“Got a moment?” George asked me.
“For you? Always.”
“In the mood for some fresh air?”
“Sounds inviting.”
We went outside to the castle’s front courtyard. A dense fog had settled over everything. It was like standing in a cloud, an eerie feeling. I could see into the drawing room through a narrow window. Everyone inside was busy chatting; Roberta Walters’s loud and distinctive laugh was heard. I smiled. These were my very good friends, and I was happy the latest intrusive events—Daisy Wemyss’s murder, and Charlene’s alleged sighting of the lady in white—hadn’t put a permanent damper on their vacations.
“Come,” George said, taking my hand and leading me across the grass and through the castle ground’s main entrance. We crossed the road and stepped into a tiny park, with a bench and a small bridge crossing a narrow running stream.
“A pretty spot,” I said. “I wish I could see more of it.” The fog obscured everything beyond four feet.
“Tomorrow,” George said. “When the fog lifts.”
“What did Mr. Peterman want?” I asked.
“He wants me to pay for a camera crew to come here from Edinburgh, and put them up for a few days.”
“Why?”
“He claims to have met someone in town who claims to be”—he laughed—“who claims to have all the answers to the murder of Isabell and Evelyn Gowdie, and poor Daisy.”
“Do you think—?”
“No, I do not. This chap also told Peterman, at least according to him, that he knows the witches of Wick, and can arrange for Peterman to meet with them for filming purposes. For a price, of course.”
“Of course. Will you pay for a camera crew?”
“No. Peterman is a volatile chap. Very angry that I declined to help him financially. Threatens to leave and use his next film to—how did he put it?—to ‘trash’ Sutherland Castle. On the telly.”
“How dare he?”
“My sentiments exactly. I wish he and his wife would simply leave.”
“Any chance of that?”
“We’ll see. Are you all right?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“All these abominable things happening since you arrived. Certainly, not what I intended your holiday to be.”
“Someone once said, ‘Life is what happens while you’re making other plans.’ I subscribe to that philosophy.”
“The songwriter John Lennon.”
“Is that who said it?”
“I believe so. How firmly do you believe in the sentiment behind those words, Jessica?”
“I don’t know.”
I realize—you’ve expressed it quite clearly to me—that your plans do not include another man in your life.”
“I wouldn’t say that, George. There are many men in my life.”
“I don’t mean men you simply know. Friends. I mean a man who might fill the same role your deceased husband, Frank, did so ably.”
“Oh.”
“I won’t beat around the proverbial bush, Jessica. You know I be keen o you.”
I smiled. He’d said that to me before, and I liked the sound of it. “I know,” I said. “And I’m fond of you, too, but in a different way than when Frank was alive.”
“It’s been a long time since you and Frank enjoyed life together,” he said.
“A very long time.”
“People shouldn’t be alone for too long. Not good for them.”
“I probably agree with you,” I said. “But, in my case, I don’t need to be as close to a man as I was to Frank in order to feel I’m not alone. It’s hard to explain, George. I have a wonderful life. I’ve been blessed. I had many years with a wonderful man, who unfortunately died much too soon. I’ve been blessed as a writer. I never dreamed when I started that my books would be best-sellers, and that I’d travel the globe to talk about them. I live in what I consider a heaven of sorts, Cabot Cove. I love it there, love the people, some of whom are with me on this trip. It’s a close-knit community, each person caring about the other. With a few notable exceptions. Am I rambling?”
“No. Please go on. I have a feeling I’m about to hear the most elaborate explanation since meeting you of why my intentions are not to be realized.”
“I wish you wouldn’t put it that way,” I said. “It makes me sad.”
“Oh, no, no sadness, Jessica Fletcher, and I apologize for making you feel that way. I’m not a bloody schoolboy. I expect nothing from people except what they wish to give me.”
“And I’m not a bloody schoolgirl,” I said.
“Two graduates of life. You were saying?”
