by Connie Berry
Becca laughed. “Every conversation with the Arnott twins is strange.” She slipped a book into place on the top shelf.
“She was trying to get into Elenor’s flat.”
“Really? Probably still looking for her property.” Becca slid the ladder along its polished brass track and began shelving books in a section labeled LOCAL HISTORY.
“Why would Penny think Elenor had her property?”
“Because she probably did. Elenor often brought boxes home from the Historical Society to catalog. Penny came bursting in a few weeks ago, accusing Elenor of taking something Cilla had donated by mistake. Elenor said if Penny was stupid enough to leave Cilla in charge, she deserved to lose it.”
“There is a box in Elenor’s flat, but it’s just old kitchenware. Junk.”
“Junk to you, Kate.” Becca moved the ladder again. “The twins believe anything connected with the Arnott family is a rare treasure. Would you care to see a tin of their grandfather’s tooth powder? They’ve got one at the Historical Society, along with a badminton set from the thirties, a ball of twine that belonged to Grandmother Arnott, and a pile of fabric scraps some long-dead Arnott intended to make into a quilt. Penny thinks the Historical Society should install a security system.”
“I’m surprised the hotel doesn’t have a security system.”
“Not practical. What if a guest decides she needs something out of her car at three in the morning? We can hardly lock them in.”
“You do lock the doors at night, though, right?”
“At ten sharp. But guests have room keys that also unlock the front door.”
Pretty casual for a house containing valuable antiques, I thought. Anyone could have taken the keys out of Becca’s desk and had them duplicated. “Penny invited me for tea.”
“You must go.” Becca grinned. “Think of it as a cultural experience.”
“One experience at a time. I’m having tea with the Guthries this afternoon.”
Becca moved down a rung. “Hand me that book, will you?” She indicated a large, cloth-bound book lying on the table: Early Residents of the Isle of Glenroth.
“Someone interested in island history?”
“Always. You’d be surprised at the people who trace their lineage back to the clans driven out in the Highland Clearances. Mostly Canadians and New Zealanders. Later, of course, Captain Arnott granted parcels of land to fifteen Scottish men, all from the shires south of Glasgow. Their descendants come too.” She took the book and placed it on a shelf with other oversize volumes. “That’s why we hold a genealogy seminar here every fall. People use our library and the one at the Historical Society for research.”
“So that’s why the Arnotts and Guthries were resented. They weren’t Highlanders.” This was one part of the story I hadn’t heard much about.
“Exactly so. The Arnotts rescued the house and the island from the English, but the MacDonalds wanted their old clan seat back, even though they had no money to purchase it themselves. They considered the house to be theirs by the law of restitution.”
That explained the reference in the old newspaper articles to the “point of contention” between Captain Arnott and the local clansmen. It also provided a nice pivot. “Is your family from the island? Is that why you took the job here?”
Becca climbed down and brushed off her short black skirt. “I never had a family. I was an orphan, fostered a few times, never adopted.” She shrugged. “This job gives me a place to live. And I like old houses.”
“Will you stay on when the new owners take over?”
“To be honest, I’m thinking about leaving anyway. Geoff’s taking a position at Holyrood Palace in January. He asked me to marry him.”
“Becca, that’s wonderful. You’re moving to Edinburgh.”
“Too soon for confetti. Geoff’s an incredible guy. I’m just not sure.”
“Sure that you love him?”
“That I’m able to love him. He deserves that, don’t you think?” She fingered the fall of hair concealing her thin, white scar. “That reminds me. How was dinner last night?”
“Oh, the dinner.” I covered my face with both hands.
“It couldn’t have been that bad. Tom Mallory is a charming man.”
“He is charming, but I questioned him about the murder, and he told me to leave the investigation to the police. I’m afraid I got huffy.”
“Come on, let’s get out of here.” Becca flipped off the lights. “Good luck with Margaret Guthrie today. I’ve heard tales about that woman.”
“Oh? Something I should know?”
“Just that she’s a witch. And not quite the invalid she wants everyone to think she is.”
