08 - The Highland Fling Murders

by Fletcher, Jessica; Bain, Donald

  No one said anything. Finally, Seth Hazlitt spoke up. “I agree with Jessica. I’m stayin’, too.”

  “I’ll get to work on a security plan right away,” Mort said.

  “Forget your security plan,” Ken Sassi said. “I suggest we all try to put the murder out of our minds and get on with our vacation. This is a beautiful place, blessed by nature. I didn’t bring all my fishing gear for nothing. Right, Jess? You and I have a date on a river.”

  I smiled. “We certainly do, Ken.”

  George asked, “Will anyone be leaving? If so, I’ll start making travel arrangements straight away.”

  The only person who responded to George’s offer was Jed Richardson, who said, “I’m sure you all agree that Alicia and I had a pretty big scare back in London. I’m over it, but I think Alicia here might not be.” He looked down at her. “If you want to leave, honey, I’m with you.”

  She looked up with moist eyes and said, “No, Jed, I’d like to stay.” To us: “We’ll have a good time, won’t we?”

  “We sure will,” Susan Shevlin said. “That’s what we’re here for.”

  “Let’s eat,” Mort said. “That salmon looks right good. Don’t it, Seth?”

  “Ayuh. That it does.”

  Forbes reappeared behind the bar, and we relaxed as we ate and drank.

  “Where’s Pete and Roberta?” Seth asked.

  “In their room, I believe,” George said. “They slept in this morning, and pretty much stayed there all day.”

  “They’re missing the food,” Mort said. “I’ll go rouse them.”

  Realizing that Cabot Cove’s radio station owner and his wife weren’t there caused me to wonder where the other two couples were, the producer of horror films, Brock Peterman and his wife, Tammy, and Dr. Geoffrey Symington and his wife, Helen. I asked George.

  “The doctor told me this morning that he was spending the day at the Wick Historical Society.”

  “Oh?”

  “ ‘Research into something,’ he said. ”The Petermans disappeared all day, showed up a few minutes before your group came back from their tour. They and the Symingtons have paired up for dinner in town.”

  “Strange combination,” I said.

  “My thought exactly. Jessica, thank you for rallying your friends to stay. I would have hated to see them go. More important, I would have hated to see you go.”

  “I can’t blame them for being concerned.”

  “Nor can I. Do you think your sheriff friend will actually concoct some sort of security plan, as he calls it?”

  “Probably. Mort rises to every occasion, not always the right way but meaning well.”

  “Rodden tree and reid threid.”

  I laughed. “And what does that mean?”

  “Put the witches to their speed, Jessica. Sheriff Metzger might include in his security plan some amber beads and horseshoes, place some of each outside your bedroom doors each night. Supposed to be an effective deterrent to witches and warlocks.”

  “Should I suggest it to him?”

  “No.”

  There were two hours before dinner, and everyone drifted to their bedrooms. George and I went to his office, where we’d met with Constable McKay earlier in the day. George offered me a glass of single-malt scotch, Old Pulteney, distilled and bottled in Wick. I declined.

  “A pleasant brew,” George said, pouring himself a small amount in a snifter bearing the Sutherland Clan crest. “After the events of the day, I rather think I’m entitled to it.”

  “You’re entitled to it no matter what the events of the day have been.”

  “Thank you for that vote of encouragement, Jessica.” He tasted the scotch, smacked his lips, and said, “Well, dear lady, what do you think now that you’ve had a day to ponder Daisy’s murder?”

  “What makes you think I’ve been pondering it?” I asked.

  “Haven’t you?”

  “Of course I have. I’m being facetious. I think that even though reason should prevail, there is something terribly strange going on in Wick. I mentioned that we’ve had murders in Cabot Cove. Not many, but a few. The difference is—and I decided not to make the point with the others—the difference is that those murders didn’t involve witchcraft, or allegations of it. No pitchforks in the chest. No crosses carved on throats. Just plain old run-of the-mill murders. Jealousy. Greed. Ambition. A shot from a gun. The thrust of a kitchen knife. Poison in the tea.”