“I was saying that my life is idyllic. Full and fulfilling. I suppose if I were totally honest, I’d admit I am—”
“Yes?”
“I am afraid to change my life, George. It has nothing to do with any lack of feeling I have for you. To be truthful, I felt a spark the moment we met at Brown’s Hotel in London. Remember?”
I saw his smile through the fog. “The spark singed me, too, Jessica.”
“You questioned me regarding Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder. I recall exactly what you wore that day. And I especially remember our parting on the sidewalk after tea, and watching you stride away.”
“Hmmm.”
Marjorie Ainsworth had been the world’s reigning queen of mystery writers. I’d come to London to address a writer’s group, and was Marjorie’s weekend houseguest when someone stabbed her to death in her bed. The local authorities weren’t up to the task of solving the crime, and Scotland Yard was called into the case. Enter Chief Inspector George Sutherland.
“Any other fond memories of our first meeting?” he asked.
“Just that as I went back to the Dorchester, I kept thinking about you. Of course, those pleasant thoughts were mixed with concern about some of the questions you’d asked me. I was a suspect, and I knew it.”
“Only because you were there when Ms. Ainsworth was killed. Everyone was a suspect then.”
“As it should be.” I wrapped my arms about myself. “George, would you mind if we went back inside. I’m cold.”
“Of course. Aren’t you ever lonely, Jessica?”
“Honestly?”
“Nothing but.”
“No. My problem is finding the time to do everything on my agenda. I’m always working on a book. There are so many things in the house to tend to. I have my garden. And I’ve become obsessed with the labeling machines someone gave me last Christmas. I’m labeling everything in the house. My friends joke that they’re afraid I’ll label them when they walk through the front door.” I sighed and smiled. “No, George, I’m not at all lonely.”
“I’m pleased to hear that, Jess. May I make an important announcement before we go inside?”
“Of course.”
“You might not find it so important, but it’s something I’ve had a need to say to you for quite a while.”
“Yes?”
“I am in love with you!”
“But—”
“And as ae door shuts anither opens.”
“Translation?”
“We are never left entirely without hope.” He took my hand. “Come. We can discuss it at another time.”
Chapter Eleven
“Mrs. Fletcher, got a couple of minutes?”
Brock Peterman, dressed in a Hard Rock Café T-shirt, safari jacket, cargo shorts with numerous pockets, and alligator loafers, intercepted me on my way to breakfast the next morning.
“Yes?” I said. “What can I do for you?”
He motioned for me to follow him into a small room off the hallway. He was hyper, eyes darting every which way like tiny ball bearings in a fluid, his tongue working over his lips.
“You wanted to say?” I said.
“Yeah. Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I didn’t know what a big star you were when we were introduced.”
“Star? I’m not a star.”
“Sure you are. Big-time murder myst
ery writer. Best-selling books everywhere. I don’t read a lot. No time. That’s why I didn’t pick up on your name right away.”
“You don’t have to apologize, Mr. Peterman. I’ve never seen any of your movies. I’d like to get to breakfast. You said you wanted to talk to me about something.”
“Yeah. Look, you and I should pair up, you know what I’m saying? Here we are in this nuthouse of a castle, this Looney-Tunes town called Wick. You and I can make one hell of a movie about this place and the murders. You write the screenplay, and I bring it to the big screen.”
“Mr. Peterman, in the first place I don’t write screenplays. In the second place, this lovely castle is owned by my dear friend, Inspector Sutherland. In the third place, I find Wick to be anything but Looney Tunes. It’s a fine village, with good and decent people.”
He guffawed. “Yeah, right. Fine, decent people who go around sticking pitchforks into girls’ chests.”
“Mr. Peterman, thank you for your kind words about me, and for the offer. But I’m not interested. I’m here enjoying a much-needed vacation and have no intention of collaborating with you.”
“Wait a minute,” he said. “I found this guy in the village who knows all about the craziness going on around here. I can introduce you to him. He’ll give you enough material to write the screenplay, and a couple of books besides.”
