by Connie Berry
“He bought her a very expensive ring,” I said. “Is the ring part of the estate?”
“Interesting question, which might change my earlier comment about death duties.” Ross balanced the gold pen on his index finger. “The ring should be hers, although there are some legal decisions regarding an engagement ring as a commitment to fulfill an obligation she can no longer perform. In that case, the ring would be returned. The more modern approach is that it was a completed gift, but if Dr. Guthrie wants to argue the point, he could.”
“Is that all?” I asked.
“Not quite.” Ross opened a desk drawer and pulled out another manila envelope. “On the day of the Tartan Ball, Elenor dropped off a disposable camera. I had the photos developed the same afternoon.” He unfastened the clasp and spread a stack of eight-by-tens on his desk. The photos showed the marquetry casket from every conceivable angle. “She asked me to make inquiries about selling the chest in London. I emailed the photos to a dealer I know there.”
“Why London?”
“She said she didn’t want local attention.”
“The casket is missing,” I said. “Stolen.”
Ross raised an eyebrow. “Well. I’ll have to advise the London dealer. I’m told you do appraisals yourself. I’m curious. Do you have an idea of the value?”
“Half a million. Maybe more.”
Ross dropped the pen.
* * *
I stood on the sidewalk behind the law offices, clutching my manila envelopes and wondering how much time the job of executor would really take. A dark brick building on the corner housed a community theater. A bulb-lit sign announced the current production, The Importance of Being Earnest. A classic, one of my favorites.
Three years ago I’d been Kate—wife, mother, daughter, friend. I’d known my lines by heart. Then the curtain fell, and when it rose again, I’d found myself in a new play, without script or cues. No choice but to stumble along. That’s what I’d been doing for three years. Stumbling along, doing the things expected of me but never feeling right. Yet now, standing on an unfamiliar street in an unfamiliar city, I felt more myself than I had since Bill died. I was still young—well, relatively young—and healthy. Surely the story of my life had chapters left. There was still time to turn the page.
Like Flora? that irritating little voice reminded me. Look how well that turned out.
Tires squealed as a Land Rover claimed a parking spot.
That’s when I saw Frank Holden. He stepped out of a shop, squinting into the sun before walking quickly in the opposite direction. The sign over the shop door pictured three gold balls and the words YE OLDE PAWN SHOP.
I raced across the street, my heart pounding with the implications of what I’d just seen.
The coffee shop, Uncommon Grounds, was bustling. The espresso machine whined. A steam nozzle hissed. I made apologies as I pushed through a line of customers waiting to place orders. The interior was exposed brick. I found Tom sitting near a small Victorian fireplace, converted from coal to wood. He’d rocked his chair back, one foot balanced on the opposite knee, his cell phone to his ear. He ended the call and looked up. “How’d it go?”
“I just saw Frank Holden coming out of a pawn shop.” The words tumbled out. “Do you think he took the casket—and the silver tray? Maybe he’s the one Agnes is protecting.”
“That was Devlin on the phone. He’s on his way back from Stirling. They’ve decided to take Agnes in for questioning. They should arrive on the island by four at the latest.”
I gaped at him, picturing Agnes being marched away from the hotel in handcuffs. My voice wasn’t working properly. “Did Devlin tell you what the threat letter said?”
“ ‘Stop the sale or die.’ Do you still believe the sale of the hotel had nothing to do with Elenor’s death?”
The irony of it hit me—hard. “But the sale wasn’t final, Tom. Elenor was going to sign the contract today.”
He gave me a sharp look. “Who on Glenroth could have known that?”
I groaned. “Probably Agnes. But she doesn’t benefit from Elenor’s death. She’s not a beneficiary, and the hotel is mortgaged to the hilt.”
“She might not have known that part.” Tom downed the last of his coffee and snagged his jacket from the back of the chair. “Let’s get on the road. We can make it back by three thirty if we hurry.”
