by Connie Berry
“Do you work, Mrs. Hamilton?”
I’m an antiques dealer and appraiser. I have a shop in Jackson Falls.”
“I believe your husband was part owner of the hotel.”
“No. Bill had nothing to do with the hotel. The property belonged to their family. He and Elenor owned everything jointly until twelve years ago, when Elenor bought out his share.”
“Hard feelings?” Snap.
“Of course not.” How could I explain Bill’s blindness when it came to Elenor? He would have given her the property if she’d asked.
“You and Mrs. Spurgeon were close then, friendly?”
I took a breath. This was where the tell-him-everything part came in. “We weren’t close. She resented me for taking her brother away, which wasn’t true. I thought she was difficult and self-centered.” I searched Devlin’s face for disapproval but found none. He’d make a great poker player.
“When did you leave the party last night, and where did you go?”
“I helped with cleanup. Then Mrs. Holden and I walked together to our cottages—a little after midnight, I think.”
“Without speaking to Mrs. Spurgeon?”
“She left the party at nine. I’m sure someone told you what happened.”
“The reaction to her announcements—yes.” He ran a hand over his bald head. “Any idea who might have wanted your sister-in-law dead?”
Besides half the island? “None at all. I hardly knew her.”
“Had Mrs. Spurgeon told you in advance about the sale of the hotel?”
“No, and I didn’t know about the engagement to Dr. Guthrie either. As I said, we weren’t close.”
“When was the last time you spoke with her? Before yesterday, I mean.”
“My husband’s funeral three years ago. She came to Ohio. We’d had no contact after that, until last week when she telephoned.”
Devlin dragged the sofa forward to avoid a drooping palm frond. “Why did you come to Scotland, Mrs. Hamilton? You say you and your sister-in-law weren’t close. You hadn’t spoken in three years. Yet you traveled all the way from Ohio for the Tartan Ball.”
Put like that, it did sound suspicious. “I was shocked when Elenor phoned. She said she was in trouble and needed my advice. She begged me to come. I felt obligated.”
Obligated. The word my mother had used and I’d denied.
I pulled Elenor’s letter from my handbag. “I found this in a book Elenor gave me.”
Devlin took the letter, frowning as he scanned it. “What sort of advice did Mrs. Spurgeon want?”
“She never got a chance to tell me.” I shifted in my chair, feeling guilty. I always feel guilty when I’m being watched for signs of guilt.
“Tell me about the book,” Devlin said.
I’d brought the novel, too, and handed it to him. “The book was written by Elenor’s fiancé. She asked me to read it.”
Devlin studied the cover. “And you think this book is connected to her death?”
“Elenor wasn’t the book-club type. She would have had a good reason for wanting me to read it.” My ears burned. I sounded like one of those eccentric villagers in a British cozy mystery, the ones who provide the red herrings.
“And have you read it?”
“Just a few pages last night.”
Devlin returned the book and the letter. “Well, if you find anything relevant, let me know.” He’d managed to sound both attentive and condescending. “Were you concerned about Mrs. Spurgeon’s safety?”
“I should have been. Elenor told me something was scaring her. Her exact words.”
“But she didn’t tell you what.”
“No. I should have insisted she give me a clue right away, but Elenor loved drama. She wouldn’t have wanted to spoil a good story.”
“Have you mentioned this to anyone?”
“Just my mother, but she’s in Ohio.”
“Don’t mention it to anyone else. Now, what’s this about an intruder?” Snap.
I inched forward in my seat. Until that moment I hadn’t connected the intruder with Elenor’s death. “Someone searched my cottage last night. I reported it to the police at Mallaig, so when Sergeant Bruce called this morning, I assumed the call was about that.”
“When did you call Mallaig?”
“I’d just gotten back from the ball, so twelve twenty, maybe?”
Devlin made a note in his book. “How did the intruder get in?”
“The cottage wasn’t locked.”