I laughed. “Do I need backup?”
“You’ll be safe enough.” Becca smirked. “Just don’t flirt with her son.”
That, as it turned out, was excellent advice.
Chapter Nineteen
At two fifteen I set out for the Guthries’ on the old-fashioned, wide-tired bicycle I’d found in Applegarth’s log shed. The Hebridean wind blew steadily, thinning the cloud cover and brightening the sky. Above me, a white-winged gull shrieked and dove. The snow had finally melted. As I passed the hotel, I saw Becca sweeping the stone steps. She held up two fingers in the victory sign.
Tartan Cottage dozed in the woods to the east. Yesterday a white car had been parked there—Tom’s rental, I supposed. Today the car was gone.
He was probably avoiding me.
It took less than ten minutes to reach the old stone bridge. I coasted to a halt. Below me, overshadowed by conifers and bounded on the south by a high bank, the Burn o’Ruadh cut a channel through the underbrush. Ruadh—the Gaelic name for the red deer that once roamed the island freely. Bill and I had walked the length of the burn on our honeymoon, following the silvery ribbon of water as it rushed headlong from the high point at the island’s center toward the sea. Today a thin stream of peaty snowmelt curled sluggishly around rocks, twigs, and clumps of dead leaves.
According to island history, somewhere along that burn on New Year’s Day of 1811, Captain James Arnott had been found with a bullet in his head. Self-inflicted was the implication in the newspaper story, but I wondered about that. Had he been murdered too?
Beyond the bridge, a dry stone wall defined a small cemetery. A newer section in back displayed well-tended graves adorned with frost-nipped chrysanthemums. The headstones nearest the road, the oldest ones, were narrow tablets or stone crosses, pocked with moss and lichens. I wondered if Flora and her unborn child were buried there. Probably not. If the island Chamber of Commerce knew the location of her grave, they’d have erected a shrine and charged admission.
On the left, a hundred yards or so past the cemetery, the Glenroth Historical Society occupied a picturesque 1830s stone schoolhouse with a modern board-and-batten annex. Crime scene tape blocked the entrance and marked off the area between the road and a brick walkway where the stump of an old tree jutted from the soil. An ugly gash in the stump and an obscenely green square of turf were all that remained of violent death.
A group of reporters was milling about, preparing to film. “Wait,” one of them called to me. “May we speak with you for a minute?”
I shook my head and stood on the pedals.
The Arnotts’ plain forties-style two-story sat directly across from the Historical Society. Devlin was right. If a body had lain there the night of the Tartan Ball, the twins would have had a clear view. I thought I saw a curtain twitch.
Hugh Guthrie and his mother lived south of the village in a lovely house of dark-gray flint. A lacy trim board followed the gabled roof line. I leaned my bike against the wrought-iron fence and walked up the path. The front door stood open, a glass storm door proof against the weather.
Margaret Guthrie must have been watching, because a rich alto voice called out, “Come in, dear. Door’s open.”
I stepped into a long foyer. On the right a narrow staircase led to a second story. On
the left a small fire burned in the living room hearth.
Margaret Guthrie sat by the fire in an upholstered chair. With her powdery pink-and-white complexion and wings of silver hair, she might have been the spokesmodel for a stair lift or a security call pendant. Her wheelchair was nowhere in sight.
“Welcome to Taigh Mòr,” she said. “We’ve had quite a morning. Reporters everywhere. Such an intrusion.”
“Taigh Mòr?”
“The Gaelic name for mansion house. That’s what the house is known as locally.”
Was she joking? The house was nice, but no mansion. I detected a familiar scent, something old-fashioned. L’ Air du Temps?
A portrait hung over the fireplace. I recognized a much-younger version of the woman who sat before me. Her hair had been blonde then, but styled much as she wore it now. She’d chosen to sit in a gown of shimmering lapis lazuli, showcasing a pair of creamy shoulders and a youthful décolleté.
