A Circle of Crows

by Kelsey Kingsley

  Not knowing what else to say, I asked, “Is he okay?”

  “Oh, yeah, he’s just great,” she mumbled, thrusting a hand into her hair. “Do you have kids?”

  Locking my jaw tight, I shook my head. “No. Never had the chance.”

  “He’s my only child, and he is the absolute love of my life,” she said quietly. “I just wish he didn’t hate me so goddamn much.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he doesnae hate ye,” I replied, not really knowing if it were true or not. I didn’t know her or her child. Maybe the laddie really did hate his mother something awful and wished her dead, for all I knew.

  “His father and I got divorced about five years ago and our relationship hasn’t been the same since,” she explained. “And I can’t really understand why. He knew we were awful together, and he was never mad at his dad. Our split was amicable, his father and I are still great friends, so …” She shrugged in a tired way, like her shoulders were too heavy for her body to carry. “I just wish I knew why he hated me.”

  “Did ye ask for it?”

  She turned to me, eyes narrowed. “Ask for what? For him to hate me?”

  “Ah,” I shook my head, “no, I meant, did ye ask for the divorce? Or was it yer ex-husband?”

  She swallowed audibly and replied, “It was me.”

  Shrugging, I replied, “Then, there ye go. Ye were the one to give up first, so you are the enemy here.”

  “Hm,” she mumbled angrily, before turning to look out the window, while I kicked myself for saying anything at all.

  Ye fuckin’ daft prick.

  ***

  “What’re ye doin’ here?” Rick asked, leading the two of us into the office at his family’s funeral home.

  “Remember all those times I’ve patched up yer countless wounds?” I asked, taking a seat in one of the cushy chairs situated on one side of his desk. Rosalynn quietly took the chair beside me, her eyes volleying between us as we spoke.

  “Aye …,” he replied hesitantly, watching me with uncertainty and skepticism.

  “Well, I’m here to collect my favor.”

  “Favor? Christ, if I had known ye’d hold keepin’ me from bleedin’ to death as blackmail, I wouldae just let death take me.”

  He smiled, as if this was a big joke, but I wasn’t laughing, and neither was the woman at my side. It didn’t take long before he realized we were serious, and Rick sighed, laying a hand over his eyes.

  “Fuck, okay, what do ye need from me?”

  Without hesitation, I said, “An autopsy.”

  Dropping his hand like it was made of brick, he stared ahead at me, unblinking and appalled. “An autopsy?” he asked, his voice raising three notes higher than normal. “What in the fuckin’ hell is wrong with ye?”

  “Listen—”

  “I could lose my business!”

  I glanced at Rosalynn, with her fidgeting hands and her bitten bottom lip. I could only imagine what was going through her head, all of the worries and assumptions she must have. Rick was the only hope I had, and he was going to do this for me, whether he liked it or not.

  “They botched the report,” I told him, raising my voice. “William never even saw the damn body. There was no mention of the strangulation marks around her neck, and he wrote that the wrong fuckin’ foot was missin’.”

  “William?” Rick narrowed his eyes. “But he’s a good man.”

  “Aye,” I said, nodding. “I thought so, too. But somethin’ is happenin’ here, and I cannae be sure who’s involved. Frasier told her,” I gestured toward Rosalynn, “that she couldnae see the body.”

  Rick narrowed his eyes, as he looked from Rosalynn to me. “Why would he do that?”

  I shrugged, sighing. “That's what I've gotta figure out, but first, I need ye to do this for me.” Then, I nudged my head in the woman’s direction and added, “And for Rosalynn. She needs to know what happened to her sister.”

  “Call me Rosie,” she said quietly, and I turned my eyes on her, surprised to hear her voice after such a long period of silence. She offered a weak smile. “Please. Everybody else does.”

  “Aye,” I replied with a nod, before looking back to Rick and waiting for his answer.

