by Connie Berry
“I started reading your book last night,” I said. “It’s very good.”
“Thank you.” He shifted his weight again. His expression had changed, but I wasn’t able to read it.
“I hear you’re working on a sequel. Have you decided how you’ll deal with Flora’s murder? I assume there was an investigation. Maybe contemporary records.”
“I never talk about a work in progress,” he snapped. Then he seemed to wilt. “Forgive me. I’m not myself.”
“I understand. I really do. When someone you love dies, your whole life changes, but the universe spins along as if nothing has happened. It’s very disorienting.”
Goggle-eyes again. Had I lapsed into Hungarian?
If Hugh Guthrie had hidden depths, it would take a spelunker to find them. What had Elenor seen in him? It couldn’t have been his trust fund. Elenor had money of her own. Maybe she fancied being the wife of a local celebrity, or maybe she’d gotten bored with running a hotel. She never had possessed a long attention span.
“Will you continue your work at the Historical Society?”
“Of course.” He straightened his shoulders and appeared to pull himself together. “We’re making an inventory of our holdings. Elenor would want me to complete the project.”
Having found a topic of interest, I held on. “Elenor spoke of thefts at the Historical Society. The staff at the hotel thought she was imagining things.”
“No, it’s quite true. We started noticing things going missing several months ago. Random things—a box of photographs, a hand-woven blanket, a gun. The gun worried us, but it showed up again the day after it was taken. As if it had never been gone. Most of the items showed up again, although I have to be honest, we’re so disorganized, we might not have noticed except we’re in the process of cataloging. It was almost as if someone were playing a game, seeing what they could get away with.”
“What did the police say?”
“Elenor wouldn’t report it.” He picked up the paperweight and shifted it from hand to hand as if gauging its weight. “She said the culprit would eventually give himself away.”
“But he hasn’t?”
Hugh shook his head. “Not surprising. Our security’s pretty lax. We try to staff the museum with volunteers, but it’s not always possible in the off-season. People come and go. There’s a bell on the door, but most of us have tuned it out by now.”
“How many volunteers do you have?”
“More in summer, but if you mean regulars, there’s myself and Elenor.” He set the paperweight on the desk. “Agnes MacLeod and the MacDonalds. That’s five. And the Arnott twins. Seven total.”
“Could the thefts be connected with Elenor’s death?”
“Why should they be?” He looked genuinely baffled.
“Who besides Elenor has access to the museum after hours?”
“Look, I’ve been through all this with the police. Are you implying one of our volunteers killed Elenor?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m trying to understand why Elenor went to the Historical Society the night of the ball. You must have asked yourself that question.”
“Of course I have,” he said irritably. “And a hundred others.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Forgive me. I’m really not myself. There are two sets of exterior keys. Elenor had one and I have the other, although we loan our keys to volunteers occasionally. We keep another set, for the locked exhibits, in the desk. I’m afraid we’re not careful about that either. As I said, we’re not well organized.”
“I’ve never seen the museum. I know it meant a lot to Elenor.”
“The police said we can get back in tomorrow. Stop by if you like.”
A petulant voice drifted in from somewhere beyond the door. “Hugh? Where are you? I need to speak with you immediately.”
His shoulders sagged. “I’ll be right back.” He left, shutting the door behind him.
I stared at the neat desktop. Wasn’t he supposed to be working on the new book? Where were his notes, outlines, drafts, sticky pads with bits of research? He claimed in the forward to The Diary to have done extensive research. Where were his reference books?
None of your business scolded that prim little voice of conscience.
Too late—again. I’d already opened the right-hand drawer.
The drawer was filled with correspondence. The letter on top (I couldn’t help seeing it, could I?) was from Hugh’s publisher, a contract for two volumes of The Diary of Flora Arnott.
In for a penny. I flipped quickly through the pile, reading snatches while keeping my ears open for footsteps and one eye on the door.
A letter dated the previous June read, May we remind you, sir, that your contract was for two books. With the success of the first volume, we believe a second should come out sooner rather than— I stopped reading, thumbing forward in time.
