by Connie Berry
Nancy struck a match and lit the candle in the center of the table. The sharp tang of sulfur faded into cinnamon and apple pie. I could tell Nancy had been crying, but her voice was steady. “How did it go with the detective, dearie?”
“Looks like I’ll be staying awhile. I’m the executor of Elenor’s estate.” Surely that wasn’t breaking a confidence.
Nancy filled a fat brown teapot from a steaming kettle. As the tea steeped, she set out mugs and small plates. “Did the police tell you anything more than we’ve heard?” She pronounced the last word haired, and it reminded me how I’d missed hearing the Scots accent since Bill’s death.
“They’ll know more after the autopsy,” I said, not wanting to lie but remembering my promise. Nancy poured tea and, without asking, added generous spoonfuls of sugar. I took a sip. Strong and sweet. The British answer to every crisis.
“Frank’s been shooing reporters away all morning, the wee scunners,” Nancy said. “They’re very determined.” She placed a basket of scones on the table and sat across from me, lacing her fingers around her mug. She looked solid, reliable—a woman used to taking care of others, a nurturer. She would protect those she loved, fierce as a mother bear.
Nancy stared at her mug. “There will be rumors, of course. There always are in a small community.” She looked up. “It was kind of you to come, lass.”
Nancy’s sympathy nearly did me in. If you want to help someone through a hard time, do not be nice to them. “I keep thinking,” I said in a squeaky voice. “If I’d gone to Elenor after the party, I might have been able to—” I stopped, unable to finish the sentence.
“To prevent her death?”
I shook my head. It was all I could do not to say that she and I might have missed Elenor by minutes. “I don’t mean that. Oh, I’m not sure what I mean. Elenor and I were sisters-in-law for almost twenty-five years, but I never really knew her. She wasn’t easy to know.”
“She wasn’t easy to work for, either.” Nancy’s chin went up. “Of course, Frank and I got along with her. We did our work and stayed clear of the drama. I’m sure it won’t affect us.” She offered me the basket of scones.
I took one, warm and fragrant. “You mean the new owners. They’d be crazy to let you go.”
“Ah, well. Better bend than break, my ma used to say. If things don’t work out, Frank and I can always go to our daughter in Dundee. She’ll have a wee one by March. Our first grandchild.” Nancy smiled.
“Were you shocked that Elenor sold the hotel?”
“Surprised.” Nancy turned the gold band on her finger slowly. “What shocked me was the engagement. I know Elenor and Hugh worked together at the Historical Society, but there wasn’t a romance going on.” Her brow creased. “Only there must have been.”
I took a bite of my scone and almost swooned. “Nancy, these are incredible.”
Nancy’s face went pink, making her look about twenty. “Baking is my therapy. When Frank finds me at home with flour on my hands, he asks what’s wrong.”
I took a second bite, resisting the urge to scarf the whole thing in one go. “Elenor’s first chef was French. He was supposed to have won some major competition, but I don’t remember him producing anything like this.” I picked up the crumbs with my finger and stuck them in my mouth.
“I was hired when the fourth French chef resigned,” Nancy said. “Shortly after your husband died, it was. Elenor was a right mess. She and her brother must have been close.”
Close wasn’t the word I would have chosen. Codependent, maybe, but what did it matter now? “You’ve been here almost three years. I’m impressed.”
Nancy topped up our mugs. She added another spoonful of sugar to hers and stirred. “Frank and I were working at a resort on Skye when I saw Elenor’s advertisement. To be honest, I think it was the Highland accent got me the job. She encouraged me to chat up the guests, especially on Scottish Night. I’m part of the entertainment. Everyone wears fancy dress—kilts, sashes, tams, the whole kit. Mostly purchased at the Tartan Gift Shop.”
“No wonder Dora MacDonald isn’t happy about the new Swiss owners.”
Nancy covered the teapot with a quilted cozy. She hesitated, as if coming to a decision. “You dinnae have to tell me, lass, but Elenor’s death wasn’t an accident, was it?”
I said nothing, a tacit confirmation. Is it my fault if people guess?
“Do they have a suspect?”
“They’re taking statements. First step, apparently.”
