by Connie Berry
“The yearly purge.” The young man mopped his face on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “Several hundred kids come through here every summer, all with sticky fingers.”
Tom had wandered to the far wall and appeared to be examining a group of framed photographs. Photos dotted every wall of the log structure, hundreds of them, most in color, some in black and white.
“Kate, come have a look,” Tom said. “Guess who was Senior Boys Champion of 1973?”
One photo showed a much younger and slimmer Jackie MacDonald posing with a bow and arrow. He looked like a young Johnny Weissmuller—broad shoulders, dark wavy hair, straight white teeth. No wonder Dora—and Elenor—had been smitten.
“And now this one.” Tom drew my attention to a black-and-white image farther along the wall. A blonde, sixteen or seventeen, arched her back as she drew her bow. The label read MARGARET PARKER, SENIOR GIRLS CHAMPION, 1951.
Unmistakably Margaret Guthrie.
* * *
“That’s one question answered.” I pointed the car toward the main road, reminding myself to keep left. “Arrows with red-and-yellow fletching are as common on the Isle of Glenroth as pebbles on the beach.”
The sky was brightening. Tom pulled down the visor. “Means, motive, and opportunity, the classic elements of crime. If such arrows are readily available, then everyone on the island, in theory, had the means. Right now the police are checking opportunity. Whose statement doesn’t add up, whose alibi can’t be proved. What they need is a motive. Once they know the why, they’re a long way toward finding the who.”
“That’s my point.” I hit the steering wheel with the flat of my hand. “Bo Duff had no motive. His response to being fired would have been shame, not rage.”
“I don’t disagree,” Tom said mildly. “So who did have a motive?”
I pictured him calmly disarming a maniacal gunman. “As far as I can tell, most islanders would have cheerfully wrung Elenor’s neck. She acted in blatant self-interest without giving a thought to anyone else.”
“You mean the sale of the hotel.”
Light bounced off the windshield. “Tom,” I said, shielding my eyes, “what if the motive for Elenor’s murder is something no one knows about yet?”
“Then how do you explain the threats?”
“Oh, someone wanted to scare her out of selling the hotel, all right. But what if that had nothing to do with her death?” I held up my index finger. “One, Elenor was afraid. Two, she said everything began with the casket. Three, now it’s missing. Four, she insisted I read Guthrie’s novel. I just need to connect the dots.”
He gave me a look that said leave dot-connecting to the police but refrained from saying so. He was starting to know me.
We passed through the village toward the ferry terminal. The press cars had finally departed. Tom shifted in his seat and attempted to stretch his long legs. “Sometimes it helps to come at a problem from a different angle. Instead of asking why Elenor was killed, let’s ask why she went to the Historical Society. Whom did she meet there?”
“Jackie MacDonald? He had a crush on Elenor when they were teenagers. Maybe he couldn’t stand the thought of her marrying Hugh and met her that night to talk her out of it.” I was only half serious, but he took it a step further.
“Would Dora cover for him?”
“Ah, but Dora wouldn’t know. With all that champagne, she’d probably passed out.”
“Maybe she found out Jackie and Elenor were having an affair. She sobered up and—”
“Stop it.” I had to laugh. “You make it sound like one of those cheesy soap operas.”
“Now those we do have in England. Not that I admit watching them.”
I turned right onto North Shore Road. Tom clutched the armrest.
“Sorry,” I said, slowing down. “Lead foot.”
“If we were in England, I’d have to arrest you for speeding.”
“I have a perfect driving record, I’ll have you know. Except for the odd speeding ticket. And last Friday when we almost crashed.”
“Almost crashed?” He gave me an innocent look. “I have no memory of that.”
Beyond the low-lying peat beds, we could see the ferry terminal, the “roll-on, roll-off,” as the locals call it.
“Have the police considered Dr. Guthrie?” I asked. “Isn’t the husband or boyfriend usually the first suspect?”
“What motive? If Guthrie was the killer—and I’m not saying he was—Elenor must have had some hold over him, something that made her a threat.”
