by Connie Berry
And then she ups and dies.
Red splotches flared on Agnes’s neck. “What did she expect me to do—hand out trolleys at the Poundstretcher in Portree?”
I rowed back into safer waters. “Couldn’t you go back to teaching? Or work in an art gallery? You’re clearly an expert. Your paintings are wonderful.”
“Art is my passion.” Agnes unrolled the sausage and pressed it against her neck.
“You must have been collecting a long time.”
“Oh, no. Just since we moved to Glenroth. I had a furnishing allowance. I chose not to use the fancy decorator from Edinburgh and bought paintings instead. They belong to me. It’s in my contract.”
So, Agnes wasn’t going to be left a complete pauper. The collection would fetch a good sum at auction. Not enough to retire on, but it would be a start.
“That was generous,” I said. Foolishly.
“Generous? Elenor?” Agnes’s face went bright red. “I was the one who did all the work. All the ideas were mine—all the good ones, anyway. She couldn’t have pulled it off without me. And not once in eleven years did she so much as give me a raise.” A tear spilled out and ran down her cheek. “Never even said thank you.” Agnes dabbed her eyes. “Only took me twenty years to figure it out. We were never friends. I was convenient, someone to keep around until my usefulness wore off.”
Probably true. Once the hotel was sold, Agnes was expendable. “Elenor always was better at making enemies than friends.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Agnes sniffed. “I wouldn’t want to make an enemy of Margaret Guthrie. That woman is scary.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just saying. You don’t poke a tiger with a stick.”
I collected my handbag. “Don’t get up. I’ll let myself out.”
Agnes’s dark woolen coat hung on a hook in the foyer. Something stuck out of the pocket—the cuff of a glove. A purple knitted glove. Like the strands of purple wool the police had found outside the Historical Society?
I felt the cuff. Soaked through. A pair of molded rubber wellies sat on the floor in a slowly evaporating puddle.
Never even stuck my nose outside after lunch.
Agnes lied.
She had gone outside before lunch today to collect the mail, but she’d been wearing shoes, not wellies, and I would have noticed purple gloves. Unless she had gotten up at the crack of dawn for a snowball fight with Frank Holden, she’d been out in the storm last night.
“Everything all right?” Agnes called from around the corner.
“Just leaving.” I plucked a bit of damp purple fuzz and stuck it in my pocket.
I pictured the angry red scratches on Agnes’s face.
Had Elenor poked a tiger? Which one?
Chapter Thirteen
I was overjoyed to see my suitcase on the bench at the foot of my bed. Frank Holden must have delivered it while I was with Agnes.
The first thing I did was locate my charger cord and plug in my cell phone. Then I unpacked my clothes, smoothed out the wrinkles, and hung them in the closet.
My thoughts circled back to that wet purple glove.
Agnes had been out in the storm the night Elenor died, I was sure of it. And it wasn’t only the wet gloves and wellies that convinced me. Those little round eyes. The set of her shoulders. Agnes wasn’t a natural liar. She was probably telling the truth about hearing Elenor’s phone ring at eleven thirty, though. The police could check that. Maybe the caller was Agnes herself, confronting Elenor with the broken promise of partnership. But why would the two of them leave in the middle of a snowstorm to fight about it?
When Nancy and I left the hotel that night, we’d seen lights on in Elenor’s flat, but that didn’t mean she was there. I should have asked DI Devlin if her lights were still on when the local constable arrived before dawn on Saturday.
I folded my cherry wool sweater and tucked it in the top drawer of the high dresser.
Agnes’s resentment was understandable, but had she been angry enough to kill Elenor? I could just about imagine her slipping poison in Elenor’s drink. I couldn’t imagine her shooting Elenor with an arrow and watching her die. Maybe my suspicions were unfair. Even if Agnes had followed Elenor to the Historical Society that night, it didn’t mean she killed her. Besides, as Devlin pointed out, there was no way to determine that the purple fibers had been caught on the bush the night of the ball. Maybe Agnes had visited the Historical Society earlier. Maybe someone else on the Isle of Glenroth wore purple knitted gloves. Maybe the Arnott twins knitted them by the dozen and gave them away as gifts.