Nancy’s gaze shifted to the window. “That detective asked me who might have wanted to prevent Elenor from selling the hotel, or marrying Dr. Guthrie.”
“What did you tell him?”
Nancy shrugged. “Everyone on the island would have tried to stop the sale if we’d known. Glenroth House is a part of island history. Local businesses depend on the connection with Bonnie Prince Charlie. And now, since Dr. Guthrie’s book, wee Flora. But the contract was already signed, lass. And the only person opposed to the marriage, as far as I know, was Margaret Guthrie.”
“She did make her point, didn’t she?”
Nancy carried our dishes to the sink. She rinsed them and dried her hands on an embroidered tea towel. “If you ask me, Margaret didn’t want to lose her live-in caregiver. But what could she do? Hugh’s a grown man.”
“Had Elenor been worried about something recently? Had you noticed a change in her behavior?”
Nancy leaned against the sink. The question seemed to interest her. “Well, her memory was getting pretty bad. She was always mislaying things. Keys, reading glasses. We’d all have to stop what we were doing and help her look. Then she started saying people were stealing things—from the hotel and from the Historical Society as well. A fortnight ago she had a deadbolt installed on the door to her flat. I thought she might be experiencing some form of paranoia.”
I thought about the marquetry casket and did a quick mental edit. “Was there something in particular Elenor might have wanted to protect?”
Elenor frowned. “Not that I know of. We assumed her fears were general and irrational. But then something was stolen. An antique silver tray. Lovely it was, too. We kept it on the Irish cupboard in the butler’s pantry. One day it was there. Next day it was gone. We searched everywhere.”
“Did you report it to the police?”
“Elenor wouldn’t allow it. Bad publicity, she said, and she was probably right. Guests like to believe they’re safe here.” Nancy folded the tea towel and hung it over the edge of the sink. “You know what’s odd, though? When Frank arrived at the hotel this morning, he found the main door ajar. Snow had blown in all over the marble floor.”
That was odd. I’d watched Nancy lock the door with my own eyes. Had Elenor left the house in a panic later that evening, or had someone else, my intruder, for example, lured her out in order to get inside and steal something—like the casket? The thought that I might never see the beautiful casket again brought a surprising pang of regret.
Nancy sat at the table and slid a basket full of towels to her feet. “Elenor’s always been difficult. You know that, Kate. But lately she’s been almost irrational. She insisted she heard footsteps at night, like someone creeping around the house.”
Careful. Mysterious intruders were definitely on the don’t-talk-about-it list. “A guest who couldn’t sleep and decided to wander?”
“We’ve had no guests in the main house since the first of September. Our autumn visitors seem to prefer the cottages.” Nancy transferred an armful of towels to her lap and began folding.
“Let me help.” I gathered some towels myself, making a mental note to ask Agnes about footsteps in the night.
“It wasn’t only the fear, though.” Nancy added a neatly folded hand towel to the growing stack. “Elenor’s never been oversensitive to people’s feelings. You know that as well. But lately she seemed to go out of her way to wound people.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Aug
ust bank holiday, for example. Our last big weekend. The hotel was full—we were swamped—and Agnes assigned one of the summer staff girls to clean Elenor’s flat instead of Sofia. Elenor hit the roof. She said, right in front of everyone, that Agnes was either taking advantage of their friendship or getting too old for the job. Agnes wouldn’t admit it, but she was hurt by that. Really hurt. Then last week Elenor fired one of our part-time gardeners.”
We’d come to the bottom of the laundry basket. Nancy’s hands dropped to her lap. “Such a sweet man, Kate. He was trimming hedges in the garden, and the noise startled one of our autumn regulars, an old dear. She’d dozed off, and her teacup smashed on the stone patio. She insisted it was her fault, but Elenor blamed Bo. Not only did she fire him, Kate, she humiliated him.”
“Bo? Bo Duff?” A sliver of ice pierced my heart. “I know him, Nancy. He is a sweet man. He tried to save my husband’s life. Elenor knew that.”
“Frank was the one who persuaded her to hire Bo. Now he’s right sorry for it. Bo didn’t deserve that treatment.”