I’d thought the same thing. You don’t kill someone to get out of an engagement. “What did the Guthries say about the night of the ball?”
“Same thing everyone said—‘went straight home and stayed there.’ Margaret Guthrie claims she’s a light sleeper. Her son couldn’t have left the house without her hearing.”
“What about Margaret herself? Becca Wallace implied she isn’t as much of an invalid as she wants people to believe. We know she can shoot an arrow. At least she could.”
“But she doesn’t drive. She could hardly make it to the Historical Society in her wheelchair.”
“She could try.” I pictured Margaret Guthrie motoring down Bridge Street with a longbow over her shoulder.
“How about the Arnott twins?” Tom said. “Maybe they were plotting to get Elenor out of the way so they could move back into their ancestral home.”
“I can almost believe that. Except they wouldn’t get the house, would they? The hotel belongs to the Swiss investors now.”
“Okay. So assuming the murder was committed by someone close to Elenor, who’s left?”
“The staff of the hotel, I suppose. Becca and Geoff can prove they were off the island when she was killed. That leaves Agnes, the Holdens, and Sofia.”
Tom tried to cross his legs and gave up. “Means, motive, opportunity. They all had means and opportunity. Who had the strongest motive?”
“I don’t know about a motive, but I’m pretty sure Sofia’s hiding something.”
“Like what?”
“No clue. You seem to have influence. Ask her.”
He rubbed his ear thoughtfully. “And the Holdens?”
“Detective Inspector Devlin said one of them lied on their police statement.”
“I’ll check that out.”
“I could make the best case for Agnes MacLeod. She’d banked everything on Glenroth House. Elenor promised her a partnership. The sale of the hotel would have been the ultimate betrayal. Maybe Agnes stole the silver tray—and the casket, too. Payment due for years of abuse.” I wanted to tell Tom about the wet purple gloves, but it felt like piling on. Besides, I couldn’t imagine Agnes killing Elenor in cold blood. “The problem is, I don’t want it to be any of them. Oh dear. I wouldn’t make a very good policeman.”
“First rule of the job, Kate. Never get personally involved.” A line of trees deepened the shadow along his jawline. “Only sometimes we do.”
We’d reached the terminal. The ferry was in the process of off-loading. Away to the south, a bank of clouds was building over the mountains of Rùm.
“Anyone we’ve left out?” he asked.
“Just you.” I turned my head to watch his face.
One corner of his mouth went up. “What’s my motive?”
“Give me a minute. Okay, you fell hopelessly in love with Elenor and went mad when she rejected you. Or”—I was getting into the game—“you were hired by that Swiss company to bump her off so they could get the property at a reduced price. Or … sorry, that’s the best I can do for now.”
“What makes you think I can handle a bow and arrow?”
“Can you?”
“Nope.”
We bumped onto the ferry access and took our place in line. “So who doesn’t have an alibi?”
“Everyone has an alibi, Kate.”
“Someone is lying.”
“Yes, someone is lying.” He was serious now. “And it isn’t a game of Clue.
It’s a real murder with a real murderer, and until we figure out why Elenor was killed, we can’t be certain he or she won’t kill again.”
* * *
The Munroe Mental Health Clinic, just east of Glenfinnan at the northern end of Loch Shiel, was a small facility catering mostly to outpatients but housing a limited number of men and women in urgent care suites.
Tom agreed to wait for me in the car. Policemen don’t tend to put people at their ease.
The waiting room was decorated in cheerful colors. A refreshment station offered a selection of biscuits and an automatic coffee and tea dispenser.
“I’m looking for Bo Duff’s sister,” I told a woman with an ID badge and a pager clipped to her belt. “Her name is Brenda.”
“There she is. Right over there.”
A woman with a barley-colored helmet of hair emerged from a door labeled CONFERENCE ROOM, followed by two men in white coats. They shook hands, and the men strode briskly down the hall. Brenda’s eyes darted around the room as if she wasn’t certain what to do next. Brenda didn’t resemble her brother in the least, except for her height. Even in flat shoes, she had to be six feet tall.
