The Things We Said Today

by Lise McClendon

  Merle frowned. “Is this the police station?”

  “Come on. I have to see if I can help.”

  Inside the large utilitarian building obviously built with oil money in the last few decades, a large skylight lit the space with a weak glow. Callum talked to officers, demanded attention, and pulled Merle along. What they could do for a person who had confessed to a murder was a question, but not one he wanted to answer immediately. Merle allowed herself to be prodded down hallways and up stairs, hoping the caretaker could somehow recant her confession. That seemed like the only solution.

  She and Pascal had long discussions last night as they packed their suitcases to check out of Kincardie House. Why would Jinty harm Vanora? Why was she saying she had when obviously she hadn’t? Even if she did do it, why confess, at least without counsel? Who was she protecting? Was she in love with the chauffeur?

  That was a new one to Merle. Although she spent quite a bit of time with Jinty during the storm and its aftermath, she never noticed anything between Jinty and Killian. Pascal, on the other hand, had perceived something there, some attraction.

  But Killian wasn’t on the premises the night Vanora went into the mud puddle. He was stuck in the village with no way to cross the Piney Burn.

  No, that went nowhere. And now they sat in the small, untidy office belonging to DI Grassie. The man was absent but they were brought tea by a woman officer. A few minutes later a young woman in a black suit and heels arrived. They stood to greet her.

  Her name was Glynn Barra, and she said Mrs. Logan had engaged her to help with Jinty’s defense. She was a striking woman with dark brown hair pulled back with curly wisps escaping around her delicate features.

  “Glynn,” Callum smiled, shaking her hand. “Thank you for coming in on a Sunday.”

  “You know each other?” Merle asked.

  “University,” Callum said. “It’s a small country.”

  “Your mother said you were back. I said I’d believe it when I saw the whites of yer een.” She smiled at him, her blue eyes flashing as she checked him out from head to toe. She seemed not displeased with the results. “Just a wee visit then? Complete with horrid storms and dying staff?”

  Callum grimaced and glanced at Merle. She took up the baton: “Family adventures, actually. Lots of them.” She stuck out a hand. “Merle Bennett. Not Scottish, obviously. I was a guest at Kincardie House the night of the— event.”

  They settled into the hard-backed chairs and the lawyer got out a notepad and pen. Before she could ask them anything Merle said, “Did the police give you our statements? We all talked to the inspector.”

  “Not as yet. Maybe you can fill me in.”

  Merle wasn’t sure she had the patience this morning. Her mind was flitting around, everywhere but here. She squinted at Ms. Barra, then at Callum as he gave a rough version of the night that Vanora drowned.

  “But you weren’t present, Callum. Your mother tells me you were in the village. Is that right?”

  “Our bridge washed out. I got caught on the village side.”

  Glynn looked at Merle then, waiting. Merle said, “Look. None of us thinks she did it. She was in charge of the staff, at her young age, and there may have been conflicts that we guests didn’t know about. But Jinty was horrified, completely shocked at the sight of Vanora floating in that giant puddle. Would someone who had done harm to that person scream hysterically like that when finding the body? I could barely get her to stop to breathe. Are they saying she is a good actress?”

  Glynn nodded, scribbling notes. Callum said, “Have you spoken to her?”

  “No, not as yet.”

  “Get her to describe her relationship with every staff member. There aren’t many and a couple are quite elderly. It will help you get a picture of what went on,” Callum said. He glanced at Merle. “Right?”

  “Definitely. There’s Mrs. MacKeegan, the cook. One of the older ones along with Mr. Craigg.”

  “He may have seen something,” Callum added. “He was wandering around that night.”

  “DI Grassie interviewed everyone. Look at their statements.”

  “Who else is on staff?” Glynn asked.

  “Gunni, the sheep man,” Callum said.

  She flipped back a page. “Brian Gunn?”

  Callum shrugged. “She calls him Gunni. And last is Killian, the chauffeur. He was in the village as well.”

  “Did you see him at the Hydro?” Merle asked.

  He frowned. “Not that I remember. But he wouldn’t have stayed there.”