  “Or in the scotch?”

  “Or in the scotch. The point is, there’s never been anything mystical about murders in Cabot Cove, Maine. But this is so different, George. And as much as I dismiss as folly and overactive imaginations the notion of ghosts and witches, I must admit I’ve felt a certain chill up my spine since arriving at Sutherland Castle.”

  “The lady in white.”

  “Yes. And now this. George, can I ask you a direct question, one that might put you on the spot?”

  “You know you can.”

  “Do you personally feel we’re in any danger by staying here?”

  He looked at me for what seemed a very long time, finished the scotch in his snifter, placed the empty glass on the desk, and sat up straight. “Jessica,” he said, “if I thought you, or any of your friends were in danger, I’d have you on a bus for Inverness within the hour, and I’d sell this castle to the first person with a check.”

  When I didn’t respond, he added, “Believe me?”

  “Of course I believe you, George. Thank you for being direct with me.”

  “I intend to be direct at all times, Jessica. For instance, I will not allow this week to pass without us having our day together—alone!”.

  “And let me be direct by saying that you can count on it. By the way, did you ever contact the gillie about a day on the trout stream for Ken and me?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. Rufus Innes is a fishing legend in these parts. Old, craggy, crusty, and irascible. But the best guide in Scotland. He’ll take you out day after tomorrow, if that fits your schedule.”

  “I’m sure it does, but I’ll check with Ken. Time for me to get ready for dinner. Thank you, George, for being so reassuring. Just having you around will give everyone a sense of safety and—”

  The woman’s scream reverberated off the castle walls, even pierced them to reach our ears. George leapt to his feet and out the door, with me in close pursuit.

  We ran up the main staircase to find Charlene Sassi standing on the second-floor landing, her fist rammed into her mouth, her eyes wide with fright:

  “Mrs. Sassi, what’s happened?” George asked.

  “I saw her,” Charlene managed to say.

  “Saw who?” I asked.

  “That woman. The one dressed all in white. And—”

  “And what?” George asked.

  “There was blood on her chest. God, it was awful.”

  George and I looked at each other. And then Charlene fainted, going first to her knees, then pitching forward onto her face.

  Chapter Ten

  George and I helped Charlene to her feet, brought her into her room, and sat her in one of a pair of matching upholstered chairs by the window. George handed her a glass of water, which she eagerly drank.

  “Feeling better?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “Would you like me to call a doctor?” George asked.

  “No. I’m all right. Sorry I passed out like that.”

  “You were shaken,” I said.

  “I sure was. Jess, could we—?” She looked at George.

  “George, would you mind if Charlene and I had a few minutes alone?” I asked.

  “Of course not. I’ll be in the hall if you need anything.”

  As he opened the door, the voices of others who’d responded to Charlene’s scream were heard. The closing door shut out questions they hurled at George.

  “Can I get you something, Charlene?”

  “No.” She sat up and grabbed my arm. “Jess, you saw her, too, didn
’t you?”

  “The woman in white? Yes. I mean, I thought I did. But I’m sure I didn’t.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I say that because I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “But I saw her, Jess. That means it—she—must be real.”

  “Charlene, ghosts aren’t ‘real.’ ”

  “I know that. That’s what’s really scary. She wasn’t real, yet she was. Who is she?”

  “She isn’t. What I mean is—well, George talks about her as being a descendant of the Scottish witch, Isabell Gowdie.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “What?”

  “He acknowledges her?”

  “I don’t think he really acknowledges her, Charlene. You don’t know George as well as I do. Beneath that dour Scottish exterior is a kidder. I think he likes to talk about the woman in white because it gets a reaction.”

  “She’s a descendant of that Scottish witch who was killed back in the sixteen hundreds, the one who had a pitchfork jammed in her chest, and a cross carved on her neck?”