DS Bruce sniffed. If it was meant as a comment on my naïveté, he’d schooled his face into a careful neutrality.
“So you called the police station at Mallaig.”
“I thought I should tell someone.”
Devlin nodded at Bruce, who left the room.
“Why not first notify the hotel?” Snap.
That gum was getting on my nerves. “I tried to. I got voicemail.”
“What was taken?” Devlin licked his index finger and turned a page in his notebook.
“Nothing. My money and credit cards were still in my wallet, and there wasn’t anything else to take. No jewelry or anything.” I explained about the lost suitcase.
“Someone searched your belongings but left your cash and credit cards untouched. What do you think he was looking for?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I scared him off. It’s strange.”
“Yes, strange.” Snap.
He thinks I imagined it. Or made it up.
DS Bruce returned and whispered something in Devlin’s ear. The corner of Devlin’s mouth twitched. “Constable Mackie verified your call last night.”
Light dawned. I wasn’t being interviewed. I was being questioned. Well, I had a few questions of my own. “You haven’t told me how Elenor died.”
Devlin studied my face. “I can give you a bit more information, but you’ll have to keep it confidential. Just until we know what’s relevant. Can you do that?”
I nodded.
He closed his black notebook. “Mrs. Spurgeon was shot through the neck with an arrow.”
I grabbed my throat. “But that’s what happened to Flora Arnott.”
Devlin pulled off his glasses and stared at Bruce. “Someone else on the island was murdered? Why wasn’t I informed?”
Bruce shrugged. “No report of another death, sir.”
“Not recently,” I said. “March of 1810. That’s what the book is about, a well-known episode in island history. Flora Arnott was shot through the neck with an arrow. No one ever knew who or why. She lived in this house. Don’t you see? Someone has recreated a historic murder.”
“Two hundred years later?” Devlin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fascinating, but a bit late for a copycat crime.”
“I agree. But why would someone kill Elenor in that particular way unless they were trying to make a point?” I was beginning to feel frustrated. “There must be easier ways to kill people. Not everyone would have the skill and strength to kill someone with a bow and arrow.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I pictured Frank Holden and Dora MacDonald receiving their archery trophies.
“Actually, any number of people could have done it,” Devlin said. “Archery seems to be an obsession on the island. Are you familiar with the archery school at the Adventure Centre?”
I nodded. “My husband was a camper there for years.”
“The Adventure Centre sponsors public archery classes and an annual competition. The arrow that killed your sister-in-law had their signature red-and-yellow feathers.”
“Fletching, sir. The feathers are called fletching,” Bruce said, earning a sharp look.
“But hitting a target block isn’t the same as hitting a moving person,” I said.
Devlin held up a finger. “Ah, but Mrs. Spurgeon wasn’t moving. She was sitting, leaning actually, against the stump of a tree.” Snap.
“In the snow? Why would she do that?” The room swayed. I dug my fingernails into my palms. “Do you know when it happen
ed?”
Devlin hesitated as if deciding how much to say. “We don’t like to speculate until after the postmortem, but given the snowfall beneath the body and other physical signs, the police surgeon estimates death between twelve thirty and two AM. We have corroborating witnesses for the earlier time—the ladies who live across from the Historical Society.” He consulted his black notebook. “The Arnott sisters. I’m afraid we woke them up.”
I pictured the twins in flannel nightgowns and mobcaps, tying up matching woolen robes as they opened their door to the police.
“The sisters noticed lights inside the Historical Society at twelve thirty. They have a clear view of the road from their house, and they swear there was no body outside then. Good news for you, Mrs. Hamilton. Unless the sisters are mistaken or the postmortem examination changes things, you couldn’t have done it.”
I have an alibi. First time in my life I’d had occasion to say that.