Any regret I might have felt over Elenor’s death was evaporating. Bill had seen Elenor as vulnerable and insecure. I’d seen her as selfish and manipulating. The Elenor Nancy had just described was cruel.
“That’s not the worst.” Nancy shot me a guilty look. “Frank asked Bo to help him park cars last night. He shouldn’t have done it, not after what happened, but Bo needs the work, and nearly everyone still on the island was a guest at the ball. There was an accident—a near one, anyway. Elenor was driving. Flying like a demon, Frank said. She nearly crashed into Bo, driving one of the valets. Elenor blew up. She slammed out of the car and screamed at him. She told him he was useless, and if he ever stepped foot on her property again, she’d have him arrested.”
I felt sick.
“Anyway,” Nancy stacked the folded towels in the basket, “the police said we should contact them if we think of anything relevant.”
“Have you?”
“Only an odd comment Elenor made last week. Wednesday, it was. She’d been impossible for weeks, snapping everyone’s head off, criticizing everything we did, especially Agnes. But at dinner she was different. Nice, chatty. She stayed for a second cup of coffee while I cleaned up. We were talking about Dr. Guthrie’s book and how the Flora legend has brought money to the island. She got kind of dreamy—‘away with the fairies,’ my gran used to call it. She said, ‘Sometimes it’s better not to know.’ I asked her what she meant by it. She said it wasn’t important, but I got the impression that it was important, that there was something she was mulling over. Do you think I should mention it to the police?”
“Probably.” I could only imagine how DI Devlin would receive Nancy’s airy-fairy story. I waited a beat. “Nancy, who do you think killed Elenor?”
Nancy brushed some invisible crumbs off the tablecloth. Something had flicked behind those clear, gray eyes. “I haven’t a clue.” She untied her apron and laid it across the back of her chair. “I should get back to the kitchen.”
The cottage door opened. Frank walked in, holding his cell phone. “I’ve been trying to reach Bo all morning. I cannae find him.”
Chapter Ten
I made myself a mug of tea, my fourth shot of caffeine that morning, and sat near the still-smoldering fireplace in Applegarth Cottage. I’d canceled my flight to London and been surprised to receive a credit against future travel, the single bright spot in an otherwise dreadful morning. The other piece of good news was they’d found my suitcase. The bad news was they’d found it in the Dominican Republic. On the very next flight to Glasgow, they’d promised.
My suitcase was the least of my concerns. I was worried about Bo. I told myself I was blowing things out of proportion. Frank had been puzzled by Bo’s whereabouts but not overly concerned. Bo probably had a job today—pruning someone’s rose bushes before winter set in or jumping a dead battery. He could do just about anything physical or mechanical. I pressed the still-warm mug to my cheek.
The day I first met Bo was one of those blue-sky days they put on Scottish calendars. Bill and I had just arrived. He wanted me to see the island, to meet Elenor. The sky was cloudless and the breeze stiff enough to blow away the midges. The weather was unusually warm, and we’d taken a picnic lunch down to the beach at Glen Corry. Bo was there, a big man in his early thirties. Bill’s age. I could picture Bo now—baggy swim trunks tied high on his belly, long wet hair plastered against his skull. He pointed at us and came galloping across the silver sand in his big bare feet. He’d been swimming. I recognized the signs at once. Cognitive disability is what they call it now. Bo was obviously high functioning. Like my brother, Matt, had he lived. A smile split Bo’s face, and he gave Bill a big, damp bear hug. “No way, José,” he said, grabbing Bill by the shoulders and looking him up and down.
Bo spent the afternoon with us. He and Bill played like boys, racing through the tidal pools, scrambling up the sandy dunes. King of the Hill. It wasn’t hard to see the bond between them—on Bo’s part adoration, and on Bill’s part a complete lack of condescension. I learned later that Bill had taken Bo under his wing one summer when they were kids, shielding him from the island bullies. Daftie, a big kid from Glasgow had called Bo. Bill had punched the kid, giving him a bloody nose.
Good for you, Bill Hamilton.