  “Charlene, I—”

  “And another relation of hers was killed the same way twenty years ago? And Daisy—poor, pretty kid—Daisy gets it, too?”

  “Why don’t we forget about it for a few minutes, Charlene.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “No, it’s not easy. It’s just that when I thought I saw her, I reminded myself that there isn’t any such thing as ghosts, and got over it.”

  Charlene removed her hand from my arm and turned away.

  “Charlene, are you angry with me? Did I say something to offend you?”

  She faced me again. “You sound so cold and callous, Jess. That’s not like you. You make me out to be somebody who’s acting foolish, who—what did you say?—who can’t get over it like you did.”

  This time, it was my hand on her arm. “Charlene, I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just trying to be helpful, and said the wrong thing in the process.”

  She managed a smile. “I know, Jess. You’d never be deliberately cruel. And you’re right. I thought I saw her, that’s all. I thought it.”

  “Do you know what George says?”

  “What?”

  “He says that if you tell someone to not think of purple elephants, that’s all they’re able to think of.”

  “That’s funny.”

  “Go ahead,” I said. “I dare you to not think of pink alligators.”

  She shut her eyes tightly. “I won’t,” she said. “I will not think of pink alligators.”

  “What are you thinking of, Charlene?”

  She opened her eyes. “Pink alligators.”

  We both giggled.

  “Feeling better?” I asked.

  “Much.”

  “Where’s Ken?”

  “He went outside to practice his casting.”

  “I should do the same. George has arranged for a guide for us day after tomorrow.”

  “Good. Ken’ll love that. Go ahead, Jess, back to your room. I’m fine.”

  “Okay. See you at dinner?”

  “Yup. No ghost takes away this gal’s appetite.”

  As it turned out, Dr. Symington and his wife, Helen, joined us for dinner. When asked why they weren’t dining in town with the Petermans, Helen Symington said only, “A most unpleasant sort. We prefer your company this evening.”

  By the time we’d gotten through another splendid meal prepared by Mrs. Gower, tension levels had diminished. We deliberately talked about everything other than Daisy Wemyss’s brutal murder, evading the grim issue that would certainly have put a damper on the evening. We even joked once or twice about the lady in white. “She” came up over a dessert of chestnut cake with orange and cardamon sauce, and strong coffee, causing Dr. Symington, who as usual said little during dinner, to take center stage. He spoke slowly and deliberately in his clipped British accent, sounding very much as though lecturing a class of students.

  “This alleged lady in white,” he said, “and the reported sightings of her, clearly indicates an apparition of the first magnitude. The term apparition comes from three sources—the Middle English word apparicioun, the Old French term apparition, and the Late Latin apparitio.”

  “That may be true,” Seth Hazlitt said. “But no matter what you care to term it, Doctor, two real live women have seen this apparition.”

  “They think they’ve seen her. We each have an inborn level of suggestibility. It is my assumption—no, allow me to be more specific—my dose observation of the two women in question, Mrs. Fletcher and Mrs. Sassi, convinces me that they possess a heightened sense of suggestibility, perhaps a four on a scale of one to five.”

  “Excuse me for disagreein’ with you,” Mort Metzger said from the other end of the table, “but you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. Mrs. Fletcher isn’t suggestible at all. Not one bit. That’s why she’s so successful. She’s a cool and collected woman who doesn’t see things that aren’t there, especially dead women dressed in white.”

  Dr. Symington listened patiently, his elbows on the table, his narrow chin cradled in his clasped hands. When Mort was finished defending my suggestibility level, Symington said in the same measured tones, “Perhaps you are right, Sheriff. You are a sheriff, are you not?”

  “That’s right. Cabot Cove, Maine, the U.S.A.”

  A thin, sardonic smile crossed over Dr. Symington’s lips. “And as such, Sheriff Metzger, you are undoubtedly a student of human behavior, particularly aberrant behavior.”