I offered my hand, and Margaret imprisoned it in both soft palms. “Sit here, dear.” She indicated a ladder-backed chair with a hard rush seat. Her head lolled to one side like a marionette whose string has snapped. “Such a tragedy. Only three years ago you lost your husband, and now you’ve lost Elenor as well.”
“The loss is your son’s.”
Margaret’s smile puckered. “Of course. But Hugh is such a sensitive person, I must ask you not to press him about”—she twirled her hand—“you know.”
I didn’t know. Was I supposed to pretend Elenor hadn’t been murdered, or was she warning me not to mention the unpleasantness at the Tartan Ball? “Mrs. Guthrie, I—”
“Margaret, dear, and Hugh. No need to be formal.”
“I don’t want to upset your son, Margaret, but I need to discuss the funeral arrangements. He was closer to Elenor than anyone.”
She did a slow blink. “I suppose so, although it still surprises me. Elenor could be quite overpowering at times. Of course,” she added quickly, “her death is a great loss.”
“Is Hugh here?”
“Certainly,” she snapped, as if I’d accused her of withholding evidence. “I gave him a task so we could talk for a moment in private.”
“Oh?”
“Hugh is vulnerable right now. Can you imagine who the police sent to inform us of Elenor’s death? An attractive young woman. She actually left her card and told Hugh to call if there was anything she could do to help. Next thing you know she’ll be suggesting they meet for coffee.” Margaret fidgeted in her chair. “I do feel guilty about the little contretemps at the ball, though. If I’d known what was going to happen, I wouldn’t have … well.” She cleared her throat.
Wouldn’t have bothered? I let her squirm.
“Anyway, I hope I didn’t cause offense.” Margaret smoothed her skirt.
“Not to me,” I said. “You and Elenor disagreed about the wedding plans.”
A flash of irritation crossed her face. “That’s what I’m talking about. Hugh can easily be bullied into decisions that aren’t his own. I was simply making sure he was getting what he wanted. No one knows a son better than his mother.”
Margaret crossed her legs. So she wasn’t paralyzed. Maybe that’s what Becca had meant when she said Margaret Guthrie wasn’t quite the invalid she pretended to be. Had the police checked her alibi, or just assumed she wasn’t physically capable of committing the murder?
Hugh Guthrie entered the room carrying a tray. He placed it on the coffee table in front of the sofa. “Hello.” His turtlelike eyes darted, as if he wasn’t sure where to look. If he’d had a shell, he’d have pulled his head in at that moment.
“Thank you, darling,” his mother said, “but we need the tray a little closer. Here, perhaps?” She drew an imaginary circle in front of the fireplace.
Hugh moved a table from the other side of the room and placed the tray on it. Slices of a seed cake had been set out on clear pink luncheon plates with integrated saucers. Hugh poured tea, first for me, then for his mother, adding to hers cream and three sugars.
“A little more cream, darling. You know I like a lot of cream. A touch more.”
Tea sloshed out, swamping the cake.
“You’ve filled it too full now,” she clucked. “Get a napkin. Paper, not cloth.”
Hugh disappeared and returned with a handful of paper napkins. He mopped up and handed his mother the plate.
She rotated it ninety degrees. “Cup on the right, darling. Remember? Now come sit. Pull up so we can have a nice chat.”
He inched his chair forward until she signaled her satisfaction.
I’m usually pretty tolerant of other people’s foibles, but I was forming a rather intense dislike for Margaret Guthrie. This made me brave enough to contravene a direct order.
“First, let me say how sorry I am.” I turned toward Hugh. “I know what it’s like to lose someone you love, but to lose her on the evening of your engagement is something no one should have to experience.”
He stared at me, goggle-eyed.
“It’s an outrage,” Margaret said, filling the silence. “To think a woman can’t take a walk at night without getting mugged. A gang from Glasgow, no doubt.”
I was about to say that what had happened to Elenor was a little more serious than mugging, but I stopped myself in time. The police obviously hadn’t shared the cause of Elenor’s death with the Guthries. Weren’t they curious? I took a bite of my cake.
“Has a date been set for the services?” Margaret asked.
