He couldn’t have walked far. The events in the night, the accident or whatever it was, set her on edge. Maybe he was on the grounds somewhere. She had no idea about his routine.
She shut the door to Moss Cottage securely and turned back to the yard. Pascal was standing now and Francie was kneeling, pushing on the woman’s chest. Elise was doing mouth-to-mouth, pinching the woman’s nose, blowing, pause, repeat. It was too awful. That poor woman, dying alone in the dark and the muck. Annie looked away, at the house. Was that a face at a window? She blinked and it was gone. Maybe the caretaker had gone inside. Neither she nor Mrs. MacKeegan were visible in the yard.
Someone was calling her name. Annie spun toward the river. Callum stood next to the Rolls, waving at her. A blossom of gratitude, of relief — rescue at last — filled her. She grinned, waving back, running to where the bridge had once been.
“Thank God, Callum,” she called. The chauffeur was setting red gas cans in a row on the road, extracting them and a heavy yellow rope from the trunk of the old sedan. “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she yelled.
The river had gone down a few feet overnight. No longer overflowing its banks it was still loud and full of debris. Callum cupped his mouth: “Can you get some help? We’ll throw the rope over.”
Annie turned back to the house, calling to Pascal. He said something to Merle and walked around the muddy lake, his face grim.
“Call an ambulance,” Pascal shouted to the men on the other side. “There’s been an accident.”
Callum noticed the activity by the old coop then. “What is it?”
“Miss Petrie,” Pascal called. “Notify the police.”
Callum had his cell phone out. “I’ve already spoken to them about a temporary bridge. But —” He held up a finger and put the phone to his ear. They couldn’t hear what he was saying. The chauffeur was threading the rope through the handles of the gas cans now. Annie counted ten red plastic containers, small and large, all heavy with gasoline.
The chauffeur, a sturdy, muscular man, was coiling one end of the rope again, readying it for the toss. Callum punched his phone then called across Piney Burn. “The police are coming. That was the constable, telling me they have a portable ramp available to them. It’s in Aberdeen and will be here this afternoon.”
The chauffeur reeled back, heaving the rope across the creek. It uncoiled like magic, landing near Annie’s feet. Pascal stomped on the end, keeping it from slipping back into the drink.
“Good job,” Annie whispered, patting his shoulder. Pascal grimaced, wrapping the rope on a remaining bridge post and securing the free end under his boot.
Callum held a gas container high over his head as the chauffeur kept the rope steady. Pascal called, “Allez,” and the red can slid down the rope into his hands. Expertly he unwrapped the rope, set the can on the ground, and retied the rope to the post.
One down, nine to go. The rescue was on.
18
Jinty watched the two sisters wrangle the body of Vanora Petrie down the dark stairwell into the wine cellar. They’d wrapped the housekeeper in an old blanket, then a sheet as well, then tied it over her head and foot like a giant Christmas cracker. But that wasn’t enough for these Americans. They wanted to keep Vanora cool and the day had warmed dangerously. So down she went, poor bugger, into the bowels of the house.
The caretaker and the cook sat at the worktable in the kitchen, drinking tea. Nobody had an appetite and Cook was too shaken to rouse herself to make a meal. Most of the food was on the verge of spoilage at this point anyway. And Vanora, down below? They could hope she didn’t spoil before the burn was spanned. Jinty shuddered slightly, thinking of the body. She felt a bit stupid about her hysterics. But she’d never seen a dead person before. From now on, whenever that particular bad luck crossed her path, she’d know better how to react.
She felt jittery and tense, from the discovery of Vanora and possibly from lack of food. Last night she’d had no appetite even after walking the hills looking for sheep till all hours. She pulled out a box of biscuits and handed one to Cook. Together they munched in silence until the Bennett women clomped up the stairs, their hands muddy and their faces ashen.
They had attempted resuscitation for over an hour, rotating with the nice Frenchman. The monsieur had called the rescue to a halt, declared it was over. He had taken charge and Jinty was glad of it. She felt ashamed of her first reaction to his motorcycle boots and three-day beard. He was capable, brave even. He was now pouring petrol into the generator. Gunni again had disappeared when it came time to help.