Devlin nodded at DS Bruce, who read from his own black notebook. “The Mallaig Police Station received a call from Applegarth Cottage at twelve twenty AM. Mrs. Hamilton said it wasn’t an emergency and left a message for the constable on duty. He returned her call at twelve thirty. The conversation lasted for approximately ten minutes. Mrs. Hamilton asked them to send someone out.” DS Bruce managed to convey scorn without moving a facial muscle. “They explained the island was cut off, and the constable offered to have a duty clerk call back at intervals. Calls were made and answered at one fifteen, one fifty, and two thirty.”
I was warming to that intruder.
Devlin removed his glasses. “You might have driven to the Historical Society, of course, but your car hasn’t moved since before the storm. We checked. And you might have made it there and back on foot, if you hurried. But the snow had tapered off by then, and you would have left tracks. There weren’t any.”
Good point. “What about the Historical Society? Did you find tracks there?”
“Unfortunately not. By the time we arrived this morning, the road had been plowed and the walkways shoveled. A pity.”
“We did find strands of purple wool,” Bruce added, “caught on a bush near one of the west-facing windows.”
“No proof they’re connected,” Devlin snapped. “But there were two recent sets of shoe prints inside the building. One set matched the boots Mrs. Spurgeon was wearing at the time of her death. The other was made by a pair of molded rubber boots, size ten, manufactured at the Mucky Duck factory in Fort William.” Snap.
I was impressed. “How do you know that?”
Devlin’s mouth twitched again. “The logo and size are molded into the soles. It’s an important piece of evidence, though. The tread on a shoe or boot wears in a unique way. Almost like a fingerprint.”
I couldn’t help wondering why he was telling me all this. Because he’d decided he could trust me, or because he wanted to gauge my reaction?
“What about DNA?” I asked. I knew absolutely nothing about DNA, but wasn’t that what the police always checked for?
“We know our jobs, Mrs. Hamilton.” Snap. “The Historical Society is a public building, and DNA analysis can take weeks. I’d like to think we’ll clear things up before that.”
“You think the killer is still on the island?”
“No one left the island after eleven last night. We set up checkpoints this morning at the ferry terminals at Mallaig and Skye. Trust me—whoever committed the crime is still here.”
Was that meant to reassure me? “Is it safe? I mean, with a murderer on the loose?”
“I don’t believe you’re in danger.”
How could he be so sure? I started to ask why, but he held up a hand. “Hold that question for now, hmm?”
“Do you have a suspect?”
“A person of interest. That’s all I’m allowed to say. We’re taking statements. We’ll fill you in as we can, but remember, strict confidentiality. If you think of something you haven’t mentioned, let me know immediately.” He held my gaze for a moment before flipping a page in his notebook. “Now, a few more questions. According to Miss MacLeod, Mrs. Spurgeon received a phone call at eleven thirty last night.” One corner of his mouth went up, not quite a smile. “You, by any chance?”
“No.” The implication struck me. “It must have been the murderer.”
“Assumptions, Mrs. Hamilton.” Devlin shook his bullet-shaped head.
“But that means Nancy and I were still in the kitchen.” An icy hand clutched my heart. “We might have just missed her.”
“Did you hear the telephone?”
“I don’t think so. The big dishwashers were going.”
“Was the front door locked when you left?”
“Yes. Nancy locked it. We saw lights on in Elenor’s flat.”
“Did you notice prints in the snow?”
“No, but we weren’t looking for them. You said you found shoe prints at the Historical Society. Have you checked the other members of the Society?”
“Ma’am, please.” He waggled his finger in my face. “Amateur detectives are popular in crime fiction, but this is real life. Leave the investigating to us, hmm?”
The rules were becoming clear: Answer when asked. Do not offer unsolicited opinions.
“There is something you can do to help us.” Devlin smiled at me like a Little League coach handing out ribbons for participation. “I’d like you to take a look at Mrs. Spurgeon’s flat. Tell us if anything appears, ah, unusual or out of character.”
“I thought Agnes MacLeod did that.”
“No help,” DS Bruce said drily. “Hysterical.”
“Are you free after lunch?” Devlin asked. “Around one?”