I walked over and introduced myself.
“I got your message.” Brenda bit the corner of her upper lip. “I should have called, but things have been pretty hectic.”
“How is Bo?”
“Calm. Just not talking. The evaluation is complete. The court has appointed an advocate. Very competent, I’m told.”
“If it helps, no one on the island believes Bo is guilty.”
“I appreciate that. I really do.” Brenda squared her shoulders. “But I have to face facts. Even if Bo isn’t charged, it’s not realistic for him to live alone anymore. I knew the day would come.” She pressed her lips together.
This was exactly what I’d feared. “But Bo gets along well. Everyone on the island looks out for him.”
Brenda shook her head. “The doctors warned me that sometimes, with cognitive disability, a traumatic event upsets the equilibrium. They talked about stressors, heightened reactions, behavioral compensation.” She shifted the large tote bag she was carrying to her other arm. “Do you mind if we sit? I’m feeling a bit light-headed.”
We chose a sofa near a window overlooking a pleasant walled garden. Outside, a man in a heavy coat sat on a bench near a fountain.
Brenda slid her tote bag to the floor. “There’s a facility in Perth, not far from where I live.”
“But Glenroth is Bo’s home. He lives independently.”
“Not really. The money our parents left him ran out a few years ago. Bo incurred debts. Not his fault. My husband pays his bills now. He’s been good about it, very generous. We never had children, you see. Bo’s condition is genetic. We weren’t willing to take the risk.” She looked away. “I saw what it did to our family. To me.”
She’d been ashamed of him, and now she was ashamed of herself.
A nursing sister approached Brenda. “Would you like a wee visit with your brother now? Don’t stay long. He needs his rest.”
“Let me come with you,” I said. “Please, Brenda. He might talk to me.”
Bo’s room was at the end of a wide hallway with a shiny tiled floor and walls painted a cheerful yellow. He sat, fully clothed, in a lounge chair. Through the wide window, Loch Shiel stretched toward the south. Bo’s face was shaven, his hair clean and tied back with a band. His nails were trimmed. I sat near him on the edge of his bed. “Hello, Bo. It’s me, Kate.”
He blinked. A sign of recognition?
Brenda watched us warily from across the room.
I put my hand on Bo’s arm. “Remember when you tried to help Bill? I want to help you now. Will you let me? Could we talk about the night Elenor died?”
He flinched.
“I know you didn’t do anything wrong. You wouldn’t, ever. But something happened, and I need to know what it was so I can help you.”
Bo’s shoulders hunched. He began to rock, his lips moving soundlessly.
I leaned in. “Did you see someone that night? Has someone threatened you?”
A low vibration began deep in Bo’s chest and came out in a moan, wretched and pitiful, like an animal caught in a trap.
“I’m calling the nursing sister.” Brenda ran from the room.
My eyes filled. This was my last chance. It might be Bo’s last chance, too. I took his hand. “It’s all right, Bo. Whatever happened, it’s all right. I don’t blame you. Just please tell me.”
His lips moved again. This time I heard.
“I. Hurt. Her.”
Brenda burst into the room, followed by two male attendants and the nursing sister in her blue smock. “Please leave.” The nurse signaled for the attendants. “This isn’t helping,” the sister told me in a tone that would brook no argument.
She was right. Brenda was sobbing. I was sobbing. Bo was rocking. The attendants were trying to get him into bed.
“Just go.” Brenda grabbed my arm and pulled me into the hallway. “The truth is the truth, however hard it is for you to accept.”
“Your brother didn’t kill Elenor.” I wiped my eyes. “He just didn’t, and I’ll do whatever it takes to clear him.” I wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her until she understood. Instead I ran for the exit.
“What happened?” Tom jumped out of the car and came around to meet me.
I shrugged out of my jacket, tossing it into the back seat. “Brenda thinks Bo is guilty. She’s talking about institutions.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Everyone’s sorry, but they’re letting it happen anyway.”
