Death and Daisies

by Amanda Flower

  I slipped into one of the front pews and knew that I needed to tell him about the note, but even more than that, I knew I needed to tell Craig about Seth MacGregor, no matter what I’d promised Hamish. With his history of gambling, Seth could have gotten desperate enough to kill the minister, but I didn’t understand what that had to do with Minister MacCullen. Certainly, the minister would have known about Seth’s gambling problem. The entire village knew, and it was difficult for me to believe that the straitlaced minister who had refused to drink alcohol would have approved of gambling. But Seth’s gambling problem wasn’t a secret, and Seth would have had no need to kill the minister over something that was common knowledge.

  Then was Hamish right and was Seth’s possible motive, or at least the motive the police would cite if they thought Seth was guilty, the decade-old recommendation letter to St. Andrews? Even if those events had caused the death of Hamish’s brother, it seemed to me a very long time to hold a grudge.

  It was time to call Craig. I was removing my cell phone from the pocket of my light jacket when a deep Scottish voice shook me from my thoughts. “The church is nothing without the people. The people make up the church, but I do love it when the building is empty like this. It feels more sacred, as if you can feel the very presence of God.”

  I looked up from my phone at a large man, as tall as Craig if not an inch or two taller. He had a full head of white hair and a pockmarked face that gave his complexion character more than disfigured it. He wore black slacks and a gray work shirt, and his hands were calloused and stained with dirt along the knuckles. Those large hands were wrapped around a broom that looked like one I would see the cleaning crew at my high school use when I was there late working on the school paper. The broom’s business end was four feet across and could slide under the pews to grab the tiniest speck of dust.

  I jumped out of my seat and knocked my knee on the edge of the pew. I winced and gripped my knee. There would be a bruise there come the next day. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “A prayerful person is always welcome in an open church. Please sit back down. You seem to have knocked yourself quite hard there on the edge. I’ve done that a time or two. It does ache ye.” He smiled.

  I did as I was told, not so much because he told me to do it but because my knee was killing me.

  As if he could read my mind from earlier, he added, “The church is opened to less prayerful people as well. It is open to all.”

  I shifted on my seat.

  “The pew isn’t as comfortable as you would like?” he asked.

  “It’s not,” I conceded. “It’s not much like what I had back home.”

  He smiled. “I bet those seats are quite cushy. You might even want to take a nap in them.”

  I nodded. I didn’t admit that I’d dozed off in the pews of my home church more times than I could count.

  “In the Church of Scotland, the goal is not comfort. Old John Knox was a proponent of repentance, and he thought the more uncomfortable you were in the pew, the quicker you’d repent. Do you have anything to repent, miss?”

  “Don’t we all?” I asked.

  He grinned, and as he did, I noticed that a few of his teeth were missing. Hamish had a few teeth missing too. It seemed to be common in older Scottish men.

  I slid out of the pew with as much grace as possible, but I banged my hip on the end. Another bruise to add to the collection. “I just was peeking at the sanctuary. I haven’t been in here in a very long time. I’m Fiona Knox. My godfather, Ian MacCallister, was a member of this church for his entire life.”

  “Aye, Ian was a good man. I respected him for coming to services here when he wasn’t being deployed to some godforsaken corner of the world. He and the old minister weren’t chums, but I am sure that you already knew that.”

  I nodded.

  He held his right hand out to me. My small hand disappeared into his giant fist, and his skin was just as calloused as I’d expected it to be.

  “Malcolm Wilson, church sexton. And you have a fine name to be in the Church of Scotland with the name Knox. John Knox would be proud to know one of his relatives was in the church that he built.”

  “John Knox built this church?”

  He smiled. “Not the brick and mortar, but he is the one who brought Calvin’s teachings to Scotland and began our state church.”

  “I don’t think I’m a direct descendent,” I said.

  “You should do your genealogy then and find out. I could help you. When I’m not caring for St. Thomas’s, I spend most of my time on the computer finding all the historical figures who share my blood. I’m a direct descendent from William the Conqueror, for one. I don’t talk about that much, though, since he’s not a Scot.”

  I opened my mouth to ask a question, but he was faster.

  “The minister didn’t care for Duncreigan, as I’m sure you know. He warned against trusting in anything other than the power of God.”

  “I don’t claim to have the power of God, and my godfather Ian MacCallister was a member of the Church of Scotland. He would never have argued against the power of God either.”

  “We have been hearing much about you from the pulpit,” Malcolm said.

  I grimaced. “Bernice Brennan told me that as well.”

  “Aye.” He nodded. “Bernice is a good woman. She cares for this place and the people. I believe his last sermon said we should embrace the history of the church and not let new people in the village distract us. You’re the only new member of the village, as far as I know. And you are a lovely lass with those bright blue eyes and raven-colored waves. I could see how some might be distracted by ye.”

  I blushed.

  “It is difficult to lose a minister who has been at the helm of the parish for so long, but …” He stopped himself and said, “As you can imagine, everyone in the congregation was in a great shock.”