Call me a chicken, but that’s exactly what I didn’t want. “Let’s stop at the jeweler’s first. I really do want to talk to Mr. Paterson. And I really don’t want to be there when they take Agnes into custody.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mr. Paterson, Senior, was a nattily dressed man with a jeweler’s loupe clipped to his eyeglasses. When Tom and I arrived, he was hovering over his client, a middle-aged woman in leather pants and a mink bomber jacket.
The young salesclerk we’d met previously seated us in an office with chocolate-brown walls and chairs covered in wool tattersall. Five minutes later, Mr. Paterson bounced in. “Now,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “what can I do for the two of you?”
We told him and his smile faded. “The police came on Saturday. They showed me a photograph and asked if it was the ring I sold Dr. Guthrie. I recognized it immediately. We don’t sell rings like that every day.”
“Did Dr. Guthrie choose the ring?” I asked.
“They chose it together on—” He tapped his forehead as if to jog his memory. “Well, it must have been the nineteenth. A Wednesday, I believe.”
Wednesday again. The day Elenor’s mood changed so dramatically. I was beginning to understand why. First she’d learned the hotel had a buyer, saving her from the humiliation of bankruptcy. Then she and Hugh Guthrie chose that enormous diamond ring. She must have felt like she’d won the lottery.
“We ordered the stone and setting from our wholesaler in London.” Mr. Paterson bounced on the balls of his feet. “Dr. Guthrie paid rather a large premium to have it delivered in time for the Tartan Ball. The lady insisted. She chose an emerald-cut central stone, nearly flawless, D color, almost six carats.” He was rhapsodizing.
“How did the couple seem?” I asked.
“Seem? Affectionate, in love. Well, perhaps Dr. Guthrie was a little nervous, but that’s perfectly normal. We keep brandy for the fainters.”
Tom coughed.
“Can you tell me how much he paid for the ring?” I held my breath.
Mr. Paterson, Senior, sputtered. “That’s private. I’m not sure I should … well, I’d have to get Dr. Guthrie’s permission before—”
Tom interrupted. “Mrs. Hamilton is the executor of Mrs. Spurgeon’s estate. I’m sure you won’t force her to file a subpoena.”
“Elenor had some fine jewelry,” I added. “I’ll probably need an appraiser.”
His face brightened. “The ring cost £194,278.13, including tax. But Dr. Guthrie didn’t pay for it.”
“Elenor paid for it?” I grabbed the arm of my chair.
“No, I don’t mean that. We collected a deposit, naturally, but Dr. Guthrie took the ring on approval.”
“You let him take a ring worth that much money on approval?”
Mr. Paterson, Senior, gave a tight smile. “He had to arrange for a money transfer. He signed for it, of course, and the ring’s fully insured. Although I must say I was relieved when we learned it hadn’t been stolen. The deductible’s pretty high.”
“So,” I said, “the question of ownership isn’t relevant.”
“The ring,” Mr. Paterson said firmly, “belongs to me. Dr. Guthrie is welcome to return it for a refund. Minus the deposit, of course.”
* * *
“We couldn’t afford a diamond,” I said as Tom and I reversed our course on the A83, the Road to the Isles. The late-afternoon sun washed the western sky with lavender, rose, and lemon. At Glenfinnan, the loch was a sheet of hammered silver. I dug in my handbag for my sunglasses and imagined Bo viewing the same scene from his room at the Munroe Clinic. Was he all r
ight? Had he calmed down?
Tom lowered his visor. “Love isn’t measured in diamonds.”
I wondered if he’d given Sarah a ring. Maybe Olivia wore it now. My mother’s ring would go to Eric when the time came. My own ring, a scant carat Bill had surprised me with on our fifteenth wedding anniversary, would go to Christine. If she wanted it.
I examined Tom’s profile. His hair curled slightly around his ears and at the nape of his neck. He looked … the word edible came to mind, and I felt myself blush. Christine had said that about a boyfriend once, and I’d thought it vaguely pornographic. Tom had a small scar on his right cheek, one I hadn’t noticed before. I found myself wanting to touch it, to feel the texture of his skin.
My stomach swooped.
“What happened with the solicitor?” he asked.