I added my mug to the breakfast dishes in the sink and located the scrap of paper on which I’d written Bo’s phone number. I dialed again. Same result. He wasn’t there.
Putting thoughts of Bo aside, I turned my mind back to the main problem. Elenor. As I replayed my conversation with Nancy, I realized that Elenor’s problems (her current ones, anyway) seemed to have begun about a month ago. She’d been more irritable than usual and had taken it out on her staff, especially Agnes. Nancy had wondered if Elenor was experiencing some form of mental breakdown, but the symptoms—forgetfulness, bad dreams, mood swings, obsession with security—could also have been caused by fear.
Something’s going on here, and it’s scaring me.
When I’m confused, it helps me to put my thoughts on paper. I found the small notebook and pen I always keep in my handbag. Turning to a fresh page, I wrote Questions at the top.
1. Who or what was E afraid of—theft of casket? Who knew it was in E’s apt?
2. Agnes is the only other person who sleeps in the house. Did she hear footsteps?
3. What caused E’s mood to change so dramatically on Wednesday (per Nancy)?
4. Is Nancy hiding something?
I tapped the pen against my chin.
5. Why did E go to the H.S. and whom did she meet? (Mucky Ducks, UK sz 10)
6. Where did E get the newspaper clippings about Flora Arnott’s murder?
That last question could probably be answered quickly. Old copies of The Hebridean Chronicle would be archived somewhere, kept in a repository, either on microfilm or digitized and stored in an online database. With my phone dead and without my laptop—no reason to bring it, I’d thought—I’d have to use the cottage phone.
A magazine holder on the kitchen counter held several phone directories. In the one for the South Highlands, I found a listing for the University of Strathclyde. After explaining my question, I was directed to the Digital Resources office. A pleasant female voice answered my call.
“I hope you can help me,” I said. “Do you have copies of The Hebridean Chronicle from the 1800s?”
“Ah, The Chronicle. That depends. The paper was published weekly, but only for several years. Can you give me specific dates? I’ll check our listing.”
“I’m interested in two dates.” I consulted the photocopy. “March ninth of 1810 and January eighteenth of 1811.”
Computer keys tapped. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid we don’t have the issues you’re looking for.”
“Would there be copies somewhere else—another library, for example?”
“Afraid not. Not even the National Library of Scotland has
copies. The Hebridean Chronicle folded in August of 1812 after a devastating fire. Nothing survived. The copies we hold were donated by a woman on the Isle of Lewis who found them in her grandparents’ attic.”
“What about one of the local historical societies, like the one on the Isle of Glenroth, for example?”
“All the historical repositories in Scotland share information. If additional copies of The Chronicle exist, we’d know about it.”
I thanked her and hung up. Wherever Elenor had found the articles, it wasn’t an official archive. But that didn’t mean unofficial copies didn’t exist. I took out my lighted magnifying glass and examined the photocopy. Apart from significant yellowing, the newsprint appeared to be in surprisingly good shape. No holes or creasing, no major foxing, but the edges were irregular, as if they’d been torn rather than clipped. To the last question in my notebook, I added, Ask Dr. Guthrie about old newspapers, underlining it twice.
Fresh air nut that I am, I’d cracked the window over the sink, and the curtains billowed slightly. I still had half an hour before lunch and decided to make use of it. Agnes MacLeod wasn’t the only person who might know something about Elenor’s fears. Using the slim island directory, I looked up Guthrie. Only one was listed.
A young girl answered. “Dr. Guthrie isn’t available. Sorry.”
“This is Kate Hamilton, Elenor Spurgeon’s sister-in-law. Will you ask him to phone me at Glenroth House? If I’m not here, he can leave a message. I’ll call him back.”
I replaced the receiver.
I’d have to tell my children about Elenor’s death, of course, but there was no hurry for that. Eric and Christine had hardly known their Aunt Elenor, and she’d never shown the slightest interest in them. One person, however, I needed to tell right away.
I picked up the cottage phone again, trying not to think of international phone charges.
“Hello. This is Linnea Larsen.”
“Hi, Mom.” My voice caught. Dang it.
“Kate—darling. What’s wrong?” I could picture her face, lines of worry on her brow.