Died in the Wool

by Melinda Mullet

  Chapter 10

  I put the phone on hands free and called Amanda at Woolies as I wound my way back down through the valley toward the Haven.

  “I think I’ve found an answer for Nora. A friend with a ten-year-old son and lots of wide-open spaces here in Balfour.”

  “Do you think she’ll qualify as a foster parent?”

  “She still has her clearances from working in the local school system and I have a friend in the police department in Stirling who’ll vouch for her. Should be enough. We’ll get in touch with social services and get the ball rolling.”

  “Thanks, Abi, you’ve been such a lifesaver.”

  “Still nothing from Sheila?”

  “No.” There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “I’m scared, and I don’t think the cops are taking this as seriously as they should.”

  “I know. I’m scared for her, too,” I admitted. “The police are asking questions but I don’t think they’re asking the right ones. I don’t believe for one minute that Sheila was involved in Jenny’s death; she was extremely fond of her and genuinely upset. On top of that, she had no motive for wanting to harm Jenny. That having been said, the police aren’t usually completely wrong. I’ve started to wonder if Sheila might’ve been linked to Jenny’s death in a different way. Maybe she knew something about Jenny and Ross that made Ross nervous. Something that could connect him in some way to her death.”

  “If she did, she would have said so,” Amanda insisted.

  “Agreed, unless she didn’t realize she knew it. Maybe she hadn’t put two and two together, or maybe she did at the last minute and arranged to meet with Ross to confront him and he panicked.”

  “But how do we prove that?”

  “If Jenny told Sheila something, maybe she told one of the other girls, too.”

  “If she did, they’re scared and not talking. Not to me, anyway,” Amanda said. “And if someone is holding a secret that got Sheila killed, they aren’t likely to speak up themselves.”

  “We need a mole,” I said thoughtfully. “Someone who can come in from the outside and pass for a victim of abuse. Someone that the girls might decide to confide in.” I thought for a few minutes and Fiona came to mind. She could do it, but she was in the midst of planning her wedding and was literally glowing with happiness. She’d never be able to pass herself off as a downtrodden victim of abuse, and she certainly couldn’t afford to be gone right now. Then there was Trish. She definitely had a flair for the dramatic, but would she have the sense to not give herself away and would she know what to look for? She’d finished all the work I’d given her for now. I’d been forced to acknowledge that she was infinitely more competent than I’d originally given her credit for and she could talk the paint off a wall. “I might have someone who could help,” I said, “but let me see. In the meantime, text me the name of the social services woman and I’ll have my police friend reach out to her directly. Let’s see if we can expedite things for Nora’s sake.”

  I hung up with Amanda and called Michaelson again. I was sure that I was fast wearing out my welcome.

  “You’ve used up your quota of goodwill for this week, Logan,” he answered.

  “This is a small favor. Hardly even a favor at all. More of a personal matter.”

  Michaelson sighed heavily. “What is it?”

  I quickly explained about Sheila’s disappearance and Nora’s predicament.

  “I’m not sure social services will relish my interference,” Michaelson insisted.

  “How would you feel if it were Gracie?” I asked. Michaelson would do anything for his own daughter, and had. I knew I could win him over with an appeal to his paternal side.

  “Alright, I’d hate to see a vulnerable kid dumped into care without some kind of support network. Besides, they’re always short families willing to foster in the cities. Send me the contact info and I’ll see what I can do.”

  The short drive back to the Haven had been productive. Back in my own kitchen, I poured myself a whisky and sat at the table contemplating the hills in the fading light. Grant was angry. I couldn’t blame him. His injury had been a freak accident and grossly unfair, but we hadn’t really addressed the ghost in the room, Brenna. He was not a man happily marching off to wedded bliss. Not that I begrudged anyone a storybook happy ending if they could find one. It just wasn’t something I’d ever planned on myself. I carried too much baggage. Physical and emotional injuries from the past that would continue to haunt me. Now he was carrying baggage of his own. Maybe enough to scuttle his relationship with Brenna.

  I watched as Oscar wandered into the yard and began nibbling on some grass at the edge of the flower borders. Liam strolled in close behind, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. How Oscar continued to find his way out of the home pasture was a mystery to me. He and Liam had some sort of arrangement that was working well for them. I suspected Liam of growing an opposable thumb while I wasn’t looking, but he simply wagged and went on about his doggie business. Oscar would stay wherever Liam was, but I did have to worry about Agatha. She was my wanderer. I headed out to the front of the house to re-latch the pasture gate and found Patrick leaning out the front window of his car and waving an arm at Agatha, who was standing her ground in front of his Mercedes.

  “Shoo,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances. He caught my eye as I crossed the yard. “Call off the guard sheep.”

  “She pretty much does as she likes,” I replied. I approached Ag and gave her a scratch between the ears before nudging her with my hip in the direction of the open gate. She resisted for a moment and I reached into my pocket and pulled out a sheep treat. Yes, there is such a thing. I gave her half and then used the rest as a lure to encourage her in the direction of the home pasture. By the time she was restrained again, Patrick had parked and made his way to the front porch.

  “Bar’s open,” I said, escorting him into the kitchen. “Help yourself.”