  Growing up, Rick Byrne had always planned on one day becoming a pathologist, while I had all intentions of being an investigator. We were going to work together on the same team, but life has a way of wedging itself between the best laid plans. While Rick was at university, his father unexpectedly passed away and left the family's funeral home to him. He dropped out to move back into his family’s home, while I moved to Edinburgh and found a job and a wife.

  Funny how I also made my return to Fort Crow years later, once my marriage failed and my own father's health began to diminish.

  Rick had been conflicted all of those years ago, but it was the pressure his mother put on him that ultimately made up his mind. He'd been disappointed, walking away from his studies and his dream of doing right by his country and society. But now, after years of being in the funeral business, he found he enjoyed the service he did for others even more than what he could've done as a pathologist. And right now, I could see that same, old conflict in his eyes.

  I hated to pressure him and make him do something I knew could jeopardize the business his family had worked hard to build from the ground up. But he knew I wouldn't even be asking, had it not been important, and I was relieved when he sighed and nodded.

  “I didn't finish my studies, remember,” he muttered, reminding me of how he left university before having the chance to graduate. “It willnae be thorough.”

  “That's fine. It's more than fine,” I assured him. “It just needs to be enough.”

  ***

  In a vacant viewing room, Rosie sat precariously on the edge of an antique sofa with every limb stiff and frozen, waiting with nervous anxiety for Rick to finish the examination of the body. But he'd barely started. There was at least two hours or so before he'd be finished. So, I poured two glasses of scotch from Rick's office, carried both into the room, and handed one to her.

  She eyed the glass questioningly. “It's scotch,” I clarified, but she still wouldn’t take it.

  “I'm just not so sure I should be accepting a drink from a man I just met,” she replied, looking up at me with a coalesced blend of confidence and nerves.

  “Suit yerself,” I said, before drinking hers in two, swift gulps. She then took the other glass from my hand and knocked it back in one, smooth motion. If we had met under different circumstances, I would have been impressed, but knowing the stress and sadness she was coping with, I felt nothing but sympathy.

  “My mother was killed in an accident nine years ago,” I told her, sitting down on the couch. “The drunken arsehole was charged with culpable homicide and only got two years in prison.”

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered, gripping the glass in both hands. “That’s horrible.”

  “Aye, it was. And I understood that, accordin’ to the law, he had gotten what he deserved,” I continued, remembering that old, worn anger and need for vengeance. “But as her son, I felt that no amount of time would’ve been long enough. He couldae been sentenced to a thousand lifetimes in purgatory, and I still would’ve felt the punishment was too … gentle.”

  I turned to her, met her gaze, and said, “I know that, whatever happens here, the punishment will never be enough. It won’t bring yer sister back. But I am gonna do whatever I have to, to make sure justice is served.”

  Her eyes clouded with doubt, as she replied, “You say that, but look at the situation we’re in right now. What makes you so sure there would be any justice, when they won’t even call it what it is?”

  “Because if I’m good for anythin’, it’s my word,” I said, my voice firm and unwavering. “I can promise ye that, Rosie. Whoever did this will serve their time, or they will pay with their life. Even if it means riskin’ mine.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ROSIE

  “… Or t
hey will pay with their life, even if it means riskin’ mine.”

  I hadn’t expected that, and the words hit me hard, sliding beneath my skin and touching my soul. Where this man lacked in tidiness, he was compensated with sincerity, and in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to hug him. But I maintained my composure and held my head high, as I nodded.

  “You don’t know how much that means to me,” I replied, my voice rough and scratching against my throat.

  “Well, it means nothin’ if I don’t catch the bastard, so ye need to help me,” he said, leaning forward and clasping his hands between the knees of his rumpled pants. “I have some questions to ask ye if that’s all right. We can wait, but—”

  “No,” I shook my head, “whatever you need to know, I’m ready.”

  Inspector Brodie cleared his throat and bowed his head, as if he himself dreaded the conversation we were about to have. I’d seen things like this on TV. The questioning, the uncomfortable interrogations. You never think you’ll be in that position until it happens, and then you wonder why you hadn’t thought to prepare yourself, just in case. I should have watched more true crime shows. I should have studied more. I should’ve done anything to keep the scotch from sloshing around in my belly, as I waited for the man to speak.