  “Where would he have stayed?” Glynn asked.

  “You’ll have to ask my mother. He drove her into town that night but didn’t get back to the house either.”

  Merle sat forward. “Can you get them to throw out the confession? Is that possible? She must be protecting somebody.”

  Glynn eyed Merle professionally and crossed her legs. “Who would that be?”

  “I don’t know. There was a suggestion— ” She glanced at Callum. Should she spread rumors? “Someone mentioned there might be a connection between Jinty and the chauffeur, Killian.”

  “A romantic connection?” the attorney pressed.

  Merle shrugged and tightened her lips. She’d said too much already. Not that she didn’t believe Pascal’s instincts for these things. She just hadn’t seen it herself.

  “But he was in the village,” Callum reminded her.

  “So he says,” Glynn said. “We need to find out what he was up to that day.”

  “You saw him later on, right?” Merle asked him.

  “Yes. He helped me gather up petrol cans and fill them. Then we took them out to the house so they can start the generator.”

  “How did you contact him when you were in the village?” Glynn asked.

  Callum frowned. “Through my mother.”

  Glynn smiled slightly. “She runs a tight ship, your mother.”

  * * *

  Merle and Callum discussed the case as they drove back up into the hills, leaving shiny, waterlogged Aberdeen behind for the Highlands. Puddles were drying but the rivers still were high and roads had damage that slowed them down. They made no progress on the question of why Jinty had confessed or who might have actually done the deed.

  Merle was deposited at the Hydro in the village with her rolling bag. She looked back inside the car at Callum. “Are you going back for Annie?”

  He nodded solemnly then, to Merle’s surprise, broke into a helpless, embarrassed grin. She laughed. “So things are okay now? No, you don’t have to tell me. I’ll twist her arm.”

  “Things are good,” he assured her then sped away.

  With a big breath of relief Merle found her parents upstairs in their room. Stasia had sprung Jack from the hospital at the crack of dawn. He was sitting in a chair, drinking coffee, and looking out onto the expansive green lawns.

  “Are those rhododendrons? I’d like a walk in those gardens,” he said. Bernie protested.

  “Take it easy for a day, Daddy,” Merle said. “The sun might actually come out.”

  “And somebody needs to take me on a whisky tour,” he went on.

  “Rick’s your man. He’s been talking about it for days.”

  “Where is your room, Merle?” Bernie asked. “Close by?”

  “Down the hall. Francie and I are bunking together. I’m just going to put my luggage over there. Then we’ll have lunch.”

  “Where is that attractive Frenchman?” Jack asked with a sly grin.

  “Gone back to France,” she said. “He had to go back to work.”

  “Like Elise,” Jack said. “She is certainly dedicated to the profession.”

  “Yes,” Merle said. “Like Elise.”

  Bernadette followed Merle into the hallway, holding the door behind her. She whispered to Merle: “I’m so worried. Is Annie really done with Callum? She was very firm yesterday. Is she sure about breaking off the engagement?”

  “She’s fine, Mom.” Merle gav
e Bernie a hug. Thank god she hadn’t asked about Elise. “You don’t need more to worry about. Take care of Daddy. Annie and Callum will work it out.”

  “But no Scottish wedding?” She looked so disappointed.

  “Afraid not.”

  Francie was painting her fingernails when Merle unlocked the door with her keycard and rolled her bag inside. “There you are,” she said. “Get Pascal to his flight?”

  “Unfortunately.” Merle sighed.

  “Why didn’t you go with him?” Francie asked, examining her face. “You’ve got a week of vacation, right?”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “So? Hang around his place and eat bonbons and drink wine until he comes home.” She looked up, blowing her freshly blue fingertips. “You’ve been to his place, right?”

  Merle heaved her bag onto a luggage rack. “Actually I’ve never seen it.”

  “Really? Where is it?”

  “Outside Toulouse somewhere.” She spun around to face her sister. “Do you think it’s strange he’s never taken me there?”

  “Well, he’s apparently taken you in all sorts of places, the dirty beast.” Francie grinned. “But yeah. He should show you where he lives. Aren’t you curious?”