“Not yet, which is partly why I’m here.” I turned again to Hugh. “I’d like to help. If you agree, I thought we might have the funeral at the, ah, church in the village.” The islanders called it the Wee Free, but I couldn’t bring myself to say that. “I know how difficult it is to think about these things, but it has to be done. The sooner the better, in my experience.”
Hugh’s face turned pink. “I’m not up to making decisions. Whatever you decide is fine.”
“Of course. If that’s what you want.”
Margaret Guthrie’s face wore a Cheshire-cat smile and the air of someone getting not only the cream but the whole cow.
A young girl in Goth gear came through a door at the far end of the room. She peeled off a black leatherette jacket and held up a striped cloth sack. “Got everything on the list, Mrs. G.” Her hair had been dyed black, hacked into chunks, and spiked with gel. Under a spackling of pale makeup, the girl’s face was angelic. The incongruity was made perfect by dimples that appeared when she spoke. “Oh, hello,” she said to me.
“Kylie, this is Kate, Mrs. Spurgeon’s sister-in-law. Have you heard the news?” Margaret’s voice dripped with the horror, or the thrill, of delivering bad news. “Elenor Spurgeon is dead. The police aren’t saying, but we think it’s murder.”
The girl turned even whiter under her pale Goth makeup. “D’they know who did it?”
“No one from the island, I’m sure. We’re devastated, naturally. Elenor was Dr. Guthrie’s friend.”
“Poor Mr. G. What do you want done today? Anything special?”
“There is something,” Margaret said, looking uncertainly from me to Kylie. “But I’d need to explain.”
I jumped at the opportunity. “Please, go. In the meantime, Hugh can show me the house.”
“Well, don’t be long.” It sounded like a command.
Hugh retrieved a folded wheelchair from behind a curtain and helped his mother transition.
I followed him into the hallway.
“The house is Baronial Revival, a style popular in the late nineteenth century. It reflects a reverence for the past and Scottish culture.”
I could see him lecturing in the classroom. “Who named it Taigh Mòr?”
“My father’s idea. Embarrassing, really. Makes the place sound far grander than it is.”
“How long has your family lived here?”
“My parents purchased the property in 1954, shortly after they were married. I’ve only recently returned. Mot
her needed care and was opposed to leaving the house. I took early retirement. “
The hallway ended in a television room furnished with a small sofa and two loungers. The curtains were drawn. Hugh flipped on the lights. “My parents added this room in the sixties, before Island Preservation instituted stricter regulations.”
One wall was covered with family photographs. I pointed to a studio portrait of a heavy-jowled man in a dark suit. “Your father?”
“Sheriff at Portree for forty years.”
“Sheriff?”
“You’d call him a judge. In Scotland, sheriffs deal with the majority of the criminal and civil court cases.” All the photographs, I noticed, were of Hugh’s parents, together and separately, at a variety of social events. Not a single photograph of their son.
He shifted his weight. “There isn’t much more to see, really. Kitchen and dining area through that door. Two bedrooms and a bath upstairs. A bedroom and bath off the downstairs hall—Mother’s suite, so she doesn’t have to climb stairs. Very little inside is original except my office.”
“I’d love to see your office.” Anywhere away from Mommie Dearest.
Hugh opened the door to a wood-paneled room near the staircase. Two chairs faced an Adam-style fireplace. On a pedestal near the window stood an enormous begonia plant. Hairy brown rhizomes crawled toward the window as if attempting a slow-motion getaway. I could sympathize.
Hugh placed his hand on the mantel. “This is the original paneling and fireplace, and this is my father.” He indicated a portrait above the mantel. “Painted, as you can see, in this very room.”
The portrait was a companion to the one in the living room. The thick-jowled man I’d seen in the family photos wore black judicial robes and the traditional off-white horsehair wig worn in court. He sat on the edge of a leather-top desk, one hand on a stack of books. Behind him, on the mantel, a statue of a Lady Justice wielded the sword of justice and the scales of truth. Lady Justice was still on the mantel, and the desk still occupied the center of the room. On the desktop was a small laptop computer and a glass paperweight.