  Patrick poured himself a drink and came to join me at the table. Patrick’s eyes lacked their usual sparkle, and the dark smudges underneath hinted at a cocktail of sleepless nights and stress.

  “What’s up with you?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “I’ve known you almost half my life. I can tell when something’s wrong.”

  Patrick played with the rim of his glass for a minute. “I suppose now that the anger is wearing off a bit, I miss CJ, or maybe I just miss the idea of having someone in my life.” Patrick and Chris Jeffries had been partners for more than four years until CJ decided to take a new job with the BBC and leave all of his old ties behind—including Patrick.

  “The idea or the convenience?”

  “Both, I suppose, but as hurt as I was at the time, I have to admit he wasn’t wrong—we’d drifted into a static relationship. It was time to move on. He was just the first one to say it.” Patrick took another drink. “Of course, he could’ve said it less heartlessly.”

  I moved over and draped an arm around Patrick, my head on his shoulder. “He was a jerk.” I put on an appalling Russian accent. “You vant I should go after him? I could rearrange his pretty face.”

  Patrick chuckled. “Tempting, but we’re older now, you and me. Revenge isn’t as fun as it used to be.”

  “Speak for yourself,” I said.

  “We all have our relationship issues,” I sighed. “Did I mention that Grant’s engaged?”

  Patrick looked as if I’d slapped him across the face. “You’re kidding?”

  “Brenna referred to herself as his fiancée the other day and he didn’t correct her. Cam even congratulated them.”

  “And you?”

  “I did, too. Bad manners not to, but I have to say, I didn’t see that one coming. Not yet, at any rate.”

  “I’m sorry, old thing.”


  “Don’t be. It isn’t over till it’s over, and I think there’s more to this situation than meets the eye, but if it’s genuine, then maybe it’s for the best.”

  “You can’t just give in, and more important, you can’t keep hiding.”

  “Look who’s talking?” I challenged. “You retreated up here, tail between your legs, after you and CJ broke up.”

  “But at least I dove into the relationship waters in the first place,” Patrick replied. “You just stand on the edge of the pool, dipping a toe in every now and then. Ever thought about why?”

  “I’m a lousy swimmer,” I snapped.

  “Suit yourself, but maybe you should think about your commitment phobia.”

  We fell into a peevish silence, both staring into our drinks. I didn’t want to dwell on my own shortcomings, but Patrick had planted the thought in my head and now my psyche was batting it around like a cat with a mouse. Why was I so scared of commitment? What did I have to lose? The first thought that sprang to mind was—me. I’d been spoiled all my life; Ben doted on me as an uncle and surrogate father, and although his love and generosity of spirit had been no substitute for the loss of my parents, without it I would have floundered. I had his steadfast presence to thank for making me the fiercely independent woman I am now.

  In the face of his strength of character, other men were mere cardboard stand-ups. Two-dimensional figures of momentary distraction. Most made insecure by the intensity of my job and my commitment to it. Being embedded somewhere for months on end and forgetting to call, even when I could, I’d left a chain of destruction in my wake.

  Now there was a man of substance in front of me. Was it pure selfishness that made me reluctant to dive headfirst into a relationship? Or was it fear?

  I shook off the oppressive self-assessment and turned back to Patrick. “Come on. I’ll bet you haven’t eaten. I have a couple of Shiobhan’s extremely flaky pasties from the pub. Good for broken hearts and low blood sugar.”

  “Sounds great.” Patrick watched as I puttered around the kitchen. “I guess if I’m honest, I’m kind of lonely,” he admitted. “Stepping away from CJ was probably a good thing, but I haven’t had time to make new friends since I got up here.”

  “You have me.”

  “And don’t think that isn’t important,” Patrick said earnestly. “But you know what I mean.”

  “You haven’t met anyone interesting? I find that surprising.”

  “There’s one person.

  “Do tell.”

  “His name’s Gordon Wright. He’s the head chef/owner of a new restaurant in town. Does fabulous things with fresh fish and game.”

  “Sounds promising. Any interest on his part?”

  “He keeps inviting me to come in for dinner, but he doesn’t really have much time off. Restaurant business is brutal, you know.”

  “Even chefs have to eat sometime.” I looked at Patrick with wide eyes. “There’s always breakfast.”

  “Very funny, but the problem is I’m crazy busy, too. Things have been brutal at work for me this past month. Honestly, I’m knackered. I was hoping I could take advantage of your spare room and not have to drive back tonight.”

  “Of course you can.” Patrick left a set of toiletries in the guest room upstairs and used the place like his own personal weekend retreat, but I didn’t mind. His company was always welcome. I popped the pasties into the oven and turned back to Patrick. “But you’ll have to sing for your bed-and-breakfast, not to mention your supper. Follow me. What you need is a little mental stimulation to distract you from your cares and woes.”

  Patrick kicked off his shoes and padded behind me into the library, dropping into the armchair by the ornate fireplace.