“At least you’re trying.”
“Yeah, right. I just made things worse.”
Tom was silent. What could he say?
Thunder rolled in the distance. I pictured the shame on Bo’s face. I. Hurt. Her.
The words Frank had spoken that night at the sheriff’s department sliced through my certainty like a flick knife. He’ll tell you the truth, if you care to hear it.
We said little on the drive home. Tom flipped on the radio, filling the silence with, of all things, American country music.
An hour later I dropped him near Tartan Cottage.
“Don’t blame yourself, Kate. You’ve done all you can.”
“Thanks,” I said miserably. “I know you’re trying to help.”
He unfolded himself from the car. “Will I see you at our table in the library?”
“I had nothing to do with that. You’re safe.”
He leaned down, one hand on the door frame. “Is that a good thing, do you think?”
“Is what a good thing?”
“To be safe.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The storm passed south of the island without a drop of rain.
After showering and changing clothes, I felt marginally better. I’d cruised through a cavalcade of emotions: fear, anger, guilt, acceptance, and finally a kind of pale optimism. I wouldn’t be allowed to see Bo again, but that didn’t mean I had to give up. If the real killer was found, and if Bo could be made to understood what had really happened to Elenor that night, his confusion might lift. He could still recover. I had to believe that.
In the library a log fire crackled. Nancy had prepared a lovely chicken cordon bleu with cranberry rice and fresh green beans. Tom and I sat at the table in front of the fire again. Tonight our conversation deliberately excluded murder, hearings, and institutions, a pact we’d both agreed upon.
“How did you get started in the antiques trade?” he asked.
“I grew up in it. My parents were collectors first, then dealers. When I was fourteen, they opened a shop. I worked there after school.”
“Getting an education.”
“I never thought of it like that. It was just how we lived. It never occurred to me that other kids couldn’t read the marks on antique silver or that most people bought brand-new furniture. ‘Our things have a history,’ my mother use
d to say, ‘so much more interesting.’ We had a life-sized marble bust of Marie Antoinette in our entryway. She terrified my friends.”
“You’d get on well with Uncle Nigel. He has a ten-foot statue of Winged Victory in the great hall. Quite fierce. As a child I worried she might speak.”
Tom told me about his summers in Devon—the brooding moor, the narrow sand beach at Teignmouth, the shaggy donkeys that roamed the village streets. I told him about my grandparents’ farm in Wisconsin—picking corn in July, finding a litter of kittens in the barn, the gentle old collie dog who protected me from the snappy, ill-tempered geese. We talked about our children and the impossible task of being both mother and father. I told him about my brother’s death at age eleven.
Over dessert, a cloudlike pavlova with a drizzle of raspberry syrup, Tom showed me a photograph of his wife, Sarah, standing in a sea of blue flowers. Along the bottom of the photo, someone had printed The Bluebell Walk, Brede High Woods. The photo was taken, Tom said, a week before the diagnosis of cancer. Sarah was slim and fair, an English rose. She smiled into the lens, unaware of the shadow of death looming over her.
I didn’t have a photo of Bill in my handbag. When Tom walked me back to Applegarth, I showed him the framed photograph from the bedside table.
“Nice chap?” he asked, handing the photo back.
“Very.”
“I’m glad.” He bent down to kiss my cheek, and I took in the faint woodsy scent of his aftershave. “Good night, Kate. Sleep well. You really are doing all you can.”
When he’d gone, I got ready for bed, but instead of climbing into the big empty space, I curled up in one of the overstuffed chairs and watched moonlight dance on the silver sea. I touched my cheek, remembering Tom’s scent and the slight roughness of his stubble.
How ironic. The only man I’d been physically attracted to since Bill’s death lived on the other side of the ocean. And of all the single men I knew, the ones my well-meaning friends kept tossing in my path, Tom Mallory was the only one irrevocably out of the running.
I undressed, climbed into bed, and settled in to finish as much of Guthrie’s book as I could.