  I nodded. “I’m sure the congregation feels a great loss.”

  “The minister was not the easiest man to get along with, but you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  I raised my eyebrow.

  “I saw that little scuffle between you at the church door.”

  My face felt hot.

  “I would guess that everyone in the village has heard that story by now.”

  “Great,” I muttered.

  “Despite his temper, Minister MacCullen was a good shepherd. He kept people in the pews and money in the church coffers. That’s more than a lot of pleasant ministers can accomplish.”

  I considered this in light of what Bernice had told me about the congregation’s loyalty to the church and community.

  “Now, lass, tell me why you are really here.”

  I blinked up at him. “What do you mean?”

  “You aren’t here merely to see the inside of the church and reminisce. I know you solved Alastair Croft’s murder in May, or at least you helped the chief inspector solve it. Are you meddling again? Because I don’t think that is wise.”

  I opened and closed my mouth. Was this another warning like the writing on the to-do list?

  “I have already spoke to Chief Inspector Craig,” Malcolm went on as I tried to decipher his last statement. “So I don’t know what I can tell you that will help. I imagine he has told you everything.”

  I almost laughed but stopped myself in the nick of time. “Why would you think the chief inspector has told me anything about the case?”

  “It is well known in the village that he cares for ye.” He started to sweep the aisle, dipping the broom under the pews as he went.

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it, lass?” he asked as he moved up the aisle. “When you really stop and think on it? Is it ridiculous?”

  I followed him down the aisle. “What did you tell the chief inspector?”

  “What did he say I told him?”

  “Nothing. He didn’t tell me anything. That would go against his training as a police officer, so it w
ould be helpful to me if you could tell me everything that you told him. I am interested in the case.” I didn’t see any point in hiding it from him.

  He nodded. “Verra well, but you will have to come with me to the garden if you would like to hear my tales about the minister. I have much weeding and watering to do.”

  “The garden?” I asked. As always, any mention of a garden perked me up.

  He nodded. “The village has a community garden, and on a hot day like today, it could use some extra attention.”

  The temperature was supposed to reach twenty-three degrees Celsius that afternoon, which was about seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit. That would be downright cold at the height of summer in Tennessee, but in Scotland it was shorts weather. Well, at least to the Scots. Not to me.

  “Follow me, lass.” He carried his broom to the corner of the sanctuary and nestled it there before going through the door next to the corner.

  After a moment’s hesitation, I followed him. The doorway led into a narrow corridor. If I’d held my hands out from my body, my palms would have been flat against the stone walls. There was an open door to my right, through which I could see the corner of the altar and the curved stairs that led to the pulpit platform.

  Malcolm passed the doorway, walking deeper into the corridor. When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see a crack of light around a door at the end of the hallway. Malcolm opened the door, and the abrupt bright sunlight flooded the space, blinding me for a moment. It was so severe, I thought I was being thrown back into a vision like the ones the garden had given me.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Much to my relief, the vision I expected to overtake me never came. It was hard enough to receive them in my dreams or when I touched the menhir in the garden. I didn’t want to get them at random as well.

  I hurried out the door after the sexton. The church door closed with a thud behind me, and I found myself in a vegetable garden surrounded by a wooden fence that came up to my hip. In the back corner of the garden, there was a large shed with three rain barrels sitting on cinder blocks, and beyond the fence, I had my first clear glimpse of the chapel ruins.

  The bright sunlight reflected off the moss crawling along the crumbing stones of the foundation and one standing wall.

  I turned back to Malcolm and the garden, which was bursting with vegetables and herbs. “The garden seems to be doing very well.”

  “It is,” he said proudly. “Villagers signed up to take care of the grounds and grow fresh produce for their family, because for the most part they don’t have the land to do it around their own homes. I know you can understand the need to garden to reconnect with the earth.”

  “Nothing makes me calmer than gardening or working with flowers. I wouldn’t say I am an artist, but it is definitely a medium I love.”

  “I suppose it’s different in America. On all of the television shows, everyone has big houses with expansive yards.”

  “Not everyone lives like that, but I did grow up with a lot of green space on a Tennessee farm. My closest neighbor was a mile away.”

  He grinned, showing off his missing teeth again. “We have a real American farm girl here in our little village, then.”

  “I don’t know if I qualify as a farm girl any longer. I’ve lived in an apartment in Nashville for the last six years.”

  He grinned. “Once a farm girl, always a farm girl.”

  I clicked my tongue. “Don’t you let my sister Isla hear that. She’s doing her very best to leave her farm girl image behind.”

  “Ah, I think she should be happy for it. Not many children grow up with so much space and freedom.”

  I didn’t reply. He was right that the farm had had plenty of space, but freedom less so. There were always chores to be done, all day every day. It didn’t matter if you didn’t feel like it or were tired. It didn’t matter if it was Easter or Christmas. Daily chores had to get done.

  Malcolm walked over to the rain barrels and attached a hose to the first barrel. “The tomatoes, in particular, need lots of water. In the heat, I like to water them twice a day.”