A letter written in mid-August complained, Have you forgotten, Dr. Guthrie, that your book claims to be Volume One? We’ve been patient, but I believe we deserve to know when a draft of Volume Two will be forthcoming. Remember that you are under contract.
Had Guthrie even begun to write the new book?
Hearing only silence, I opened the center drawer, finding several pens and a brass letter opener. That wasn’t all. Stuffed toward the back was a clear plastic bag holding several round blue tablets. I held the bag to the light. The imprint of S193 was clearly visible. Eszopiclone tablets. Like Elenor’s.
A scraping sound on the other side of the door startled me. Then the doorknob turned.
I shoved the baggie in the drawer and closed it.
Then I did something dumb. Really, really dumb.
I ducked under the desk.
You idiot, I told myself, stating the obvious.
I heard the door open and the sound of wheels on wood.
I curled myself into a ball and held my breath. If Margaret left before I passed out, there was a chance I could—
The wheelchair squeaked into my line of vision. “Looking for something in particular or just snooping?” Margaret Guthrie was seriously annoyed.
I shot her a look of dazzling innocence. “Admiring the dovetail joins. An antique dealer’s affliction, I’m afraid. We can’t resist.” The lie came more easily than it should have, but this was Margaret Guthrie, who could kill with her eyeballs alone.
“Too bad you have to go so soon.” She crossed her arms over her ample chest. She didn’t look pleased.
Or convinced.
Chapter Twenty
Dusk was settling on the island when I pedaled down the long drive toward the hotel, alive and unscathed. Not a phrase I use often.
Things hadn’t ended as badly as they might have. With Margaret Guthrie looming over me, I’d scrambled awkwardly from beneath the desk, mumbled something about the delicious cake, and beat a swift retreat.
The humiliation had been worth it.
If Elenor had been sharing sleeping pills with her fiancé (illegal, of course), it might explain why she’d been asking the doctor for more. And, even more tantalizing, someone really had been stealing things from the Historical Society.
Stealing them and putting them back.
I walked my bike over the gravel parking area. Tartan Cottage was still dark, and there was still no car. Maybe Tom had checked out. Nothing to do with me, of course. I’d have dinner in the cottage, read more in Guthrie’s book, and get a good night’s sleep for once.
I found Nancy and Frank in the kitchen. Frank stood with his back to the sink. Nancy slumped at the oak table. I got the impression they’d been arguing and remembered that one of them had lied on their police statement. I’d forgotten about that. As much as I liked Nancy, I had to admit she’d been cagey about the night of the ball, and there’d been something behind those clear gray eyes when she denied having a clue about the identity of Elenor’s killer.
Frank nodded and resumed his scrutiny of the floor.
Nancy tucked her h
air into place and stood, smoothing her skirt. “Detective Inspector Devlin phoned. He said to call him back if you got in before five. Nothing urgent.”
It was almost five thirty. I’d phone him in the morning. “Did Bo’s sister call?”
“She has not. Frank’s been trying to contact her as well.”
“Would you mind if I had dinner in the cottage tonight?”
“Not a’tall, lass.” Nancy opened a drawer and pulled out one of her snowy white aprons. “Mr. Mallory won’t be joining us either. I’ll send Sofia with a tray, shall I? Six thirty?”
“Perfect.” I wanted to ask why Tom wouldn’t be having dinner that night. Instead I said, “Any news about Bo?”
“They’ve assigned a public defender,” Frank said tersely. “Probably some eejit fresh out of university who doesn’t give a—”
“Frank.” Nancy stopped him.
I refrained from comment. In my experience, most recent law school graduates still wore the shiny halo of truth and justice for all.
I walked the bike back to Applegarth. The sky had cleared. The sun’s dying rays laid a shimmering path on the dark surface of the Sound.
In the cottage, I slipped out of my shoes. Applegarth was beginning to feel like home.