“Is that tea?” the pretty sister, Francie asked. She wasn’t too attractive now, muddy from head to toe, her hair a tangle and mascara smeared under her eyes.
“The last of the bottled water,” Mrs. MacKeegan said. “I found a half in the laundry. Help yerself.”
As the women lunged hungrily toward the kettle a shudder and crash came from the sink. Water spat out of the big faucet, splashing and burping as it flowed. A chorus of relief sang through the kitchen. The lights flickered. The refrigerator clunked and began to hum.
The sisters began to wash with the cold water, stripping off their clothes right there in the kitchen. Mrs. MacKeegan pursed her lips at the sight of them in bras and panties. Jinty checked out their lingerie then looked away. A bit forward, weren’t they? Americans must strip down in front of anybody. There was men around. Gunni or Pascal could come in any time. What about the other one, the short Frenchman?
“I haven’t seen your friend this morning,” Jinty said, eyeing Elise’s black underthings. “Bruno.”
Francie answered: “Oh, he’s around here somewhere.”
“A wonder he isn’t helping then,” Cook muttered.
Jinty wiggled her eyebrows. It wasn’t that big a wonder. Neither Gunni nor ol’ Craiggie had lifted a finger for Vanora. And they knew her.
Jinty felt a knot of fear in her gut. Perhaps that was why they hadn’t helped. Had Gunni something to do with Vanora’s death? Did he dislike her so much? What if...? No, it couldn’t be. He was just a big fella but not cruel like that. Was he? Her dad had promised he was just misunderstood. The whole family had promised.
But that shove he’d given Vanora, in the dark. How he’d glared at her last night when she stayed behind. No. It wasn’t possible. She’d only tripped and fallen into the water, drunk off her head.
Elise picked up her clothes, gave them a sharp look, and ran into the hall and up the stairs. Maybe her French friend was waiting for her up there. Jinty felt at a loss to understand these foreigners. When would they be gone? It couldn’t happen soon enough.
“I’d best change,” Jinty said to Cook. “Then we’ll round up everyone. Get Gunni and ol’ Craiggie and tell them to meet in the yard in half an hour.”
* * *
Annie stood in a patch of sunshine on the bank of the river, watching it recede as the day warmed. Callum’s duties were done, the gasoline delivered. He paced back and forth impatiently. She’d plugged in her cell phone inside and returned, wishing she could talk to him. The gap between them was still too wide and too public. She eyed the wet slope, wondering how long it would take the water to go down. She was a lawyer not a hydrologist, but it might be tomorrow. By then the temporary bridge should be functional and they could at least walk out.
The chauffeur — whose name, Killian, finally came to her — sat sideways behind the wheel of the Rolls with his feet on the wide running board. Callum leaned against the ornate hood of the classic automobile. The bonnet, he called it. In New York Annie never noticed all the words that he knew, Scots words, Britishisms, that set him apart from her. Did he consciously speak more ‘American’ to fit in? Well, it didn’t work. He stuck out like the exotic, suave, and sexy Scotsman he was. She was just plain old Ann Bennett from Smith College, sometime radical, legacy attorney, and tree-hugger. He was another beast, from another country and another time.
She sat down on a rock. This line of thi
nking was no good. Of course she deserved him. Even if he was far too sophisticated for her. No, think of being together again. Think positive thoughts. Not so easy when the entire week was a bloody disaster.
“When did you say the police are coming?” she yelled.
Callum straightened, looking up from his phone. “This afternoon. They’re to call me. I think we’ll go back to the village for a while. Call Stasia, Annie. She’s been trying to reach you.”
She watched them drive off, spraying mud from spinning tires. He hadn’t mentioned the wedding, she realized. Neither had she. Tonight was the rehearsal dinner and tomorrow the wedding. What did Stasia want? Probably some wedding bullshit.
Maybe her phone was charged by now. Annie trudged back to the house, watching three of the staff conferring in a huddle. The cook, Jinty, and the sheep man had hands on their hips, heads together. Jinty seemed to be giving the other two a lecture.
