion than the rest o’ them. However, we need tae clarify what details we can and as quickly as possible.”
“It’s okay to cooperate with the inspector, Vicki,” I reassured her. “You aren’t in any trouble.”
After acknowledging my words of encouragement she said, “It’s the same color, but I can’t tell you for sure if it’s from one of the skeins I dyed for my yarn club.”
“It is,” I told her gently. “You didn’t come close enough to identify it, but I did.”
“Was the victim a member of this club o’ yers?” Jamieson wanted to know.
“Isla?” Vicki shook her head. “No.”
“How many o’ these kits did ye make up fer distribution?”
“Thirty-five.”
“Thirty-five!” He sighed then said, “I’ll be speaking with ye further at a later time.” Then he turned to me. “That will be all,” he said. “Yer free tae go with Vicki.”
And just like that, I was dismissed. I watched him walk over to the grieving husband, more than
slightly confused.
I stood where I was for a moment, uncertain. Didn’t Inspector Jamieson plan to hold me to the volunteer constable commitment I’d made earlier? Especially since we now had an actual crime on our hands? Hadn’t I been the one to discover the body and take charge? Didn’t I deserve to be included in the investigation?
More important, I had to stop and ask myself, did I really want to be involved? Part of me was relieved that the inspector didn’t want or need my help. But there was another part that yearned to be included in solving the case.
I decided it was best to stay with Vicki. Silently, each of us deep in our own thoughts, we walked up the lane, back to our routines, to the two adorable Westies, and to our simple lives that would carry on. Unlike Isla Lindsey, we’d wake up tomorrow to live another day.
For the first time, I noticed the night chill. Judging by the descending darkness, I realized that it must be close to eight o’clock. The trials had run a bit later than three because of the tie between John and Bryan, but still . . . almost five hours had passed between then and now.
Vicki and I parted ways at the main house. I walked down a path that led to my cottage, unlocked the door, and flipped the switch on the wall beside it to illuminate the sitting area. All was in order. Exactly as I’d left it early this morning, which seemed so very long ago.
Tomorrow, I’d drive into Glenkillen to the pub where I’d tweak the book just a little more. And I’d force myself to check those e-mails I’d been avoiding like the plague, hopeful that Ami would decide Falling for You wasn’t a complete disaster, that it was as salvageable as the cottage I occupied, that it had potential, and she hadn’t been wrong to back me.
But thoughts of my book were completely pushed out of my mind by thoughts of the murder. I tossed and turned for most of the night, analyzing the case from every angle.
I assumed that Isla’s death hadn’t been planned in advance—who would intentionally choose to commit murder with so many people coming and going? So it naturally followed that something must have happened at the fund-raiser to precipitate her death.
But what? Certainly it had to be more compelling than an extreme dislike for a disagreeable woman. It had to have been big, at least in the mind of the person who decided that her death was necessary. Someone felt seriously threatened and believed she had to be stopped then and there. What could that possibly have been?
What did you say, see, or do that got you killed, Isla Lindsey? You had a sharp tongue. Did it get you in mortal trouble this time?
Passage on this earth is a short journey. We need to live it well and fully. Too bad it takes a tragedy such as this one to remind us of that. I intended to listen to the message and get on with my life, wherever it would lead me next.
CHAPTER 6
The following morning, dark clouds moved in and the temperature dropped significantly from the highs we’d been enjoying. After a few months in the Highlands, I was prepared for anything Mother Nature threw my way, and had learned to dress in several layers. I’ve often heard the Scots say, “There’s nae such thing as bad weather. Only the wrong clothes!” And it was so true.
I walked toward the farmhouse to see how Vicki was doing. Her Westies, Coco and Pepper, were outside. They rushed over to greet me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jasper slink into the barn.
“You two have been pestering the cat again,” I said, giving each of them a few strokes before Coco spotted a red squirrel up the lane, and the two dogs tore off in hot pursuit. The first time they’d run off, I’d been beside myself with worry. But Vicki had assured me that they wouldn’t go far. And she’d been right. They always came back from their escapades.
I’d slept later than usual, the events of the day before having kept me awake well into the early hours of the morning. Judging by the dark circles under Vicki’s eyes, she hadn’t slept much, either.
“Seven degrees outside, I’ll be guessing,” Vicki said as we sat at her kitchen table, eating porridge.
“Seven?” I asked.
“If that,” she added.
I still wasn’t used to defining weather in terms of Celsius. My mind was set on Fahrenheit.
After a moment of confusion, I did the conversion, sloppy at best, and guessed it to be about forty-five degrees. I could live with that; I was from Chicago. Cool temperatures didn’t bother me.
“Sean’s wishing he’d held his tongue,” Vicki was saying now. “Instead of telling Isla off the way he did. Maybe she wouldn’t have gone off by herself and would still be alive to see this Sunday morning.”