  “I used to grow tomatoes in pots on my patio back in Nashville. They did well there. They like hot and humid weather.”

  “Maybe you can help. Tomatoes have always been a challenge for me. They aren’t made for Scotland, I gather. Maybe you can give me some advice as to why my tomato plants grow so slowly.”

  “I can surely try.” I glanced at his tomato plants, which were rather petite for this late in the growing season. “Can I help you water while we talk?”

  He smiled at me. “I will never turn down an extra set of hands. Wait until you see how the barrels work. I made them myself. The water runs through the gutter on the shed and fills each barrel, and when I turn on the hose, the pressure inside the barrel pushes the water out. The barrels are up on cinder blocks because that increases the pressure inside.”

  He pumped water out the bottom of the rain barrel, and after a bit of gurgling, it came out of the hose. In no time at all, it watered the carrot and cabbage gardens.

  “How much water does one of those rain barrels hold?” I asked.

  “Sixty gallons each, and we have three of them, so we can collect one hundred and eighty gallons of water. Of course, the storm from two nights ago filled our barrels to the brim.” He handed me the hose.

  “Will there be more rain? Or are storms like that few and far between?” I asked as I pointed the hose on a bed of lettuce and kale.

  He looked up at the crystal-clear blue sky. “If the conditions are any indication, I’m going to say yes. The sky is telling me yes, there will be more rain.”

  I bent my neck all the way back and looked at the sky too. I wondered what in the bright blue sky told him that rain would come. To me, it looked like it might never rain again. I returned to my task of watering the garden. Just like when I watered at Duncreigan, the act soothed me. Gardening and working with flowers was the one place I could find my equilibrium. It was when I felt most in control over what I was doing and most like myself.

  I moved the hose from the lettuce and kale to the broccoli and cauliflower, which were still in the early days of growing. “I like your rain barrel setup. Would you be interested in making a similar setup for Duncreigan? I’d love to take advantage of all the rain we get in Aberdeenshire.”

  He blushed ever so slightly, and the redness to his cheeks was made more pronounced by his striking white hair. “Why, I would be honored to do that for Duncreigan. I have never seen the garden and have always been curious about it. This community garden was my idea. I have been wanting to do it for years, but Minister MacCullen was always against it.”

  “Why?”

  He shook his head. “It is hard to say why the minister took a stance against the issues he did. When I brought it up this year yet again, he said yes as if I hadn’t asked for the same thing a half dozen times before.”

  I frowned. It was strange that the minister had had a sudden change of heart. “How much would you charge to set up rain barrels at Duncreigan?”

  He pressed his lips together as if in deep thought. “How are you watering now?”

  I turned the hose onto the next raised bed—this one was beans. “There is a well in the garden with a water pump attached to a hose similar to this. We certainly get enough rain to fill the well, but by using your system, I can help the well last much longer.”

  He cupped his chin with his hand. “I can tell that you have given this a lot of thought.”

  I nodded. “Of course I have. Water is essential for a happy garden.”

  Malcolm nodded as if in approval. “I can see Ian made the right choice when he left Duncreigan to you. You do care about it and want to see it flourish. There were many who questioned Ian’s decision when it came to be known in the village, but clearly, he knew what he was doing.”

  “Who did they think the garden should have gone to?”

  He rubbed his chin. “Everyone agree
d it should go to someone from the village and certainly not an American.” He smiled. “No offense, I hope.”

  “None taken.” I moved the spray to the next vegetable bed. This one, I believed, was carrots and radishes. It was hard to tell because the shoots were small and barely above the ground. “Did the minister ever share what he thought should happen to the garden? Was there someone he thought that it should go to?”

  He shook his head. “If he’d had his way, Duncreigan would have been burned to the ground after Ian MacCallister’s death.”

  I shivered. I didn’t have any doubt that that was exactly was the minister would have wanted.

  Malcolm cleared his throat as if he thought he had said something wrong. He hadn’t; he had only spoken the truth illustrating the minister’s hatred for Duncreigan. The only problem was, why had the minister felt so strongly about the garden and about the MacCallisters?

  I was finishing watering the carrots when my stream of water stopped abruptly. “Are the barrels out of water?”

  He frowned. “Nay, they shouldn’t be, not with the amount of rain that we had.” He took the hose from my hand and tested it. A pathetic trickle came out. “Something must be wrong.” Malcolm examined the nozzle and then squatted in front of the barrel. He removed the hose from where it connected to the first rain barrel, and only a small drip of water came out of the opening.

  With a frown, he said, “Something must be blocking the hole. I should be soaked by now. I wonder if a stone or leaves got in there.” His frown deepened. “Any debris should have been stopped by the mesh top.”

  I squatted on the ground a few feet away from him and peered into the hole, but saw nothing but blackness.

  He stuck his index finger into the hole. “There is definitely something blocking the hole, but I can’t grab it. My fingers are too large. Maybe you will have better luck.” He scooted back from the opening, and I crouched in front of it.