Did they know where Mr. Craigg was? Did they care? Was there a connection between his disappearance and Vanora’s drowning? Maybe they’d had an argument last night, or drunk too much whisky. Maybe he’d run away to avoid the police. But what could that crippled old man do to Vanora, even if he wanted to? He could barely walk, let alone run.
The front door creaked loudly on its wide hinges. Annie shook her head to clear the conspiracy theories swirling in her mind. This big old house with its dark corners and boarded-up rooms: it gave her the creeps. Even if Merle and Elise hadn’t kept talking about gothic novels, the freak factor of the dead animal heads and mildew and decrepitude would still be churning her fevered imagination. She could hardly wait to pack up and get the hell out.
Stasia picked up her call on the first ring. “Thank god, is everyone okay? Are you okay?”
“All Bennett sisters accounted for, madam,” Annie said. She didn’t want to get into the Drowning of Fair Vanora — which sounded much more gothic and romantic than the reality. Tales of the Deadly Mud Puddle, she thought, frowning at the quilt on her bed. “How are you?”
“We’re in Aberdeen, Annie. Bernie and me. We’re here with Daddy at the hospital.”
“What happened? Is he okay?”
“Apparently he was seeing a cardiologist at home. The doctor in the village sent us to here. They’re giving him a pacemaker this afternoon.”
“Can I talk to him?”
Jack Bennett got on the line, his voice weak. “I’m sorry about the wedding, pumpkin. I thought it was going to be fine. They told me at home it would be.”
“Don’t worry about that, Daddy,” Annie said. “Is the hospital decent? Do you feel all right?”
“It’s fine, wonderful as hospitals go. Stasia’s making a fuss. Your mother is keeping a stiff upper lip. The doctors are very kind.”
A shuffling then Stasia got back on the line. “Have you talked to Mrs. Logan?”
Her voice was sharp. Annie readied herself. “No.”
“Well.” Stasia sighed. “The band can’t get up here from Edinburgh. The roads are a mess and some bridges are damaged. The trains aren’t running. Lots of the wedding guests called to say they couldn’t come. So Mrs. Logan cancelled the caterers, the reception hall. All of it. She felt with all the problems, no guests, no band, the storm and Daddy’s illness, it was for the best.”
“Oh.” Annie felt the air go out of her like a deflated balloon. For a split second relief flooded through her. She wouldn’t have to stand up in front of all those strangers and pledge to honor and obey like a damned Victorian. She wouldn’t have to walk down the aisle in those stupid plaid shoes. Her sisters could forget they ever tried on those ridiculous dresses.
Then the anger rushed in. What the —? How dare she? “Did she even talk to Callum?”
“I’m not sure. I’m so sorry. I’ve been down here. The ocean was crazy. Huge waves. What’s it doing there?”
“I have to go, Stasia. Tell Daddy to think of me holding his hand.”
She threw her phone down on the bed. Goddam meddling mother-in-law. Her simpering smile and cool touch, pretending to be happy for Callum, for them. Pretending to like her. Was this the way it was going to be? His mother making decisions about their lives? Had he signed off on canceling the wedding? Did he even want to get married? Was this whole ceremony his mother’s idea? He and his mother had done most of the planning, picking out dresses, venue, music, food, everything. Why cancel it? Without even talking to the damn bride.
Annie covered her face with her hands. She felt her eyes heat up again. That Scottish witch! Stirring the pot like in MacBeth.
Annie growled in frustration. I’ll give you toil and trouble.
Then, more seriously, a little voice asked: Why are you so angry? You don’t even want to get married. She’d been trying to figure a way out of it since the beginning of the week.
But she knew.
If anyone is going to cancel this damn wedding it is going to be me.
19
Annie had been pacing in her room for fifteen minutes, letting her phone charge and getting up her courage to call Callum. Why hadn’t he called her? What the hell was he doing? Sipping tea with his mother?