  “He wanted me to go back with him,” Merle said, staring at her own chipped nail polish. “But there’s so much going on here. The family stuff, Daddy. Annie. And Callum took me to the police station to see what we could do about Jinty Arbuckle and her confession.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  Merle shook her head. “Just her attorney. Nice woman, seemed competent. She reminded me of you a little, Francie.” She fished a business card out of her pocket. “Glynn Barra. Pretty name.” She handed it to Francie.

  “Hmmm. I still don’t get it, Merle. You’re pivoting. You aren’t needed here. Stasia, Annie, and I— not to mention Bernie— can take care of Daddy. Callum can handle Annie, I guess, although he’s got his mother to wrangle. Hugh and Davina went back to Edinburgh so they’re out. Why do you think we can’t manage without you?”

  Merle stared at her sister, silent. Francie continued: “You do know you’re not indispensable, right?”

  “Thanks. I guess.”

  “And you could check up on the wanton young woman, our little sister, if you were in France.”

  Merle frowned. “I didn’t tell Bernie and Jack about her. Do they know?”

  “We decided to keep it on the down-low.” Francie stood up and tossed the business card on her dresser. “But you could find her, Merle. With Pascal’s police connections, you could find her and tell her what a thug Bruno is. Or you could just drink wine and get your ashes hauled. Which is perfectly acceptable, you know.”

  Merle was smiling now. “Sounds decadent.”

  “And your point?”

  “You want the room to yourself, is that it? You made some friends in kilts?”

  Francie laughed. “Celtic shagathon, here I come.”

  29

  Aberdeen

  Jinty Arbuckle sat at the table in the windowless room, feeling the walls move in toward her. So it was like on the telly, she thought, dreary and hopeless. Her teachers had warned them all in school: behave or they’ll toss you in and throw away the key. And now she’d gone and done it to herself.

  She hoped her father didn’t hear of it. But of course he would. He liked to read the papers. Besides she’d have to write her mother at some point. The confession meant no public trial. That was the key thing.

  Her attorney, Glynn Barra, sat across the table, waiting for an answer to a question Jinty couldn’t recall. The attorney looked serious, and a bit crabbit, like she’d rather be having a nice glass of wine somewhere than sitting across from the likes of this idjit girl. Jinty felt like she was floating, disassociated from things, in a dream. A very bad dream, to be sure.

  “I’m askin’ ya now, Jinty Arbuckle,” Ms. Barra said impatiently. “Are you having a fling with the chauffeur, this Killian Yarrow.”

  Killian’s handsome face flashed in her mind. Even scowling, as he often was, he made her a bit melt-y. Ridiculous, school-girl feeling.

  “No, ma’am. I am not.” Not for lack of trying. “Could I get some tea please?”

  The big clock on the wall, ticking ominously, said nearly five in the afternoon. Or it could be morning as there was no sky to see dark or light. But she hadn’t lost track of the days yet. That was something to look forward to, she reckoned.

  “No tea. Not till you talk to me.” Glynn Barra frowned and consulted her notes. “With someone else then? This Brian Gunn?”

  “Gad, no. Who said that?”

  “What is your relationship with Yarrow and Gunn?”

  “I’m the caretaker. They work for Mrs. Logan, same as me.”

  “They work for you?”

  “Not really, ma’am. They’ve made that clear.”

  Barra looked up. “You had some trouble with them?”

  Jinty blinked. “The first couple days I was there. After that we’ve been fine.” She sighed. “I am young. Too young and too female for some.”

  “Was that Miss Petrie’s opinion?”

  “Aye. She said it.”

  “Tell me what happened between you and Miss Petrie.”

  Images floated in her head and for a second she wasn’t sure if she’d made them up, or seen them that dark night. The words, simple and declarative, that she’d told the Inspector came back: “We quarreled. I pushed her and she fell into the puddle.”

  Ms. Barra was still glaring, her nostrils flaring and eyes ablaze. Didn’t she have a nice face? “And then?”

  “I walked away. Back to my room.”

  “You didn’t try to help her out of the water?”