“I’m free anytime until my flight tomorrow afternoon.” The moment the words left my mouth, I realized that wasn’t going to happen.
“Oh, you won’t be leaving just yet.” Devlin reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a sealed plastic bag containing an enormous diamond ring.
I blanched. “That’s the ring Dr. Guthrie gave Elenor last night.”
“She was wearing it at the time of her death.”
“Not a robbery, then.”
“No.” He sounded disappointed. “The ring will be kept in evidence for now. I trust you have no objections.”
“Me? Why would I have objections?”
“Because you are the executor of Mrs. Spurgeon’s estate. We spoke with her solicitor an hour ago.”
“Elenor named me as her executor?”
“You didn’t know?”
I shook my head. Devlin was saying something about releasing the body and preliminary arrangements, but I was having trouble taking it in.
Elenor had been murdered, and in spite of Devlin’s skepticism, I couldn’t shake the feeling that her death was connected in some way with the death of Flora Arnott.
How in the world could I fulfill my promise to Bill now?
Chapter Nine
I found the hotel kitchen empty. Nancy and Becca were gone. The coffeemaker was turned off, the cups washed and left to dry on a wooden rack. The only sound was the ticking of the long-case clock in reception.
Time like an ever-rolling stream …
The words of the old hymn popped into my mind. How many minutes, hours, days had that old clock marked? Years rolled by, then decades and centuries, and every morning the hands of the clock turned anew, as if it were possible to record over the failures and griefs of the past.
The turf fire had died down in the hearth. I found a poker and prodded what remained of the crumbling peat, watching the embers flare and settle. If the past could be rewritten, I’d go back to that horrific July day three years ago and change everything—the bitter words, the guilt, the final, irreversible blow.
That wasn’t possible. All I could do was forgive and move forward.
Well, that was easy. Conquering Grief and Guilt in Two Simple Steps. Now I could tackle other challenges, like solving the mystery of the Bermuda Triangle and finding
the remains of Jimmy Hoffa.
A thin light slanted through the south-facing windows. I moved to the sink and looked out on the broad stretch of lawn sloping down to the cliff edge. Last night’s snowfall was already melting. The trees dripped. Puddles had formed on the flagstone patio.
DI Devlin was counting on a quick wrap-up—a disgruntled islander with a violent temper and a predictable motive. Nothing to do with convoluted things like island history and the death of a young Lowland girl two hundred years ago. Only Devlin hadn’t seen the look on Elenor’s face when she had made me promise to open the package right away. He hadn’t heard her say about the casket, “This is where it all began.”
When I got on that airplane in Cleveland, I had imagined that Elenor and I could forgive each other and start again, for Bill’s sake. Instead, she lay dead in a morgue in Fort William. The time for helping Elenor was past. The most I could do now was make sure her killer was caught and punished. Not for Elenor’s sake. Not even for Bill’s sake. For my own. But what could I do? All I had was a conviction that Elenor’s death was connected in some way with island history. I’d promised Devlin I wouldn’t share the little information I had with anyone. I would keep my word, but I hadn’t promised not to ask questions. A few innocent questions. The trick would be knowing the right questions and the right people to ask.
Someone on the island knew something, and the most likely person was Agnes MacLeod.
“You okay?” Becca Wallace stood framed in the doorway to the reception hall.
“Oh—yes. Is Agnes still in her flat?”
“Nancy tucked her in a half hour ago with a thermos of tea and a hot water bottle. If she took one of her sleeping pills, we won’t see her again until suppertime, or possibly breakfast.”
The phone in reception jangled and Becca dashed off.
I shrugged on my jacket. My conversation with Agnes would have to wait.
Plan B was Nancy Holden.
* * *
Twenty minutes later I sat at a scrubbed pine table in the Holdens’ compact kitchen. Crisply ironed curtains framed a wide, multipaned window overlooking the sea. A scalloped shelf displayed photographs of a pretty child at various stages of development. Frank and Nancy’s daughter, the owner of the sexy black dress.