Unfortunately, when Duncan's Den came into view, Rory was gone. Doc, too. Only McCartney remained, taking pictures of a chalked outline.
Diana ran the rest of the way, shouting to McCartney, “How long have they been gone?”
McCartney pointed in the direction of the parking lot. “A few minutes.”
Without looking back or asking permission, Diana took off. But halfway to the edge of town, the siren started up its wail again before slowly beginning to fade.
Diana wanted to wail, too. She kept running, even though she knew the ambulance had to be halfway up the bluff by now.
When she got to the parking lot, it was empty.
Her heart ached. She’d failed to see Rory. What if he’d come to and she’d missed her opportunity to tell him in person everything she felt in her heart? How her life was forever changed because of him. How he might be the most perfect man for her. And how she couldn’t imagine going on without him.
She was breathing hard, and then hyperventilating.
The quilters arrived. Bethia laid a hand on her back and made Diana bend over.
“It’s okay, Lass. It’s going to be okay. Doc is with him.”
But Diana understood how bullets ended lives. They’d ended her father’s. In a way, her mother’s too, as she’d never found love again.
Bethia pulled out her phone. “I’ll text Doc right now and tell him to give us an update as soon as he can.”
Deydie wrapped her arm around Diana’s waist. “Let’s get back to Quilting Central. Ye’re going to freeze to death without yere coat.” Deydie slipped out of hers and put it around Diana’s shoulders. But it only brought back memories of wearing Rory’s oversized coat.
Feeling defeated, Diana went along quietly with the quilters. The sea was calm, as if in deference to what had happened in Gandiegow today.
When they arrived at Quilting Central, Diana picked up her notebook and went to one of the tables to sit alone. Deydie and Bethia brought her a hot drink and a sandwich but she didn’t touch them.
Diana twisted around to see who was left in Quilting Central and knocked her notebook to the floor. It fell open to her murder board. As she glanced at it and began scribbling, trying to draw parallels and get insight into who had shot Rory and was committing these murders.
A fire burned within. She would find the person who was avenging the Buttermilk Guild. She would put an end to this madness. If Deydie or anyone else tried to stop her, Diana would use Deydie’s broom to ward them off.
Diana glanced over at Marta before compiling a list of questions for her. She wished she had access to Rory’s notebook, the one he’d used during all the interviews he’d conducted.
A crazy idea came to her. Maybe his notepad had fallen out of his pocket during the shooting! She popped up and hurried for the door.
Deydie, apparently, had brought her broom inside, because she held it out now, blocking the doorway. “Ye’re not going anywhere. We’re to keep ye safe…here.”
Ham walked through the door at that moment, stopping short at the sight of the broom.
“I’ll take Ham with me for protection,” Diana said impulsively. “I won’t be gone long.”
Deydie squinted at Diana, as if trying to read her mind. “Where do you mean to go?”
“Duncan's Den,” Diana said honestly.
Hamilton nodded. “Aye. I can watch over her.”
Deydie raised the broom like a drawbridge and let Diana pass through to the door.
Once outside, Ham gave her a sympathetic look. “Are ye all right?”
“I’m fine.” Though Diana felt a sense of urgency.
“Ye’ve been through an ordeal--” he began.
“No.” Not me. Rory’s the one who’s been through an ordeal. And is fighting for his life. “Let’s hurry.” Diana wanted to get this over with and then back to Quilting Central to see if there’d been any word from Doc MacGregor.
When they arrived at Duncan's Den, McCartney was standing outside, holding his phone to his ear. He said goodbye and hung up.
“Was that about Rory?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Forensics will be here in an hour. Unless there’s cattle in the road like last time.”
As inconspicuously as possible, Diana looked at the ground, her eyes darting here and there, hoping to see Rory’s notebook lying in the bushes. Why couldn’t McCartney have been inside? If she found the notebook, it might be considered evidence. At the very least, it was police property, and McCartney wouldn’t let her have it.
“What are ye looking for, Ms. McKellan?” McCartney asked.
She cursed his keen observation.