  “Nah. It were just a puddle, wasn’t it? How was I to know she’d drown?”

  Jinty felt the weight of her words. She was admitting to not caring whether Vanora Petrie lived or died. Whether she sucked down a load of muddy water or gasped to the surface. It seemed okay when she’d first told the cop but now she felt the hand of Satan on her shoulder. She was a horrible person, if it were true. She had no feeling. Everyone would say so.

  “What time was this?” Ms. Barra consulted her notes.

  Jinty shrugged. “Midnight? A bit later. I’m not sure.”

  “What were you doing outside?”

  She swallowed her words. What had she said before? It was so hard to keep your story on the straight. “Coming back from the main house to my room.”

  “After midnight.”

  “That’s right.”

  “The Bennett sisters say you came over at about half past eleven because you were worried about Vanora. What were you doing between then and midnight?”

  “They’re wrong. It was later.”

  Ms. Barra closed her notebook. “Jinty Arbuckle, why are you doin’ this?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Covering for someone. Protecting somebody.”

  She felt the blood rush up her neck involuntarily and clenched her jaw. She blinked at her attorney and kept silent.

  “You aren’t the killing sort of girl, Jinty. Anyone can see that.” Now Ms. Barra found her nice face, all sympathy. Her voice too. “Why are you willing to spend years in jail for someone else?”

  “But it was all an accident,” Jinty blurted. “I pushed her, she fell. What happened in the puddle isn’t my fault.”

  “No, because you didn’t push her, isn’t that right? You left her at the pasture gate, isn’t that right? You didn’t even see Vanora Petrie after that, did you? You were tucked up in bed like the good girl you are.”

  Jinty felt the heat in her face like a flare of the sun. Was she a good girl? No, she was a woman, almost as old as her attorney, for sure. They could be friends, school mates. She searched Glynn’s face for something— recognition, salvation, understanding.

  “You didn’t push her, Jinty,” Glynn whispered. She held out her hand. “Just squeeze my hand and I’ll know.”
>
  30

  France • Tuesday

  Merle opened her eyes, blinking against the sunrise coming through the panes. Where was she? Her mind grasped, foggy. Home? The stone house in the Dordogne? Scotland?

  The rustling next to her sent a shock wave through her and she startled. Then the snoring began, soft like a puppy. There was Pascal’s shoulder, bare, a little hairy, and pale above the tan line on his bicep.

  She let out her breath as it all came back. She was in Pascal’s small cottage, high on a hill in an extinct village. A hamlet, he called it, but his house appeared to be the only inhabitable dwelling, a wooden farmhouse or something from before the war. An ancient sink on legs, crumbling plaster, windows that leaked. He’d done little to it, he said, and she believed him. It was rustic, and gorgeous. Not unlike its owner.

  She sat up, glancing back at him, sleeping soundly. Outside birds twittered in the gnarled fruit trees. Yes, a person could definitely sleep here. It was so peaceful. Pascal said he liked the location, that he could see in every direction in case someone was trying to sneak up on him.

  She lay back down and pulled the quilt over her shoulders. She wasn’t usually this spontaneous. Flying to Toulouse with a few hours notice, leaving Pascal a text message to meet her at the airport. It shouldn’t have worked. The flight should have been too expensive. He should have been too busy to meet her, working somewhere. But it went off like she’d planned it for months.

  And maybe, she thought staring at the pink blossoms of the cherry tree as they drifted to the ground, she had planned it. Somewhere in her turtle mind, the place where she put things out of sight so they won’t interfere with what’s front and center, there had been a plan.

  Somewhere behind the chaotic nonsense of everyday life. In a heavy steamer trunk, under a moth-eaten mattress, behind a broken mirror, things percolated into dreams. In this dream/plan she ran away from New York City, from her big Connecticut house with its dreary corners and heavy drapes, from her pool guy and her lawn service and her junker of a minivan, from the struggles to maintain dignity and probity, long after anyone cared. The life where she fixed her makeup in the cramped train restroom that smelled of urine, shoveled snow in winter, and struggled to balance her checkbook alone in the dark kitchen.