  I pulled a stack of index cards from the top desk drawer. I always thought best visually, and posting our puzzle pieces on the wall had been Patrick’s and my way of pulling together difficult stories since our early days as reporters. I wrote Jenny Woodyard and Sheila Kinkaid on the first two cards and taped them to the top of the glass doors of Ben’s whisky cabinet. Funny, I still thought of it as Ben’s vintage whisky collection, even though it was technically my whisky collection now.

  “Hard to concentrate with all that gorgeous whisky staring at me,” Patrick hinted with all the subtlety of a freight train at full throttle.

  “Go pour yourself something special, then. But hustle on back and lend me your brain.”

  “What’s left of it is all yours,” Patrick replied, scurrying like a kid to check out the treats behind the glass doors.

  While he was pouring, I wrote out two other cards, Duncan Ross and Richard Urquhart, and inserted them vertically in the space between the two women’s cards.

  Patrick settled back into the chair and crossed his legs up underneath him, leaning forward and giving me his full attention. “Tell me what you have.”

  “Jenny Woodyard, late twenties, victim of an abusive husband. Came to the shelter about eight weeks ago. Working as a home healthcare aide for the council and supplementing her income babysitting for Duncan Ross,” I said, pointing to his card. “She worked for him the evening before she was found dead, in fact. Taken home by Mrs. Ross.” I added Lila Ross on a card next to Duncan’s. “Jenny was discovered in her room the next morning by her friend across the hall, Cheryl Pullman. Jenny took Prozac for depression and a nearly empty bottle was found by her bed. Police toxicology report found Prozac, alcohol, and Rohypnol in her system.”

  “Death caused by?” Patrick prompted.

  “No commitment from the lab. Any, or all, or any combination thereof.”

  “Where did she get the Rohypnol?” Patrick swirled the whisky in his glass.

  “The police think Duncan Ross. He’s one of those quiet guys you have to watch for.” I wrote unsettling, cold, and predatory on his card.

  Patrick cocked his head at me. “The police think. What about you?”

  “Ross is the obvious choice, but the timing seems off to me. If Ross gave Jenny a heavily spiked drink when he came home shortly after ten o’clock, she should’ve been a mess by ten thirty, and yet, Ross’s wife arrived home around that time according to the maid, and Jenny was still upright and talking.”

  “Doesn’t quite make sense,” Patrick agreed.

  “When I first talked to her friends at the shelter, they said she was tired but still functional when she arrived home at eleven. Later they changed their story and said she came upstairs but they had to help her to bed because she was unsteady.” I shook my head. “Neither story makes sense to me. Then again, I don’t know much about Rohypnol. Maybe it’s not as debilitating as I think.”

  Patrick leaned back in his chair and took a lingering taste of the whisky in his hand. I was sure I’d lost his attention at that point, but after a moment’s reflection he picked up the thread of the conversation. “It’s debilitating all right. I did a piece on date-rape drugs a few years ago. A friend of mine was a victim and I wanted to help throw some light on the subject. Rohypnol is one of the most popular drugs because it doesn’t take a great deal to make the victim forgetful and unable to resist. It’s like Valium on steroids.”

  “How long would you think it would take to kick in?”

  “Twenty to thirty minutes. The effects peak in the first couple of hours, but the aftereffects can linger for eight hours or more.”

  “If Ross was to blame, Jenny should’ve been woozy by the time the wife came home and would have been unable to crawl up the stairs unaided when she got home.”

  “Fair point, but I’m sure the police will pick up on that inconsistency, too.” Patrick tilted his glass toward the cards on the wall. “What about Sheila Kincaid?”

  “Sheila’s my main worry right now,” I admitted. “She went missing sometime in the middle of last night. Left without her phone, her wallet, and, most important, her
eleven-year-old daughter. I’ve met this woman. She’s been living and working at the Rest for the past nine months. She’s dependable, hardworking, and she adores that child. I can’t see any way she would just disappear without leaving a note or something.”

  “Then why did she leave in such a hurry?”

  “The police think her departure is related in some way to Jenny’s death. They’re trying to suggest she was involved in some way, but I don’t buy it. If her disappearance is related to Jenny, it’s only because Sheila found out something about how Jenny died that put her at risk.”

  “Do you think that’s possible?” Patrick asked.

  “It’s not impossible, but if she knew something, I feel she would’ve told the police. Of course, Ross might’ve just thought she knew something, but I have trouble seeing him having the backbone to take anyone on face-to-face unless they were weak, and Sheila wasn’t weak.”

  “Other options?”

  “Richard Urquhart,” I said tapping his card. “Sheila spoke to him during the day before she disappeared. I believe she challenged him in some way about the move. I don’t know what she said, but he’s very volatile. If she crossed him, I could see him deciding she was expendable and taking steps to get rid of her.” I added the words unsentimental, calculating, and secretive to Urquhart’s card. “Either way, Amanda’s convinced Sheila didn’t leave of her own free will and I agree.”

  “Okay, two reasonable suspects: Ross and Urquhart. That reminds me, did you see I forwarded you a list of companies renting from Urquhart?” Patrick asked, savoring the last of his whisky.

  “No, I haven’t checked my messages recently.”

  “Urquhart has leasing arrangements with two large hotel chains, a half-dozen restaurants, and a company called Winterpoint, which owns a dozen or so senior care facilities.”