Closing the lid firmly on distracting thoughts, I told him about Elenor’s will and her financial condition.
“Disappointed?”
“Just the opposite.” The light shifted as the road bent toward Mallaig. “Money changes things. Usually not for the better.”
“Fortunately, I’ve never had to worry about the temptations of wealth. My mother’s family had money, but everything was entailed on Uncle Nigel.”
“Entailed? If I remember my Jane Austen, that means passing an estate to the oldest male heir. Primogeniture. Can people still do that?”
“Not as such, but Nigel has no children. An older cousin of mine will inherit the house and land when Nigel is gone. Speaking of houses and land, will the sale of the hotel go through?”
“Unless the Swiss people back out.”
“Why would they buy a property that’s losing money?”
“I wondered that. They must think they can turn things around.”
“Or they know something we don’t.” Tom grinned. “I watched those old American Westerns on TV. Wasn’t there always a hidden oil well or secret diamond mine on the ranch?”
I laughed, picturing a smoke-filled room with a gang of Swiss bankers giving themselves high fives. “I’ve been thinking about Wednesday the nineteenth. Elenor was in a foul mood that morning. She visited her safe deposit box in Inverness and removed something. Around noon she called me and begged me to come for the Tartan Ball. She was desperate. I could hear it in her voice.”
“And she bought a mobile phone, which you say was totally out of character.”
“But then things changed. She learned the Swiss people had signed the contract to purchase the hotel. That must have been a huge relief. And she met Dr. Guthrie at the jewelry shop to choose the ring. She’d depleted her first husband’s fortune. Now she had a fresh source of funds to work her way through. According to Becca, she returned to the island around four and spent a couple of hours at the Historical Society. At dinner she was a completely different person. Nancy called her ‘nice, chatty.’ She assumed the danger was over. She’d handled it.”
“How can you know that?”
“Because whatever else Elenor was, she wasn’t a fool. And she wasn’t brave. She didn’t like admitting a mistake, but the moment she was in trouble—something she couldn’t handle—she’d call for help.”
“Wouldn’t she be afraid the note writer would carry out his threat?”
“Not if she knew who was sending the threats and decided it was a bluff. Besides, she’d assume that once the hotel was sold, the threats would lose their leverage.”
“Bad decision.”
“Maybe, but here’s the point. If Elenor thought the danger was over, why not call me back and tell me not to come?”
“Wanted to share her happiness with you?”
“I’d be the last person.”
“To appraise the casket?”
“No. She’d already arranged to have it appraised in London. She wanted me to see the casket and read Dr. Guthrie’s book. That’s why I don’t think the sale of the hotel and the threats were why she wanted my help. I think she’d discovered something about Flora’s death and wanted my advice on what to do about it. I think that’s why she was murdered.”
“And Agnes was involved?”
“I don’t know.”
Tom slowed. We’d reached the ferry to Glenroth just as it was loading.
I was dreading this. “Do you think they’ve taken her away by now?” I stared across the Sound toward Sleat. The slick, dark back of a porpoise, or maybe one of the huge gray seals, surfaced briefly, catching the sun’s dying rays.
“Probably.” Tom pulled onto the ferry and set the brake. Several cars pulled behind us. He changed the subject. “You never finished your story about Frank Holden and the pawn shop.”
True. The news about Agnes had put Frank out of my mind. “Seeing him coming out of the pawn shop made me wonder if he’d pawned the silver tray. He knows the police are checking. Maybe he decided to buy it back before the police found it.”
“Was he carrying a package?”
I tried to remember. “I don’t think so. But if Frank stole the tray, he might have taken the casket too.”
The ferry reached the Isle of Glenroth. We drove south in silence.
Was Agnes in cahoots with Frank and Nancy? Maybe Sofia and Becca were part of the plan, too—like Murder on the Orient Express. I rejected that theory, but by the time we reached the hotel, a knot had formed in my stomach. Devising theories is easy; accusing someone you actually know is brutal.
Tom nosed the car through the stone columns. The coach lamps flickered.
