by Hannah Reed
To me, he came across as a commonsense kind of guy, and he wasn’t a hothead like his brother-in-law.
At least I might be able to convince him to speak with his sister, to ask Kirstine to hold off a little longer until Vicki was well enough to defend herself. If Vicki had even another week or so to recover, I was convinced Kirstine wouldn’t get her way. And if the real killer was arrested soon, this whole new attack on Vicki would be a moot point.
Time was in short supply. Today was Wednesday. The preliminary hearing was Friday. Vicki was hospitalized, and she wouldn’t be able to represent herself that soon. I was convinced that Paul Turner wouldn’t give it his best shot. Were there other, more competent solicitors in Glenkillen? And time to bring one of them up to speed? Probably not.
If she didn’t catch a break soon, Vicki was going to lose.
Just then, my train of thought was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door, belatedly followed by Coco and Pepper announcing a visitor.
“You two are supposed to warn me before, not after,” I told them, moving from the kitchen to the entryway with the two terriers racing to beat me. “What good is it after the knock comes?”
Peering through the pane, I saw Inspector Jamieson on the other side of the door.
I paused for a moment to seriously consider refusing him entry, but then I put myself in Vicki’s shoes. She would have greeted him with a warm welcome and a hot cup of tea.
“Vicki’s okay?” I asked after opening the door. “You aren’t here because . . . ?”
He shook his head. “Nothin’ o’ the sort. No, she’s improving by the hour. She be a strong lass, that one.”
“Oh, good. That’s a relief.”
I let him inside—never mind that he was the enemy until proven otherwise—offered him a chair at the table, and put on the kettle.
I’d learned several tricks to making proper tea by observing Vicki. First, I made sure that the water was boiling before pouring a small amount into the teapot and swishing it around to warm the pot. Then I discarded that water. Next, I placed small round teabags inside the pot, remembering Vicki’s instruction to add one bag per cup and an extra one for the pot. Once the tea started to steep, I covered the pot with a tea cozy, selecting Vicki’s favorite, one with an embroidered lavender motif.
The trickiest part for me was knowing the perfect length of time to let it steep. I’d noticed that tea in Scotland was stronger than in the States, but whether that was from stronger tea or longer steeps, I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t thought to time Vicki. “Well?” I asked after the inspector had taken a sip of tea, without any ensuing facial or verbal complaints. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“Ye want tae know why I’ve come round, then, do ye?”
Of course, I did, but I gave a little shrug as if to say it didn’t matter to me and took a sip of tea. But the china clinked against the saucer a little too loudly when I put it down. His gaze was as intense as always.
Occasionally I can get downright snippy and snarky. Like when I’m off my writing schedule. Or when I’ve been told to vacate my current premises. Or when the local inn owners have made it clear they won’t take me back. Or when my new friend is the prime suspect in a murder investigation, and the man about to charge her is sitting across from me.
Ornery, crabby—yep, that was my mood at the moment. “Let me guess.” I smirked. “You’re about to tell me that you have proof that Vicki had been run off the road.”
The inspector looked surprised, whether at my witchiness or my charge that Vicki had had a little help over the edge, I didn’t know. Or care.
I was on a roll. “How convenient that Kirstine MacBride just happened to run into Bill Morris, who just happened to have seen Vicki and Gavin together shortly before his murder.”
Inspector Jamieson opened his mouth. Then he closed it, realizing I was like a runaway train on a steep incline without brakes.
“Or”—I couldn’t stop myself—“maybe you stopped by because you have evidence to suggest that the killer intentionally let the victim bleed out in the barn before moving the body, then used animal blood to send the police off to look for the real crime scene. Kelly beat you to the punch and uncovered enough evidence to cast another dark cloud over Vicki’s head. One more reason to suspect the heiress, the outsider who doesn’t belong. All the duckies are falling into a row.”
If the inspector wanted to comment, he didn’t get a chance. I kept going. “The police weren’t moving fast enough with charges, so the killer became really impatient and changed the plan. Why not run her off the road? Take her completely out of the picture. What if Vicki had died? Wouldn’t that have solved a whole lot of problems for this horrible family? It’s so obvious. Why haven’t you arrested them?”
Finally, I crossed my arms and glared across the table. The inspector took his sweet time responding. He blew on his tea, took a sip, set it down, then looked at me, and said, “Things aren’t always wha’ they seem.”
I shook my head in frustration. Even so, something about my big theory was niggling at the back of my mind. Something was off.
After another period of silence, the inspector said, “Aren’t we chipper today?”
Which just riled me more. My tone was sickeningly sweet as I replied, “The only thing missing at the moment are her fingerprints on the murder weapon!”
The inspector calmly and irritatingly watched me in silence, waiting for me to run down.
But I couldn’t shut up. All my pent-up frustration spilled out. “Please don’t tell me you have her fingerprints on the murder weapon!” I said, a little frightened that he might actually have them, although pulling that off would have been a real trick. The killer would have to be a magician.
“No fingerprints . . .” he managed to say before I cut him off.
“And I imagine you’re sitting at this table accepting my hospitality while getting ready to arrest me as an accomplice!”