“Mr. Peterman, I—”
“We could do this with Sutherland, your buddy. Maybe you can talk to him, convince him to bankroll a crew to come here. You promote your books. One of your friends says you travel all over promoting them. Promotion. That’s the key to everything. I can help Sutherland turn this dreary dump into a real winner. He’d be turning tourists away.”
I started to leave.
“Hey, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m talking megabucks. The silver screen. I can get this flick made if I have your name attached to it.”
“Sorry, but you’ll have to get ‘this flick’ made without me. Excuse me. I’m hungry.”
The conversation with Peterman caused me to be the last one of my group at the breakfast table. Everyone seemed in good spirits, including Alicia Richardson and Charlene Sassi. We were served by Mrs. Gower and a new face, a tall young woman with large bright green eyes, flaming red hair, and an abundance of freckles splattered across her narrow face. Her name was Fiona, and her ready smile and pleasant voice were a delightful counterpoint to Mrs. Gower’s stony and stem face.
“Where to today?” Seth Hazlitt asked as Fiona refilled our coffee cups.
“I haven’t decided,” I said. “Any suggestions?”
“Thought I might just stroll the village. Looks like a fat day comin’ up. Sun should shine.”
“Mind if I tag along, Seth?”
“Be my pleasure.”
I turned to Mort Metzger: “You and Maureen interested in some serious walking?”
He asked his wife, who indicated she liked the idea.
“We’ll go with you,” Roberta Walters said.
“Us, too,” said Susan Shevlin.
As we prepared to leave the castle to walk into Wick, Brock Peterman cornered me again. “Have any second thoughts, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“No. Well, let me ask you this, Mr. Peterman.”
“Call me Brock.”
“All right, Brock. I’d like to talk to this man in the village you say knows so much about local witchcraft.”
He fixed me in an accusatory stare. “You wouldn’t do an end run around me, would you?” he said, his tone indicating that’s exactly what he thought I was doing.
“I don’t make end runs around anyone, Mr. Peterman. Brock. But if you expect me to consider entering into a business relationship with you, you’ll understand my need, and right, to see just how reliable your sources are.”
“Yeah. Sure, I understand that.” He pulled a slip of paper from the pocket of his safari jacket and handed it to me. The name written on it was Evan Lochbuie. “He comes off like a crazy old coot, but I think he’s dumb like a fox. Runs a little boat from the docks, looks like a homeless bum—maybe he is—babbles on, drools a lot.”
“Sounds charming.”
“So you want to talk to him. Go ahead. You’ll see why I’m hyped up over this flick. See you tonight.”
“All set?” Mort asked when I joined him and the others in front of the castle.
“Yup. I have my walking shoes on, and my umbrella in my bag. Just in case.”
“Have fun!”
We looked up at a window where George Sutherland stood, waving. “Don’t tyne the road,” he yelled.
“What’s that?” Mort shouted.
“Don’t lose your way.”
“Can’t hardly do that,” Mort replied. “You can see this castle from everywhere.”
With that, we were off.
I ended up leading the pack, and decided to take a different route than I’d chosen during my first foray into Wick. It was a good choice; we were surrounded at every turn by natural beauty, walking at one point through a waist-high field of heather, looking down sheer black cliffs to the sea, waves crashing, hundreds of birds nesting in crevices or soaring into the sky that was, at once, menacing black and cobalt blue.
“Look over there,” Roberta Walters, our resident bird-watching aficionado, said, training a small pair of binoculars at a small plateau atop a huge rock jutting up from the water. “A redthroated diver.” She handed the binoculars to her husband, who confirmed the sighting while Roberta made a note in a bird book in which she listed every bird she’d ever seen.
We continued in the direction of town, looking back on occasion at Sutherland Castle, growing smaller as we distanced ourselves from it. But no matter how its visual dimensions decreased, its domination of the horizon continued to impress.