“We both know Sean isn’t to blame,” I reassured her, taking a sip of the instant coffee she’d set before me. What was it with the Scots and all the instant coffee? The taste was growing on me, although it would never replace the real thing.
“Of course, I agree,” she said, “but try telling that to him. And what about me? My very own handmade yarn, the instrument of her death!”
“The only one to blame is the person who did this awful thing,” I insisted.
Vicki slid out of her seat, picked up our empty bowls, and placed them in the kitchen sink. “And what if the killer turns out to be one of my yarn club members? I can hardly bear thinking about it.”
“It’s not necessarily one of the members,” I said. “It could have been anybody, really. Maybe this person just snapped and picked up the nearest weapon.”
“And it just happened to be one of my skeins of yarn?”
“It’s possible,” I said, sounding more confident than I felt. It would be so much better for Vicki if the murder weapon had been randomly selected rather than planned. Not that it would matter to the dead woman, but maybe it would help Vicki move past blaming herself for something she had no control over. “Isla wasn’t a member of the club,” I continued. “So it wasn’t hers. Obviously. But someone else could have placed their kit in the van, like one of the other members of the welcome committee who rode over with Oliver.”
Vicki shook her head as she took her place again at the table, looking forlorn. “Oliver isn’t a member. Neither is Lily Young. If you remember she was after me to give her one but she wasn’t on the list. And she didn’t sway me, as you saw.”
“Oh, right. Yes.” My memory of the beginning of the day must have still been clouded by the terrible ending, which was all I’d been able to think about. “Andrea Lindsey, then.”
“Sean did tell me that she picked hers up. But hers isn’t missing.”
Vicki sighed. Poor Vicki. Poor Isla Lindsey, and everyone else this tragedy has touched.
While I sat at the table, grasping for a different theory to calm Vicki, trying and failing to hatch up a situation where someone other than one of the yarn club members could have been the murderer, I glanced out the rain-streaked window and saw Leith Cameron drive up in his white Land Rover with Kelly beside him.
“Come inside, the both of you,” Vicki said in greeting when they came to the door. “I’ll put on the kettle again.”
“I can’t stay long,” Leith said, wiping his feet on a mat at the entryway. “And my boots are wet. I’ll stay by the door.” As usual, I couldn’t help noticing that the man was as handsome as men come, Scottish through and through. “I’m on my way tae the harbor fer a fishing expedition. I only have a few minutes.”
I glanced at the window again, seeing more streaks of rain on the pane. Since Glenkillen is on the coast of the North Sea with a beautiful harbor and is also close to several rivers including the River Spey, fishing is a popular tourist attraction. Leith guides his paying customers out to sea to catch cod, haddock, and prawns. Sometimes they prefer the river when it’s running high and fast, where they wade through the rushing current, casting for salmon.
“But it’s pouring rain outside,” I said.
“It doesn’t get much finer than this,” Leith said. “And September is one o’ t
he best weather months fer fishing in the Highlands. Only eleven other months are as good.” He paused to give me a playful grin. “Right now, I have plenty o’ work tae keep me busy. A day like today is perfect fishing weather. Now if I could only convince my customers tae lay off the booze.” He shook his head in wonder. “It never ceases tae amaze me when they show up first thing in the morn carrying enough alcohol tae inebriate a whale. The waves will be rollin’ and the wind blowin’ something fierce once we get out past the firth into the open sea. Sometimes those blokes drink a wee bit too much whisky, turn green as seaweed, and spend the rest o’ the trip hanging over the edge being sick. It feels wrong to take their money.”
“Sounds like a picnic,” I said, my tone light and intentionally implying the exact opposite. Fishing for a living sounded idyllic on the surface, but it obviously had its less pleasant undercurrents.
“Why don’t ye come along?” Leith grinned again, addressing me. “Ye’d be as safe as on dry land with me at the helm.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I replied. “I’d be perfectly safe as long as the boat didn’t capsize, or some giant wave didn’t come along and swallow your boat. I’ve seen The Perfect Storm, you know.”
“I suppose I can hardly blame ye after I made it seem so appealing,” he joked, then dropped the playfulness and said, “I heard what happened yesterday after I left and wanted tae check on the two o’ ye.”
“It’s a shame is what it is,” Vicki said, answering first. “I know I shouldn’t speak poorly of the dead, but leave it to the likes of her to do damage to all around her. If the woman had to go and get herself murdered, you’d think she could have done it elsewhere and with something other than my very own yarn!”
“She was difficult,” Leith agreed. “But didn’t deserve what she got. Nobody deserves that.”
“That’s the truth, and I should be grateful for my own healthy breath,” Vicki said, with a gentler tone.