  “All right,” he said, nodding. “So, let’s start with yer sister. Tell me about her. Who was she? What was she like?”

  I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, to try and remember her smile. It had been over three weeks now since I’d seen her alive and already she was beginning to fade from my memory. I don’t remember telling her she could do that, and I don’t remember giving myself the permission to forget her. I shuddered with despair, and Inspector Brodie once again reminded me that I didn’t have to do this now if I couldn’t, but I persisted.

  “She was a good person,” I said quietly, then spread my lips in an aching smile. “I know everybody says that after someone dies. They always talk about what a good person they were, and I guess that’s because they feel guilty talking crap about the dead. But seriously, Gracie was such a good person. She volunteered at the local animal shelter a couple of days a month, she was a teacher for special needs children, she regularly gave money to St. Jude’s Hospital …” I shook my head and opened my eyes. “She was almost too good, and I would tell her that. I’d say, girl, you need to do something bad. Like, live a little, you know what I’m saying?”

  Brodie nodded contemplatively and said, “Ye need to get some excitement in yer life.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed sadly. “Anyway, she got engaged to this guy a few years ago, Matt. My parents never liked him, and if I’m being totally honest, I didn’t care for him either. There was just something about him, you know? Like, he was a nice enough guy, but almost too nice, to the point of being phony.”

  “Somethin' tells me ye're about to get into just how phony he was,” he muttered, staring ahead of him at a wall of floral paper and a gorgeous, antique set of armchairs.

  “Bingo,” I snickered, shaking my head. “Gracie got home one day, just a couple of months before their wedding, and found the asshole screwing his best friend's wife in their bed.”

  “Fuckin' arsehole,” Brodie groaned, wiping a palm over his chin.

  “Mm-hmm,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Apparently, they had been having an affair for over a year, and he had the balls to blame Gracie.” I rolled my eyes, as a tinge of residual rage toward my almost brother-in-law returned. “He told her, if she hadn't been so busy, he wouldn't have had to turn to someone else.”

  “What a nice lad,” Brodie muttered sardonically.

  “Right?” I uttered a disgusted sound, as I remembered opening my front door to find my sister on my porch, in tears and insistent that she would never trust another man again. “So, anyway, Gracie had to call off the whole damn wedding, and when she got around to cancelling the honeymoon, I told her she shouldn't. I insisted that she should still go, take a couple of weeks and just … live, you know? Life would always be there when she … got back …”

  I pinched my eyes shut and struggled to catch my emotions before they could run wild. I cleared my throat and shook my head. Then, when I was sure I was fine to speak without breaking down, I whispered, “I'm sorry.”

  Brodie placed a hand on my knee. It was a comforting gesture, not at all intended to be suggestive, and shame on me for enjoying the warmth of his palm through my jeans.

  “I don't wanna hear ye apologizin' anymore, ye understand?”

  The command felt like a gentle scolding, like the time my mother told Gracie to not listen to the mean girls in school. It felt like he cared, and I shouldn't have allowed myself to be fooled like that, when I knew he was only doing his job. He was just doing what he had to, to solve the mystery of my sister's murder. But I needed to feel like someone cared for me, during the most traumatic time of my life, and right now, he was all I had.

  “I just never thought that would be the last time I'd see her,” I whispered, remembering the day I left her at the airport terminal. “She was scared to go. She had never traveled alone before. She was afraid of flying, and always played it safe. I mean, she never even left her windows open, because she was scared someone might see it as an opportunity to break in.”

  Brodie narrowed his eyes, as he worked his bristled jaw from side to side. He stood up abruptly, gripping his chin in his palm, and said, “So, maybe we should focus our sights on someone she would've felt she could trust.”