The thought of food made her stomach growl. She slipped downstairs to the kitchen. It was abandoned but at least the lights were on. Was there anything to eat? She scrounged through a cupboard and found a box of crackers. She poured herself a glass of water and took her prison fare back to her room. Everyone seemed to be outside, mucking around in the raincoats, searching for Mr. Craigg or sheep or whatever one did when trapped in the Highlands.
But one person wasn’t here: Vanora Petrie. Annie chastised herself. Vanora was dead, and it had somehow happened on the Bennett sisters’ watch. She felt the pang of guilt again, that she hadn’t insisted they look harder for her last night. Had the housekeeper already been face-down in the water by then?
With all her wedding worries Annie had been distracted, and let her own petty concerns come before the welfare of a fellow human being. Even someone as drunk and obnoxious as Vanora Petrie deserved basic human compassion. The old girl hadn’t gotten much of it here at Kincardie House.
This crazy old castle. It gave her the shivers. Annie pictured her tidy cottage in Pittsburgh, a rundown, faded blue house in a slowly gentrifying neighborhood. Her flower garden, full of roses, would be in bloom right about now. And the lilacs. And the peonies. The herbs in the hand-thrown pots in the back, the ones she liked to snip into her signature Italian dishes, would be getting bushy and spicy. The old kitchen with its tired linoleum and avocado refrigerator. Her little bungalow: in need of paint, shingles, and a good mow. But love it had; it was hers. She could be sitting on her back porch right now, getting some sun, reading a good novel.
Why wasn’t she home? Why had she consented to this nightmare? She was so angry with herself. She crammed a cracker into her mouth, chewing hard. Just then her phone rang. It was Callum.
She washed down her cracker with a gulp of water then punched the phone. “Hey, you.”
A high-pitched sigh, then: “It’s Mother Logan, dear. I’m using Callum’s mobile. He just went downstairs to get the Rolls.”
A tendril of fury made her stand and plant her feet on the carpet. “Oh, yes. Hello.”
“How is your father faring with our health care system? Everyone says it is the best in the world but I do wonder at times. Stasia’s husband tells me his procedure is today?”
“You know more than I do. We’ve been cut off.”
“Of course. Yes.” She sounded a little nervous, Annie noted happily. “If you need any medical referrals, just ask. I’m happy to help. I told Stasia about my personal physician, you know. Dr. Fergus was more than accommodating.”
Annie sipped her water in the pause. Mrs. Logan waited for a response then thundered on.
“With your father ill Callum and I had to make some decisions, Annie. We had to postpone. Did you hear?”
“Stasia told me.”
“Of course. This weather
, oh, it has made such a scramble of everyone’s plans. My friend Dorothea and her husband couldn’t make the trip, the trains aren’t running. It’s all very distressing.”
“Mmmm.” Annie rolled her eyes, staring at the ceiling.
“Have you spoken to Callum about it then?”
“Not yet.”
“Ah.” Mrs. Logan paused dramatically. “Well, there is something you should know about Callum. I don’t know if he mentioned his previous engagement? To Davina?”
Annie blinked rapidly and sat down on the tapestry chair. “Davina?”
“Yes, you met her the other night. She’s now married to Hugh. But a few years before their marriage she and Callum were engaged. They went to university together, you see. But she, well— he didn’t make it to the ceremony, Annie. He left her standing there. It was terribly sad. I felt so sorry for the girl. I didn’t want that to happen to you.”
Annie’s mind reeled with this new information. “You didn’t want Callum to leave me at the— ”
“Just so. Frankly, I don’t think Callum is the right man for you, dear. Just like he wasn’t right for Davina.”
Did she think her son was gay? What the hell was she saying? “So you— let me get this straight. You canceled the wedding because you thought Callum wasn’t right for me?”
“He’s a wonderful man, don’t get me wrong. He says he loves you. But a mother knows these things.”
“He says— ? What gives you the right?!” Annie stood again, trying hard to keep her voice modulated. She dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“His mother, dear. Just his mother who— ”
“Stop. Stop talking. I can’t speak to you right now. Goodbye.”
Annie was shaking with anger, nearly blind as her hand trembled as she punched wildly at her cell phone, right before she threw it across the room.
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