She didn’t see the notebook and decided it couldn’t hurt to ask. “The Detective Chief Inspector’s notebook. I was wondering if it fell out when he was…when he was…” She just couldn’t bring herself to say when he was shot. She hated to think that Rory had taken a bullet for her, though she wasn’t sure if she was the target or not. Another item I’ll have to add to my list.
McCartney glanced around, too. “I haven’t seen it. But it’s an excellent question. When the hospital calls, I’ll see if it’s with the DCI’s belongings.” He eyed her closely. “Was there something else you needed?”
She shook her head, trying to cover her disappointment. “No. Just wondering if it had been found. Thanks for letting me know. If you hear anything about—” she’d almost said Rory “—the Detective Chief Inspector, will you let me know?”
“Aye. As soon as I know anything,” McCartney promised.
“Thanks.” She turned around and walked back to Quilting Central with Hamilton as her escort. She felt more determined than ever to find the killer on her own.
As she opened the door to Quilting Central, her eyes searched for Marta and found her sipping coffee with Cait. Diana went to her, grabbing the video camera from the table as she passed.
“Any word on Rory?” Cait asked. She didn’t seem concerned about using his first name.
“Not yet,” Diana said.
“It’s too soon anyway,” Cait said. “They probably haven’t made it to the hospital yet.”
That thought didn’t ease Diana’s fear.
“Here. Come sit,” Cait said, looking concerned. She must’ve seen the blood drain from Diana’s face.
Diana shook her head. “I can’t. I’m on a mission. Marta? I need you.” Diana held up the camera.
Reluctantly, Marta rose. “What do you want from me this time?”
“I want to take some footage of you working with the quilters.” And ask you a million questions. Diana looked around the room. “Where’s Tilly?”
“I’m not my sister’s keeper.” But then Marta frowned, as if giving in. “I don’t know. She’s probably in the restroom.”
“Speaking of Tilly,” Diana said nonchalantly. “Why does your sister carry a tourniquet with her?”
Marta rolled her eyes. “It’s Tilly being Tilly.”
“That’s not much of an explanation.”
“Tilly says it’s part of her EDC.”
“What’s an EDC?” Diana asked.
Marta was clearly irritated, like she’d been asked to explain something to an idiot. “EDC means every day carry. You see the bag she lugs around.”
“I assumed it contained items for you,” Diana said.
“Yes, some, but other things in there are for emergencies.” Marta leaned closer to Diana. “Tilly’s a little paranoid. She is constantly reading about crimes and murders and it’s made her…” Marta’s index finger circled near her temple, making the universal sign for crazy. “Wacky.”
“So what’s the tourniquet for?” Diana pushed. She remembered how angry Tilly had seemed when she saw Diana staring at it.
“I don’t know,” Marta said. “Tilly took a course in first aid, so she’d be prepared for anything.”
Just then, Tilly emerged from the restroom with her large bag looped over her shoulder. She looked like a woman who had b
een beaten down by life. Maybe having her EDC helped her feel better, Diana surmised. As if she had some control over her life.
“Thanks, Marta,” Diana said.
“For what?” Marta asked.
“Just because,” Diana said. “Now, can you go stand by Deydie and Bethia? Pretend you’re discussing how to make the Gandiegow Rosette quilt.”
Marta did as she was asked, while Diana raised her camera and hit record. Just then, Bethia’s phone rang. The elderly woman took it out of her pocket and answered.
Diana rushed over, forgetting all about the camera. “Is it about Rory?”
Bethia nodded, while listening intently. “Aye. Thanks for calling.” She hung up.
“What is it?” Diana said, bracing herself for bad news.
“They’ve made it to the hospital,” Bethia answered.
“And?” Diana wanted to shake the nice woman.
Bethia gave Diana a look of deep concern. “DCI Crannach is still unconscious. He’s being examined now, and a surgery theatre is being prepared to remove the bullet fragments. There’s really nothing else to report.”
Diana was in a tug-of-war with herself, wanting to be by Rory’s side, but also determined to solve this case.