  Mort frowned.

  “Bad behavior,” Seth Hazlitt said, helping.

  “That’s right,” Mort said.

  “And you’ve questioned many witnesses, I assume, who report to you what they claim to have seen at the scene of a crime.”

  “Of course. What are you gettin’ at?”

  “What I am getting at, Sheriff, is that many of those witnesses you’ve questioned have told you things they claim to have seen, yet really didn’t.’

  “I don’t know about that,” Mort said.

  “Sure you do,” Peter Walters said in his deep, sonorous voice. “You’re always complaining, Mort, about how witnesses can’t be trusted to remember things accurately, even if they saw the event an hour ago.”

  “That’s different,” Mort countered. “Doesn’t involve ghosts.”

  “But it’s the same principle,” Susan Shevlin said. “Don’t you see that—?”

  The debate went on for another half hour. I didn’t participate content to take in the views of others at the table.

  We’d no sooner retired to the drawing room for the ritualistic after-dinner drinks when Brock and Tammy Peterman arrived. He appeared to be agitated. He was perspiring, and spoke in a staccato rhythm. “Inspector Sutherland, I’d like to talk with you privately.”

  George, who’d been chatting with Ken Sassi about our upcoming fishing expedition, expressed his annoyance at being interrupted by scowling.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Peterrman said, “but you’ll love this. Trust me, man. You—will—love—this!”

  I wasn’t completely successful in suppressing my smile at George’s discomfort. But he played the proper host; he led Peterman from the drawing room, leaving behind Tammy, who looked bewildered. She and her husband were dressed in matching chartreuse jumpsuits of a crinkly material. Sneakers adorned his feet. She wore spike heels.

  I went to her. “How was your dinner?” I asked.

  “What? Oh, okay, I guess.”

  “Where did you eat? I might want to try it myself while we’re here.”

  “I don’t know the name. The food was greasy.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Your husband seems very excited about something.”

  She made a sour face, as though something distinctly unpleasant had been placed in her pretty mouth. I took it as a signal to pursue conversation elsewhere, and left her alone. She grasped the opportunity to depart the room.

  Dr. Symington
sought me out. “Mrs. Fletcher, I understand that not only did you see the castle’s resident lady in white, she spoke to you.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. I mean, I thought I heard something. But then again, the birds outside were chirping away, and there was the wind. No, I don’t think she said anything to me. In fact, I’m certain the entire episode was a figment of my imagination.”

  “I’m not certain that’s true, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Oh?”

  “I would like to conduct an experiment with you, if I may.”

  “An experiment? I don’t think so. Is that why you’re here, Dr. Symington? Doing research on ghosts?”

  “Precisely. I’ve been aware of Sutherland Castle’s reputation for being haunted for many years. It took me this long to gather enough preliminary data to finally examine it in person.”

  “This castle is famous for being haunted?” I asked.

  “No more so than dozens of others in the British Isles. But this area is unique, I feel, because a number of its residents cling to the old ways and traditions, ancient myths and beliefs. Witchcraft, ghosts, warlocks, and the like seem to live on here, at least with a core group of people. That, coupled with the castle’s reputation, provide someone like me with a fertile field of research.”

  “You mentioned an experiment you wanted to do with me. What is it?”

  “You seem to be the sort of person who might attract this woman in white. Perhaps she feels you are someone who would be sympathetic to her.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “You called what I thought I saw to be an apparition. Now you speak of her as being real, someone who would find me a sympathetic character.”

  That tiny smile again. “Apparition? Real? That is the point, Mrs. Fletcher. One doesn’t know with any certainty, does one? Perhaps we can find out. As a writer of murder mystery novels, I assume you have a heightened curiosity about such things.”

  “As a writer, yes. But not necessarily when it involves me personally.”

  George Sutherland and Brock Peterman reappeared.

  “Where’s Tammy?” the film producer asked.

  “She went to your room,” someone replied.

  He left immediately.