I zipped up my now-empty suitcase and slid it under the bed. If I showed DI Devlin the strands of purple wool, he’d accuse me of playing amateur sleuth. Well, to be honest, I was, but was it my fault if people left clues dangling out of coat pockets?
I peeled off my jeans and T-shirt and changed into my jogging clothes—black leggings with a microfleece, an old Case Western sweatshirt of Bill’s, and my trusty Nikes. I needed to clear my mind.
A well-worn footpath followed the sea from below the hotel to Crabby Point. That’s what Bill had christened it, anyway, in honor of the curmudgeon who’d stationed himself daily at the end of the jetty to shake his fist at boats venturing inside the breakwater. The jetty was gone now, and so was the old man.
Time, like an ever-rolling stream, bears all its sons away.
Time had borne Bill away. Now it had borne Elenor away, too, except that in Elenor’s case, someone had shoved the hands of time forward a couple of decades.
A flock of greylag geese flew in formation, honking encouragement to their leaders.
I followed the track from the rear of Applegarth toward the low cliff edge. Applegarth was the smallest of the hotel’s guest cottages. The others were tucked in the woods east of the main house, stone structures with steeply pitched roofs and leaded windows, the stuff of fairy tales—Snow White, Cinderella, Hansel and Gretel. Romantic, if you ignored poisoned apples, wicked stepmothers, and old ladies with long, sharp teeth.
The melting snow had left icy patches. I picked my way cautiously down the stone steps to a rocky cove. The path, cushioned by white crushed-coral sand, skirted the edge of the dark-turquoise sea. Fingers of amber kelp rose and fell among the rocks. Sea spray whipped my hair and wet my face. I pulled up my hood.
A question niggled at the back of my mind. Could Bo have missed Elenor’s body in the predawn shadows?
I lengthened my stride, taking in the scent of fish and peaty earth. Two dark smudges on the southern horizon picked out the small islands of Rùm and Eigg. In the distance, a colony of spotted seals lay like giant sausages on the half-tide rocks. Several raised their whiskered, doglike faces and barked. I was headed north. In a mile or so I’d be able to see the tip of the Sleat Peninsula on the Isle of Skye.
The narrow beach widened, and the footpath snaked through a sliver of forest skirting the sand. I pushed myself into a jog, feeling the pleasurable burn in my thighs. Bill and Elenor had loved the sea as children. They’d waded in the tidal pools and collected mussels, cleaning them in seawater and boiling them over a beach fire. Jackie MacDonald’s ancestors had revered this island as well, their devotion fueled by legend.
A bonnie prince. A lost dream. Will ye no’ come back again?
The land was thick with memories, the kind that never die but go dormant, waiting for someone to remember and mourn.
Would I ever stop mourning?
A riptide of sorrow took my breath. I stopped running, gulping in the cold, salt air and trying to regain my equilibrium. The wind tore at the hood of my sweatshirt.
The day Bill died, a gusty wind blew in spurts from the southwest. We’d come to Glenroth by ourselves—a second honeymoon, Bill said, except we were staying at the Harborview instead of Glenroth House. Fine with me. Better, in fact. That evening we’d decided to eat at the Bonnie Prince. “We might run into a few of the lads,” he’d said, and I could tell he hop
ed we would. I hoped so too, for his sake. The next day we’d planned to take the ferry to Skye and hike to the chilly, sparkling blue Fairy Pools near Glenbrittle.
I was unpacking when Bill returned from what he’d promised would be a quick visit to the hotel, just to say hello. “Sorry, Kate.” He reached out to touch my hair. Sunlight picked out the lines around his eyes and mouth, and I remember thinking he’d been looking tired lately, older. “We’ll have to postpone the Skye trip. Elenor needs my help in the morning. It may take most of the day. A problem with one of her suppliers.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“She says not. We can go another day, can’t we?”
I’m not proud of my reaction. I flung the shirts I was holding onto the bed and turned to face him. “Why do you always put Elenor first? She probably manufactured the problem to sabotage our time together. I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“That’s unkind, Kate. And selfish.”