A golf course sat unused. Golf originated in Scotland, and the Scots’s love of the game is legendary. But from the looks of this course, golf wasn’t a popular sport with the citizens of Wick, or its surrounding villages and towns.
“Look at that,” Mort said, pointing to something in the distance. “Looks like an oil rig.”
“ ‘Course it is,” Seth said. “Didn’t you read your guidebook, Mort? There’s oil all up and down Scotland’s coast, includin’ right there offshore from Wick.”
Mort was offended at Seth’s tone; they often slipped into such minor arguments that never progressed very far because of their long and deep friendship. Usually, I find their spats to be humorous. But on this day, I didn’t want one to intrude into our pleasant excursion, and expressed my feelings.
“Just pointing out the obvious,” Seth said.
“No need to put me down,” said Mort, “just ‘cause I missed the part about oil in the book.”
“How can you miss it?” Seth said. “Everybody knows Scotland got rich ‘cause a’ oil.”
“Doesn’t look too rich to me around these parts,” Mort countered.
“And it doesn’t matter,” I said, summoning steel into my tone. “Stop it!”
Seth and Mort looked sheepishly at me. Mort grinned. Seth shrugged. And we continued walking until reaching the beginning of Bridge Street.
“How about stopping in that shop,” suggested Susan Shevlin. Its sign said it specialized in kilts and bagpipes. She’d been making notes ever since we left the castle. One thing is certain—Susan Shevlin is a hard-working travel agent, and her clients benefit from her conscientious approach whenever she travels.
The shop’s inside was musty and dimly lighted. Behind the counter stood an older man with unruly white hair, red cheeks, and eyes sunk deep into his face. He was doing something with a bagpipe when we entered, looked up, nodded, and went back to his chore. We browsed kilt outfits on manikins that looked to have been crafted in another era. The clothing draped on them was dusty, like the shop owner.
“Why don’t you buy one, Seth?” Roberta Walters suggested, laughing. “You have great legs.”
“That might be true,” he said, “but I’m not on
e to go around showin’ them off.”
“I don’t think you have such great legs,” Mort said, still stung by Seth’s earlier comment about not knowing of Scotland’s oil industry.
“How would you know?”
“Boys,” I said.
“Sorry,” they muttered.
I went to the counter, where the owner continued to do his work. “Excuse me,” I said.
Another glance up, his hands still working.
“Fixing a bagpipe?” I asked.
“Ay.”
“Do they break often?”
“No.”
“What happened with the one you’re fixing?”
“Tenor drone. Cracked. Hole in the windbag.”
“Oh. Is it hard to play a bagpipe?”
“Ay.”
“I’ve always wanted to try.”
He stopped working and stood, placing large, gnarled, liver-spotted hands on the countertop. “You’d like to play the pipes?”
“Yes. I mean, I’ve always enjoyed hearing them played and—well, I wonder if I have the breath to do it.”
“Most people do. Care to try?”
I looked at the others, who were debating the way items of clothing went with each other on one of the manikins. Would I look foolish attempting to coax something resembling music from an unwieldy set of bagpipes? It occurred to me as I pondered this that I seldom not try something because of how I might look to others. The truth was that every time I saw the bagpipes being played, I harbored a secret little passion to try them.
“Yes,” I said. “I’d love to try.”
He motioned for me to join him behind the counter. Others noticed, and were soon bunched across the counter from where I stood with the owner.
“What are you about to do, Mrs. F.?” Mort Metzger asked.
“Seems plain to me she’s about to play the bagpipes,” said Seth Hazlitt.
“I know that,” Mort said.
“Do you know how to play them?” Pete Walters asked.
“No. But I’m about to learn.” I extended my hand to the shop owner and said, “I’m Jessica Fletcher. These are my friends. We’re from America, guests of Inspector George Sutherland at Sutherland Castle.”
“Are you, now? You had a bit of bad news, didn’t you?”
08 - The Highland Fling Murders Page 8