He stood up, looking resigned. “Perhaps I’ll return another day, when yer less agitated.”
The man seemed totally bewildered by my outburst. With that, all my anger drained away. I jumped up, instantly regretting my harsh words. “I apologize for blowing up. It’s just that everything has been so stressful.”
“It’s frustrating, I know. Ye can’t control the situation like ye can in one o’ yer stories,” he said.
Wasn’t that the truth! I’d love to change this ending to suit myself.
“Why did you really stop by?”
He hesitated, then said, “I didn’t come tae argie-bargie with ye, that’s fer sure.”
If the situation hadn’t been so serious, I would have been amused by that phrase. “Argie-bargie,” I assumed, meant quarrel.
He went on. “I was hoping ye hadn’t had lunch yet and would allow me tae buy ye a rather late one at the pub. I’ll even drive ye.”
Well, didn’t I feel like the fool? I hadn’t thought about food at all, but now that he mentioned it, I was starving. I didn’t understand the man at all. One minute he was cold and calculating, the next he was inviting me to lunch. One day he was distant and withdrawn, the next he was asking for my opinion.
Maybe his confusing behavior was a side effect of his solitary lifestyle. That took its toll over time, making people eccentric. Add the responsibilities of law enforcement, and I could imagine how truly quirky one could get.
But who was I to be calling the inspector weird? I’d been the one acting bizarre this time around.
Inspector Jamieson was still waiting for an answer.
“I’d like very much to have lunch with you,” I said.
CHAPTER 35
“What are you trying to get me to eat now?” I asked, surveying a plate between us on the bar. We’d decided to sit at the bar on stools rather than at a table. The boozer innkeeper wasn’t in his re
gular spot for a change, and the pub was quieter than usual, given the time of day, sandwiched between lunchtime and cocktail hour.
“Haggis,” announced the inspector, with what I suspected was his version of glee. Was this payback time for my earlier behavior? “A Scottish delicacy that it’s time ye tasted.”
I’m pretty sure I grimaced.
“A little heart.” He went on. “Lungs, liver, suet. Eat up, lass.”
Behind the bar, Dale was watching and listening to our exchange. “The inspector ordered ye the vegetarian haggis,” he called out. “He’s pullin’ yer leg.”
“Thanks fer spoilin’ my fun,” the inspector called to him.
“I don’t believe there is such a thing as vegetarian haggis,” I shot back to both of them, pretty confident that vegetarian haggis was a contradiction in terms.
“There most certainly is,” Dale insisted. “All ’tis is onions, carrots, lentils, beans, a few peanuts, rolled oats, and secret spices, and the lot served with a nice whisky sauce.”
“And what’s that?” I asked as Dale brought over another dish.
“Neeps and tatties,” he answered.
The inspector interpreted for me. “Turnips and potatoes.”
Dale went off to help another customer, calling over his shoulder: “Ye wouldn’t catch Rob Roy eating that wimpy version o’ haggis, that’s fer sure. Nor William Wallace.”
I inspected the plates cautiously while the inspector placed a little of everything on a smaller plate for me.
Regardless of what those Scottish ancestors would think, I found the vegetarian haggis delicious. The haggis owed most of its flavor to a whisky sauce, which was wonderful. And the neeps and tatties reminded me of home, of days long gone when my mother would prepare a boiled wintertime dinner with ham, potatoes, and turnips. Comfort food.
While we ate, Inspector Jamieson and I talked of simple things, of the beautiful hillsides and the weather, which had been every bit as unpredictable as I’d heard it would be.
“Aye,” he commented. “It’s fickle.”
When we were through eating, he said, “I’m not the monster ye envision.”
“It’s been a rough few days for all of us. Please accept my sincere apology. I’m just so frustrated.”
“Yer apology is accepted and already forgotten. I appreciate yer point of view, I really do. But I have a question fer ye: Why would our killer go tae all the trouble and risk to kill Gavin Mitchell simply tae frame Vicki MacBride? Why not take her out first thing and be done with it?”
Which, I realized, was exactly what had been bothering me, too.
The inspector continued. “Now, I have tae suspect a stronger motive fer murdering the man.”
“To keep him quiet?”
“Aye, most likely.”
“He was with James MacBride at his deathbed.”
“I know yer thinking about that will, but if the father had drafted an updated one, none o’ the other family members would have had a motive. They certainly would have benefited. Leaving . . .”
“Yes, the most likely suspect in that case: Vicki.”
That was the reason I hated the idea of an updated will. “We’re missing something, a key piece of information. What about the box on the floor of the cottage?”
“It might have been knocked off the telly when the killer was bringing in the body, fer all we know.”
Granted, the room was small, the television not far from Gavin’s body.
I decided to change topics, since we were at an impasse.
“How are things working out with Sean?”
“He’s still a heather goose,” the inspector said, then clarified when he saw my confused expression. “A ninny,” he explained. “But I’ve learned how tae handle the nuisance.”
I smiled. “By sending him off with busywork?”
“Shrewd as ever, ye are.”