Bethia rubbed her back. “As soon as Doc MacGregor lets us know that DCI Crannach is out of surgery, we’ll go to the hospital.”
“Does that mean Rory’s going to be okay?”
Bethia gave her a sad kind of look. “We don’t know yet, lass. To be honest Doc and the others are concerned that the lad hasn’t woken up yet.”
Diana went cold, as if the chill of death had passed through her. There was no denying the truth—Rory wasn’t going to make it.
“Ye need to go lie down,” Deydie commanded. “Ham will take ye. Bethia and Sadie will go with ye, too.”
Tilly hurried over. “I’ll go with ye.” She looked over at Marta.
“Tilly, you don’t have to come,” Diana protested. “Stay here in case Marta needs you. Maybe you could take some video for me?” She held out the camera.
Tilly gently pushed the camera back to Diana. “I’d rather go. Marta says I’m hovering.”
“Okay,” Diana acquiesced, knowing Tilly needed a break from her sister, too.
Sadie grabbed her sewing basket. “I’ll do some hand-stitching while ye rest.”
But Diana wasn’t planning on resting. She intended to work on her murder board, and dig into Marta’s motives and opportunity for the murders.
Hamilton escorted them all to Duncan's Den and then left for the dock. Once inside, Bethia made a beeline for the kitchen, while Diana snuck off to her bedroom to be alone.
She laid the camera on the side table before pulling back her Gandiegow Library quilt and climbing underneath. She propped her head against the Kilts & Quilts sham that she’d made. At least she had these good things to remember Scotland by.
There was a knock at her door. Diana shoved her notebook under her quilt. “Come in.”
Tilly entered with a tray and a mug of something steaming. “Bethia made you a cup of herbal tea to help you rest.”
“Thanks.” Diana didn’t want to rest, but the liquid smelled so inviting—lavender and chamomile—that she took a sip.
“Have a nice nap,” Tilly said and quietly left the room.
Diana sipped and sipped at the delicious tea before downing the whole cup. As she went to set the mug on the side table, she had an interesting thought. What if there’s some hidden evidence on the video?
She set the camera on her lap. But before she could start the playback, Diana felt overcome by sleepiness. She leaned her head back on the pillow.
But something was off. She felt foggy, too. Everything seemed to be going dark.
Off in a distant part of her mind, Diana wondered if Bethia or Tilly had drugged her. But before she could examine the thought any further, Diana slipped into blackness.
* * *
With night falling quickly, Ham pulled anchor on Brodie’s boat and headed back to Gandiegow. He was glad he’d offered to do the evening haul for his friend. It was good Brodie and Rachel were getting out of the village for a date night, especially since their home had been the scene of a crime. Things in Gandiegow had been seriously screwed up since Marta Dixon and her entourage had arrived.
Gandiegow from the water was a sight to behold—idyllic, charming—and he was proud to be a life-long resident. As the darkness fell, streetlamps flickered on, glowing green at first, before turning to bright white. The cottages’ windows lit up, too. From this distance, Ham could just make out the outline of his own boat that he shared with his brother. He was glad the boat was seaworthy again because no fisherman liked being anchored to the land for too long. But while he’d been on the water this evening, he couldn’t help but worry about what had been happening back in the village. Although the view of Gandiegow from the sea was beautiful, he was anxious to get to shore.
As he got closer, he saw a woman standing by the streetlamp, the one that sat closest to the harbor. The woman was smoking a cigarette and he could tell from her stance that it was Marta Dixon. She was looking toward the sea, with her back to the village.
What is she doing outside all alone? But it didn’t exactly surprise Ham. Marta was always trying to slip away from him to have a private smoke. He guessed she’d given MacTaggart or McCartney the slip, too.
Ham steamed toward shore, ready to give Marta a piece of his mind. Hadn’t the village seen enough calamity since she’d arrived? He certainly didn’t want her to be the next victim.
As his boat chugged nearer, Ham saw a fisherman approaching Marta from behind, wearing Wellies and dressed in black raingear. One of the locals was probably going to tell her to get her arse back to Quilting Central. But as the fisherman got closer, he raised a long pole. What the hell is he doing?