The knot tightened.
We made the final curve into the parking area. Two cars were parked there, a white police car with yellow and blue markings and Devlin’s black Peugeot sedan.
The knot tightened again.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
We found Detective Inspector Devlin in the gathering room. This time, instead of Constable Mackie or DS Bruce, he’d brought a policewoman. She was motherly looking in a no-nonsense way, but her dark uniform sported an impressive row of chevrons.
The hotel’s staff, minus Agnes, huddled near the fireplace. Nancy pulled me into the circle. “The police want to question Agnes, but we cannae find her.”
“What do you mean?”
“We thought she was in her flat, but she’s vanished.” Nancy’s face was white.
Sofia’s eyes were fixed on Tom, shooting him signals in some kind of ocular semaphore.
Devlin whispered something to the policewoman. Then he and Tom left the room.
“We need to get into Miss MacLeod’s flat,” the policewoman said. Nancy handed her a set of keys, and she headed for the staircase.
Becca’s eyes were huge. “They must think Agnes had something to do with Elenor’s death. I can’t believe that.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” I asked.
“She made a phone call around two,” Becca said. “I know because I saw her extension button light up.”
“Sofia was the last person to actually see her.” Nancy turned toward Sofia, but she’d fled from the room. “Poor lass had one of her migraines this morning. I told her to go to the Lodge and lie down. She says she saw Agnes around quarter to three on the forest path, walking in the direction of the road.”
I nodded slowly, putting the timeline together in my mind. Tom had received the call from Devlin around one. Agnes couldn’t possibly have known the police were on their way to pick her up. Unless someone had tipped her off.
“She cannae have gotten far on foot,” Frank said. “Be dark soon.”
“She could be lying somewhere, injured, unable to call for help.” Nancy untied her apron and pulled the loop over her head. “I’m going to search the house again, top to bottom.”
“I’ll check the cottages,” Frank said. “Becca, find Sofia. Check the Lodge and the outbuildings. Take a torch.”
They rushed off, leaving me alone.
Agnes hadn’t gone for an afternoon stroll. That was clear. And if she took the forest path, she could only have been headed for the
Arnotts’ house or the Historical Society. Why she’d go to either place, I couldn’t imagine, unless this had something to do with Elenor’s death. The Historical Society was where Elenor went the night she was killed.
Tom was right. Agnes had some explaining to do.
* * *
The forest path began at the parking area and curved through the trees past Tartan Cottage and the Lodge before joining the main road. I walked slowly, scanning the surrounding woods.
When I reached South Shore Road, a police car raced past, the light bar flashing. Probably checking to see if Agnes was with the Arnott twins. Unlikely, in my opinion, although if Agnes’s destination had been the Historical Society, Penny and Cilla might have seen her. They didn’t miss much that happened over there. Unless—I stopped walking—unless Agnes decided to make sure she wouldn’t be seen. In that case she’d have approached the Historical Society from the Burn o’Ruadh rather than from the road. She really might have fallen and sprained an ankle—or worse, broken a hip. She could be lying there in pain.
I walked quickly, making use of what light remained. Soon the sun would dip below the horizon, ushering in the gloaming, the word the Scots use for that magical time between sunset and full darkness.
Reaching the arched bridge, I peered over the stone spandrel. Would Agnes risk going down that way? She would if she were desperate enough. I stepped over the abutment, steadying myself on the pier as I slid sideways in the loose gravel. Once down, I followed the burn for a hundred yards or so. The high bank on my left cast deep shadows, limiting my vision, but I could see well enough to know Agnes wasn’t there.
As I turned back toward the bridge, I stumbled over something.
A shoe. A sturdy women’s shoe.
A shiver between my shoulder blades alerted me to danger. I narrowed my eyes and scanned my surroundings. Something caught my attention, high on the bank, lighter than the surrounding brush. Tucking the shoe under my arm, I picked my way across the stream bed and climbed, using roots and branches—whatever I could grab onto—to pull myself up the slope. Halfway I slipped and fell heavily on my hands and knees.