At six thirty sharp, Sofia arrived with a tray of dishes covered with silver domes. Nancy had sent beef stroganoff with apple cobbler and ice cream for dessert. I sighed. Lean Cuisine for me when I got back to Ohio.
“Please to put your tray on the bench outside when you are finish.” Sofia turned to leave.
“Stay for a minute.” A little tact wouldn’t hurt. “I’ve been trying to get a sense of Elenor’s life these past weeks. I’d like your impressions.”
“Is not my business.” Sofia clasped the metal domes to her chest like armor.
“But it is your business. The sale of the hotel affects everyone.”
Sofia shook her head. “I am just a maid.” Her accent was thickening.
“But you were upset.” The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them. “So upset you spent the night in Tartan Cottage.”
The metal lids rattled. “Who tell you?”
“Mr. Mallory, but only to give you an alibi.”
“Yez, okay. I was upset that she sells the hotel. Now she is dead. Is nothing to do with me.” Her eyes were liquid pools of fear.
“Sofia, if you know something, you must tell the police.”
I reached for her arm, but she recoiled as if I’d slapped her.
Clutching the lids, she fled from the cottage.
I’d blown it. Plain and simple. Instead of gaining Sofia’s confidence, I’d frightened her, and she was obviously already afraid. About what, I’d probably never know now.
In an attempt to feel better, I finished my apple cobbler and practically licked the bowl.
I felt worse. If I stayed on the island much longer, I’d have to buy a pair of elastic-waist pants.
I gave up and got ready for bed. It was only eight, but the day had taken a toll. Every question raised others. Every clue deepened the confusion. Agnes had denied leaving the hotel the night of the murder. A lie, I was sure of it. The Holdens had lied, too—one of them anyway—and Nancy had taken great pains to convince me that she and Frank had gotten along just fine with Elenor. The Guthries were distinctly odd. Not that it made them murderers, but they were odd. The Arnott twins were beyond odd. Jackie and Dora MacDonald were question marks. And then there was Becca.
The adoption thing had been flitting around the back of my mind. Did Becca have some reason to believe her birth parents came from Glenroth? Or—I was riveted by a new thought—could Becca be Elenor’s daughter? My imagination picked up speed. Maybe it was Becca who met Elenor at the Historical Society and confronted her with proof that she was her biological daughter. Maybe Elenor denied it. Or laughed at her and—
I shook my head. It was all mist and froth. What I needed was something solid, something I could build on, like Elenor’s insistence that I read Guthrie’s book. Clearly the book was meant to be the preamble for a story she planned to tell me, the cause of her fear and the reason she had called me for help.
I washed my hair, dried it with a towel, and combed it behind my ears. After slathering on a layer of face cream a salesclerk barely out of puberty had promised would make me look twenty years younger, I slipped into my flannel Mickey and Minnie pajamas, the ones the kids had bought me years ago at Disney World. Some people have comfort food. I have comfort pajamas.
Snuggling into the duvet, I opened The Diary of Flora Arnott, but instead of reading, I laid the open book on my chest.
My list of things to do was multiplying like rabbits. Call DI Devlin. Talk to the pastor of the Wee Free about Elenor’s funeral. Contact a funeral director. Stop by the Historical Society for the promised tour. If Bo’s sister didn’t call, I’d have to drive into Glenfinnan to track her down at the Munroe Clinic. I had to make an appointment with Elenor’s solicitor in Inverness. And, oh yes, if there was time, I would also check out the jewelry store where Guthrie had bought that ring.
I should have written it all down.
I’d begun to read when I heard the crunch of gravel outside. The sound of a car door was followed by a sharp rap on the door. “Kate, it’s me, Tom.”
Cripes. “Hold on.” Springing out of bed, I dashed into the bathroom and toweled off the face cream. Finger combing my still-damp hair, I threw the robe over my pajamas. After smoothing the duvet and plumping the pillow, I opened the door, a little breathlessly.
Tom stood on the porch, one hand in the pocket of his waxed field jacket. He rubbed his chin. Had he come to apologize for his rudeness at dinner?