Ham got the awful feeling that the fisherman wasn’t there to protect Marta, but to waylay her.
Ham reached for the cord of the foghorn and gave it three short tugs. The low booming of the horn burst into the silent night and halted the fisherman, who turned to see what was making the noise. Ham tried to make out his face, but from this distance, he couldn’t work out the features from under the fisherman’s hood. The fisherman didn’t wait around but ran off. Marta seemed annoyed at Ham’s foghorn for wrecking her respite. As casual as can be, she dropped her cigarette on the concrete walkway, ground it out with the toe of her shoe, and then sauntered away. Without picking up the stub.
Ham pulled the boat into the harbor and tied off quickly. He scrambled out, knowing he had to put the town on high alert. He made a split decision, running for Quilting Central, hoping Marta hadn’t been accosted on her way there.
He yanked open the door, but didn’t see Marta inside. Instead, he saw MacTaggart.
“Where’s Marta?” Ham asked, out of breath.
“At Partridge House.”
“Why is she at Partridge House? I thought she was to stay at Duncan's Den.”
“She said she wanted more privacy. McCartney and I helped her and Tilly move their things over. Marta kicked us out so she could unpack in peace. McCartney is standing guard outside the B and B now.”
“That was a mistake,” Ham said urgently. “Ye need to go check to make sure Marta is all right.”
“What’s going on?” MacTaggart asked.
“As I was coming into the harbor, I saw a fisherman gettin’ ready to attack Marta with some kind of weapon,” Ham explained.
“Did ye get a good look at him?” MacTaggart asked. “What was he wearing?”
“Black raincoat. Black Wellies. He was tall. But I couldn’t see his face, as the hood was up.”
MacTaggart pulled out his notebook and jotted down his notes. “Tell me about the weapon.”
“It looked like a pole,” Ham said.
“Like a harpoon?” MacTaggart asked.
“No. He wasn’t holding it like he was going to shoot Marta, but more like he wa
s going to knock her over the head.” Ham’s eyes caught Deydie’s broom leaning against the wall. “If I had to guess, I would say it was the size of a broom.”
“A broom?” MacTaggart said.
“I know it sounds weird, but that’s what it looked like from the deck of my boat,” Ham replied, wishing he had more to report.
“Who in town wears black raingear?” MacTaggart asked.
Ham looked down at his own bright yellow gear. “Most of us wear yellow or orange. Only a few wear black.” A sinking feeling came over him. He wished he’d taken a moment to gather his thoughts before reporting what he saw.
“What are their names?” MacTaggart asked.
It didn’t feel right to rat out his fellow fishermen, but on the other hand Ham wanted the attacks on Gandiegow to stop. “Brodie Wallace, Ramsay Armstrong, and my brother, Gregor.”
“Good. Do any of them resemble the man ye saw?”
“Well, all of them are tall.” Every blasted one of them, Gregor included.
“Now, tell me where we can find these fishermen,” MacTaggart said.
Why had Ham run in here, telling his tale, without thinking about the implications? He should’ve spoken to Gregor, Brodie, and Ramsay first. “I expect Gregor is at home. Ask Rachel—over there—where Brodie is. And Ramsay, well, he might be at home with his wife Kit, four cottages down.”
MacTaggart wrote it in his notepad. “I’ll check in with McCartney first to make sure Marta is okay. Then, I’ll hunt down the owner of the black raingear. I’d like nothing more than to hand over the killer to Rory when he wakes up.”
Ham had to say something. “I can vouch for all three men. Good blokes, all of them.” Ham was worried the police might jump the gun and pin the crimes on them. He was sure the police were frustrated with the unsolved murders. “None of them could kill anyone. None of them have motive.”
“We’ll be the judge of that.” MacTaggart slipped his notepad in his pocket and headed for the door.
Ham wished DCI Crannach was here! He seemed like a cautious man who didn’t make snap judgements. What Gandiegow needed right now, more than anything, was a cool head overseeing the investigation.
Ham knew he shouldn’t do it, but he called his brother.
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