We sat in comfortable silence for a short while. Most people dread a lull in conversation and will fill it with any noise just to be making sound. But the inspector was perfectly fine with it, and so was I.
A few minutes later, I brought up Alec MacBride by saying, “He’s an interesting man, and successful it appears. His business must be thriving, since he has time to golf on weekdays.”
The inspector paused in thought before saying, “The man seems tae set his own hours and throw his money around plenty. He’s known tae be somewhat of a lady’s man, so be aware o’ his smooth talk.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” I said, remembering only too well my last conversation with Alec and the note it had ended on. If I wanted his help in stalling his sister, I’d have to make amends first.
“So ye think Vicki MacBride was run off the road?” the inspector asked, his intense eyes watching me again.
I squirmed, regretting that accusation. I had absolutely no basis for it. “It was only one theory, and not a very good one, spoken in a moment of extreme frustration. I shouldn’t have suggested it.”
“There’s no evidence tae support such a claim. Vicki is the only one who can answer that question, and she hasn’t remembered anythin’ at all regarding the accident in the few short times she’s been awake fer questioning. And when I try tae solicit an answer regarding her exchange with Gavin Mitchell, all she’ll say is that she doesn’t remember.” He paused. “Her doctor says that’s common after psychological trauma, and she certainly had plenty o’ that. I’m anxious tae question her further, but those nurses are a difficult lot tae get past.”
“Did you know Kirstine MacBride and that husband of hers have scheduled a court hearing for Friday to try to take over the farm? They’ll get it back if Vicki can’t manage it. Not only that: John ordered me off of their property.”
“He’s a hothead,” was all the inspector would say.
“So I’ve been told repeatedly. Doesn’t his temper trigger alarm bells for you? And that lawyer! He’s a piece of work.”
Jamieson didn’t respond right away, giving me time to feel bad about allowing more of my sarcasm and frustration to come between us.
What was wrong with me today?
“Sorry,” I said, deciding it was my day for apologies by the boatload.
“I’m following every lead,” he said calmly, “and eliminating most o’ them along the way. That’s my method, and it’s proven tae be effective fer me. In the end, it’s the pieces left in my hand, the ones that don’t fit intae the puzzle, that matter.”
A wise and true observation.
“Are you about to charge Vicki?” I asked.
“Would I bring charges against a woman recovering from a car accident while she’s still in hospital?”
“I’d hope not, and especially not without a motive.”
“Don’t ye have a story ye should be writing?” he replied instead. “Instead o’ worrying aboot my competence?”
“I have absolute faith in your ability to solve this case,” I said with a friendly smile.
After the inspector departed, I set up in a back corner, hoping to get something done on the story, no matter how small. But first, I had an e-mail from Ami.
“I could feel your attraction to this inspector coming through cyberspace! If your writing reflects the same for Gillian and Jack, you’re going to have a bestseller on your hands. By the way, where is that scene you are supposed to be sending?”
Oh, please. I’d simply described the man. It wasn’t like I’d told her he was a sexual magnet or anything. Granted, the inspector had many good qualities, but that didn’t have to mean I was interested. Ami should have been in theater. I didn’t bother responding.
I tried to write; I really did. I gave Gillian and Jack a few special gazes into each other’s eyes and some internal dialogue to go with the eye locks, but my thoughts kept going back to the conversation I’d had with I
nspector Jamieson regarding Vicki.
I couldn’t help thinking that he had locked onto Vicki with jaws as tenacious and powerful as a pit bull’s.
CHAPTER 36
After that, I returned to the farmhouse, gave Coco and Pepper a little exercise, then put my plan to make amends with Alec MacBride into play by phoning him with a request for a golf lesson the next morning. But first, I needed to apologize, even though I wasn’t sorry at all that I’d defended Vicki.
“You simply expressed your opinion,” Alec said graciously. “We don’t have to see eye-to-eye on the family drama. I was in a bit of a snit myself, I must admit, and said more than I should have. But that’s behind us.”
“So you’ll give me a golf lesson? Maybe tomorrow?”
“Come to the club now,” he said, expressing pleasure. “Or better yet, I’ll pick you up.”
“It’s almost eight o’clock,” I said, mulling over the best way to ask for his help regarding his sister’s latest plot. “Isn’t that too late?”
“Not at all. As long as we have a wee bit of daylight, I can show you a few swings. My club’s dress code is casual. No jeans, though, and certainly no collarless shirts. Oh, and a set of waterproofs if you have them.”
I resisted his offer to pick me up, got directions to the golf course, and dressed accordingly, aside from the waterproofs, which I was pretty sure meant a pair of rain boots. It hadn’t started raining yet, but the overhead clouds were threatening to unleash a torrent. There was a certain eeriness to the atmosphere, the sort that descends right before a storm. I wished it a speedy arrival and a quick exit from the greens.
* * *
I headed out, deciding I could get used to these long summer days, except they were balanced out by short winter hours of daylight, which would depress me for certain. I couldn’t imagine surviving on less than seven hours of sunlight. But summer, with its extended daylight and twilight following slowly behind, suited me just fine.