No, he had not.
“I’ve been at the police station in Mallaig all day. May I come in? I have news.”
I opened the door wider. He ducked his head as he came through.
Double cripes. Why hadn’t I thought to roll up the legs of my pajamas?
The sitting area in Applegarth Cottage consisted of two overstuffed armchairs, a low table, and a well-stocked bookshelf. Tom took the chair nearest the window. I took the other, tucking my legs as far under the chair as I could manage. With luck, he wouldn’t notice Mickey and Minnie.
“Devlin said not to bother returning his call,” Tom said. “He asked me to give you an update.”
“On Bo Duff? Have they completed the evaluation?”
“Not yet, but there’s a hearing scheduled sometime next week.”
“A hearing?” I snapped and immediately felt guilty. Shooting the messenger never helps. “I’m sorry, Tom, but this whole thing is a mistake. Something traumatized Bo that night, and the sooner he gets back to his familiar environment, the sooner he’ll be able to remember what that was. Maybe he witnessed something. Maybe he can identify the real killer.” I’d leaned so far forward on my chair that I almost slipped off. I sat back. “I’m not going to let the police railroad him, I swear.”
“Devlin’s not out to railroad anyone. I’m not a legal expert, but I doubt Bo’s confession alone will stand up in court. They’ll need corroborating evidence.”
“Bo didn’t confess!” I threw up my hands in exasperation. “How many times do I have to repeat that before someone listens?”
“Kate, I hear you. But if Bo is deemed competent, and if he continues to insist that he hurt Elenor, they will have to take him seriously.”
“What if he’s deemed mentally incompetent?”
“I don’t know. But if he isn’t guilty, there won’t be corroborating evidence.”
My toes prickled. I wiggled them to get the circulation going. “You’ve read the statements. What do you think?”
“I think Elenor made a lot of people angry.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out my cell phone. “They’ve finished with it.”
I took the phone and checked for messages from Christine. There were none. “So what’s the update?”
“Preliminary t
ests came back. Elenor’s blood contained a high level of sedatives. Sleeping pills.”
“Really?” Sleeping pills were becoming a theme. “Why would she take pills before going out? How long does it take for sleeping pills to kick in?”
“That depends—on what she took, how much she took, if she had food in her stomach, if she was in the habit of taking sedatives. I’m no expert. If you give me your mobile number, I’ll text you when I learn more.”
I watched him write down the number, thinking I should probably tell him about the pills in Hugh Guthrie’s desk. Except he’d ask how I found them, and I had no intention whatsoever of telling him that.
“There’s also an update on the boot prints. Seems Mucky Ducks are popular on the island. So far they’ve located several pairs in size ten. The Arnott twins have a pair that belonged to their father, but they’ve been stored in their shed for years. A maternity ward for mice, apparently. Hugh Guthrie used to have a pair, but he gave them to the village charity shop a while back. And there are a couple of size tens right here at the hotel. They keep them on hand for guests.”
I thought of the wellies Nancy had loaned me the night of the ball. Good thing I didn’t wear size ten. “If I were guilty, I wouldn’t leave my boots hanging around for the police to find. I’d put them in a rubbish bin somewhere or toss them in the lake.”
“You have a criminal mind.” He shot me that disarming half smile.
I stretched my legs, realizing too late I’d forgotten all about the pajamas.
Tom stared at the grinning Mickeys and Minnies. “Did I wake you?”
“Just reading.” Tom’s wife had probably worn fabulous lingerie.
He leaned toward me, frowning. “You’ve got something on your upper lip. And there, on your chin.”
I shot up and dashed into the bathroom.
The image in the mirror made me flinch. No makeup. Smudges of dried face cream on my face. Damp hair sticking to my head. Flannel Disney pajamas so old I could practically sell them in the antique shop. Good grief.
I wiped my face with a towel.
He stood when I returned. “I’ll say good night, Kate. Let you get back to your book.”