“Are you going to put me in time-out? You’re not my father, Bill.”
That’s when I saw Elenor standing in the cottage doorway. The look of triumph on her face told me she’d heard every word. And relished it.
Bill grabbed his blue windbreaker. “I’ll take my sister home. Then I’m going sailing.”
Later I sat, fully dressed and miserable, in one of the canvas loungers along the strand. A paperback novel, an Agatha Christie, lay in my lap. I read the same page three times before closing the book in disgust.
I’d have to apologize to Elenor. No getting around that. But first I’d apologize to Bill, the minute he came in. Even if Elenor had purposely ruined our day, it wasn’t his fault. Bill’s kindness was one of the things I most admired about him. I couldn’t stop him loving his sister. I didn’t want to. The problem was mine. I had to fix it.
The sea shimmered in the afternoon light. Waves folded upon themselves along the silver sand. Bill was tacking back and forth in his single-hand dinghy about a half mile off shore, his red life vest a bright dot. I watched the sail luff and fill again as he brought the small boat about into the wind. A strong gust threatened to topple my umbrella. I reached to steady it. Then I grabbed my binoculars and turned the focus.
The sail snapped as the boom swung free.
Bill? What’s wrong?
A sharp crack rang out jerking me back to the present. My head turned instinctively toward the sound, but all I saw were trees, ferns, lengthening shadows. Silence.
Did predators still live in these woods?
Something rustled, and this time I caught a dark shape melting into the foliage.
That was no animal.
I turned toward the hotel, striding quickly as images flipped through my brain. Terrible images. The dead bodies of Flora and Gowyn near the peat bogs. Bill, lying cold and still on the pier. Elenor, seeing the face of her killer as he (or she?) drew back the bow.
Spooked now, I began to run, but the section of path was uneven and the light was fading faster than I’d imagined. I narrowed my eyes, scanning the track for roots or stones—anything that might trip me up. Someone had lain in wait for Elenor at the Historical Society. Was that person stalking me now?
“Kate, watch out.”
My head shot up just in time to see Tom Mallory before I barreled into him.
“Blimey,” he said, catching me and holding on until I regained my balance. “We will keep running into each other.”
“Sorry,” I managed to get out between breaths. “I wasn’t paying attention. Again.”
He wore dark athletic pants and a lightweight black hoodie in some kind of thin, synthetic fabric. His hair had fallen across his forehead. “Training for a cross-country?”
“I thought—” I felt foolish now, but I hadn’t imagined that dark shadow. “Well, to be honest, I thought I saw someone in the woods near the path. With all that’s happened, it frightened me.”
He looked at me sharply. “What did you see?”
“A shadow.” That sounded terminally lame, even to me.
“An animal? A deer?”
“It didn’t look like an animal. I got the idea someone was following me.”
Tom nodded, probably deciding if I was given to hysterics.
He glanced at the sky. “It’s getting dark fast. Come on. I’ll walk back with you. Nearly time for dinner anyway.”
True, and if Tom had set out for a run, he’d started a bit late.
Chapter Fourteen
I left Applegarth at six thirty and followed the mushroom lights toward the hotel. My experience in the woods had left me feeling vulnerable. And more than a little silly.
Movement in the distance caught my eye. A dark figure strode away from the house toward the wooded glen. My stalker? Flora’s ghost? With those long legs, it looked more like Sofia.
I picked up my pace. I couldn’t claim to have seen a ghost, but I was certainly racking up dark figure sightings.
On the far side of the parking lot, DI Devlin and Tom Mallory stood near one of the hotel’s gas lamps. Devlin gave Tom a playful shove, knocking him off balance. They’d become buddies pretty quickly—that all-cops-together thing again, I supposed. They noticed me, and something in their faces told me I’d been a subject of conversation.
I ran up the steps.
“Hey, Kate.” Becca Wallace sat at her desk. “You got your suitcase at last. Love the outfit.”