  “Well …” I covered my eyes with my hand and said, “The last night she was supposed to be here, I was on the phone with her, when she saw this guy looking at her through a pub window. So, I told her to go in and say hi, you know, live a little. So, maybe …” I barely shrugged, unable to combat the heaviness in my shoulders. “Maybe he did it.”

  Brodie turned to me, frustrated anger flaring in his eyes. “Ye didnae think to tell me this before?”

  “We didn't think she was murdered before,” I replied quietly, dropping my gaze to the carpeted floor. “I guess I just didn't want to think that I … that I killed her.”

  “No. No, listen to me right now.” He dropped to crouch before me, keeping his hands hanging between his spread thighs. “Nothin’ ye did killed yer sister. The bastard that killed her, is the only one to blame. Tell me ye understand.”

  “I understand,” I repeated, while knowing I didn't quite believe it.

  “Ye said ye last spoke to her on Sunday,” he said, holding my gaze.

  I nodded. “Yeah, she texted me that night to tell me she was going to stay longer.”

  “Do ye have her mobile? I didnae see one at the place her body was found.”

  “I … I don't know …” I turned to the plastic bag full of her belongings, sitting on an old, wooden end table, and dug through its contents. There were her clothes--dirty and bloodied, and I dropped them as quickly as I got them into my hands--and one high-heeled shoe. A few credit cards, her drivers' license, some cash, and lip gloss, all spilled from her open purse. I peered inside the little leather bag, only to find a few loose pieces of gum and nothing else, and shook my head. “No, her phone isn't in here.”

  “She was stayin' somewhere?”

  “Yeah,” I said, voice hushed. “She was staying at an inn. The Whispering Crow.”

  Brodie stood up, dug his keys from his pocket, and in the determined voice of someone on a mission asked, “Ye wanna take a ride?”

  ***

  The Whispering Crow was a quintessential historic inn, standing proud in the middle of the busiest part of town. It's stone walls and old wood-framed windows towered over us, as we approached the crooked steps and entered through the heavy, creaking door. Brodie addressed the woman at the front desk with an acknowledging nod of his head, as he pulled his badge from his pants pocket.

  “Inspector Alec Brodie,” he introduced himself, and the woman took it from him with startled curiosity.

  She studied it, as if under the a
ssumption that he could be posing as someone he wasn’t, and asked, “What can I do for ye, Inspector?”

  “There was a woman stayin' here,” he said, taking his badge from her and tucking it away. “Her name was Grace Allan, an American.” He pulled a picture out from the same place he'd tucked his badge. “Do ye recognize her?”

  The woman took the picture from him and immediately nodded. “Aye. She's stayin' in the Lovers' Room. Said she was supposed to be on her honeymoon, but her arsehole of a fiancé was caught with another woman. His best friend's wife, she said.”

  I laughed quietly from Brodie's side. Gracie was always so quiet and reserved, unless the opportunity to badmouth Matt was presented. Then, her mouth would run quicker than she could catch it, and it didn't surprise me at all that this woman would know the whole story.

  Brodie took the picture from her and returned it to its pocket. “That would be her,” he replied. “When was the last time ye saw her?”

  “Oh, hmm …” The woman pursed her lips as her forehead crumpled in thought, deepening the valleys of wrinkles that ran just below her hairline. “Y'know, I couldnae say fer certain. It's been two, three days, perhaps. Maybe more. I wasnae workin' earlier this week, so …”

  “Is she still checked in?” Brodie asked.

  “Let me see here,” she replied, turning to the computer. “Grace Allan, ye said?”

  “Aye.”

  She typed fervently; her head held high with importance. Then, she nodded and pointed to the screen. “Ah, see, right there. She's still in our Lovers' Room, and—”

  “She’s dead,” Brodie interrupted.

  The woman turned to him, her mouth open in horror and her eyes wide. “Yer bum's out the windae,” she gasped, clutching a hand to her collar, but Brodie shook his head, while I wondered what the hell she had meant.

  “Her body was found in Coille Feannag,” he informed her, and she clucked her tongue and hung her head.

  “Och, what a fuckin' shame. She was such a lovely lass.”