“Changing clothes was an amazing experience.” I wore the skinny black ankle pants and cherry-red cashmere sweater Christine had given me for my last birthday. Charged on my Visa.
“Mrs. Guthrie called.” Becca handed me a pink slip.
Can you come tomorrow afternoon? the message read. Please let me know.
Becca let me use the desk phone. Margaret Guthrie was home, and I accepted her invitation for “tea and light refreshments” at three PM on Sunday.
“Give me a moment. I’ll take you to your table,” Becca said.
As she busied herself with the papers on her desk, I examined one of the few original pieces in the house, a portrait of Captain Arnott’s only child, a son by his second wife. He stared at me with stern, thin-lipped disapproval.
“Favored his mother,” Becca said wryly, shoving a notebook in the top drawer of the desk. “There’s a framed silhouette of the second Mrs. James Arnott in the Snug. She looks as disagreeable as he does. Not that I blame her. She married the captain and became his widow before this lad was even born.”
“At least she got the house.”
“Yes. This is a wonderful house.” Becca swiveled her chair toward me. “Full of surprises. You know about the secret staircase, right?”
“First thing Bill showed me. I thought I was supposed to be admiring the Georgian woodwork, but when we got to the third-floor landing, he pressed on one of the raised panels and it swung open. Like a fairy-tale castle, except for the spider webs.” I shuddered. “I’ve got a thing about spiders.”
“The spider webs are gone, I promise. We take guests up there sometimes if they ask. Of course Elenor never would. She had a thing about the attic.”
The phone rang and Becca picked it up. “Glenroth House. May I help?”
I pictured the large, open space under the eaves where I’d seen a hodgepodge of old furniture shrouded in dusty sheeting, mostly inferior stuff from the thirties and forties. I’d also seen a large number of crates and boxes, neatly sealed and stacked. The attic air that June day had been hot and dry, faintly musty with a finish of mothballs. For the budding antique dealer in me, perfume. “Did you and Elenor play up there as children?” I’d asked Bill as we made our way down. He’d grinned. “You’ll find this hard to believe, but Elenor and I were more interested in the sea and the woods. We played outdoors with the island kids. Mostly boys, as I remember. Half the boys on the island were in love with Elenor.”
But who had Elenor been in love with?
* * *
I followed Becca into the west wing and along a corridor to the library, a lar
ge room facing the front of the house. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves flanked the fireplace and continued along the wall nearest the door. Three tall windows provided a view of the parking area and curved drive. A narrow refectory table held a selection of cheeses, what looked like homemade crackers, and two bottles of wine. I examined the labels—a Cabernet from France and a pale Riesling from Austria.
A table was set in front of a crackling fire. “What’s this?” I asked, fearing I already knew the answer.
“Mr. Mallory will be joining you. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Mind? Of course I mind. And more to the point, so will he. He’ll assume I set it up.” I groaned. Most of the single men I knew in Ohio wore the perpetually suspicious look of game animals on a private hunting preserve.
“It’s only dinner.”
“This feels awkward, Becca. I know Tom and I are the only guests, but I had no idea we’d be sharing a table. I’d rather eat in the kitchen, or in the cottage. I can cook for myself.”
“Too late.” Becca whispered and slipped out the door just as Tom Mallory entered.
“Good evening, Kate. You look wonderful.”
He looked wonderful himself. Tonight he wore another pair of beautifully tailored trousers, this time with a kind of marled blue V-neck sweater over an open-collared white shirt.
He bent to kiss my cheek. “No further incidents? You’re all right?”
I nodded and layered a sliver of cheese on a cracker. “I keep imagining I’ll wake up and everything will be back to normal.”
He held up one of the stemmed glasses. “Red or white?”
“White, please.” As he poured, I thought about my mother’s flexibility. One of her gifts. “Accept what you can’t change,” she would tell me now. “Look for the silver lining.” As far as I knew, my mother had coined that phrase. The silver lining here was an opportunity to find out more about the mysterious detective inspector from Suffolk, England. I took the glass from his hand. “Your card said ‘CID.’ That’s Criminal Investigation Division, right?”