by Connie Berry
I pushed to my feet and brushed off my jeans, feeling my palms sting. Climbing again, I dug in with my toes to get purchase. Close to the top of the bank, I stopped and looked.
Oh, no. Dear God, no.
Spanning the crest was the body of a woman. She lay on her stomach, her arms and legs splayed. I couldn’t see the face, but there was no doubt.
I’d found Agnes MacLeod.
Call the police. I felt for my cell phone. Crap, crap, crap. I’d left it in my handbag.
I climbed the last few yards, knelt beside the body. No pulse.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to process details. Agnes was wearing one leather shoe. The other foot was bare, the sole, what I could see in the gathering dusk, raw and bloody. The dark fabric of her coat had rucked up in back as the weight of her body pulled toward the stream bed below. Fleshy white thighs ended in a pair of flower-sprigged underwear.
The small indignity was too much. This is how Agnes would be viewed, photographed. I reached into the folds of Agnes’s coat to pull it down. My fingers met something cold and hard. I felt the hilt of a blade and a thistle-shaped handle, capped with a cold faceted stone.
The Highland dirk from the Historical Society. Or one exactly like it.
The sound of rustling leaves broke the stillness. I froze.
The sound came again, closer.
Something ricocheted off a nearby tree.
I stifled a scream. Get out of here—now. Dropping the shoe, I ran, dodging trees and bushes. Branches caught at my clothing. My hands flew up as something stung my cheek close to my eye. Darkness was closing in fast.
I heard a pop as something whizzed past my ear. Was someone shooting at me?
Seeing an opening in the woods, I pivoted, praying I’d found the forest path. My feet slid on the damp leaves, sending me sprawling.
I scrambled to my feet.
Lights blazed ahead. The Lodge.
Focus on the lights. And keep running.
Chapter Thirty
I knocked furiously, hands on my knees as I sucked in air.
The door to the Lodge opened. “My God, Kate, what’s happened?” Tom reached out and hauled me inside.
“It’s Agnes,” I gasped. “In the woods. Dead.”
“Bloody hell.” He helped me to a chair. “Are you injured? Do you need an ambulance?”
“I’m all right. Just let me sit.”
“You’re shaking. Put this around you.” He tucked an afghan around my shoulders and left the room.
I heard running water and a low phone conversation.
He returned with a warm washcloth. “Let’s get you cleaned up before you look in a mirror and frighten yourself to death.” He dabbed at my face, streaking the snowy cloth with red. “You’re certain she’s dead?”
“Very.” My heart was still racing, but I was getting my breath back.
“Did you see anyone?”
“You mean apart from the guy shooting at me?” I croaked a laugh.
“My God, Kate.” Tom leaned forward to examine my head as if he might find a bullet hole I’d neglected to mention.
I held up my palms, seeing abrasions and more blood. I’d ripped my jeans when I fell, so my knees would be a mess, too. I leaned back and closed my eyes. Not bad, considering I could have been sitting there dead.
“Rob Devlin is on his way. Are you up to making a statement?”
I nodded, wondering for the first time what Tom was doing at the Lodge. “Where’s Sofia?”
“Upstairs, asleep.” He crouched in front of my chair. “Tell me about Agnes.”
“Someone stabbed her with one of those Scottish knives.” I shivered involuntarily, picturing the bloody bare foot and rucked-up coat. My teeth started to chatter. “I’m pretty sure it’s the one I saw at the Historical Society.”
Thirty minutes later I sat at the oak table in the hotel’s kitchen. A turf fire smoldered in the hearth, warming my bones. Nancy had cut my jeans off above the ripped knees and washed the raw skin before applying a layer of antibiotic gel and bandages. My hands were the worst, dirt and gravel ground into my palms. Nancy washed them twice before applying the gel and wrapping them in strips of soft gauze.
Becca and Sofia arrived with Frank and made me tell my story again.
Sofia clutched a knitted shawl around her shoulders. Her thick braid was coming undone.
Becca slid in beside me and put her head on my shoulder. “Poor you. Forgive me for snapping at you yesterday.”
I gave her a hug.
DI Devlin arrived. One of the constables had found Agnes’s shoe—and a bullet lodged in a tree trunk. He listened intently for once as I told my story for the fourth time. “I recognized the Highland dirk because I’d just seen it—or one exactly like it—at the Historical Society.”
He sucked in a long breath. “Seems you were right. Two women murdered in the same way as Flora Arnott and Gowyn Campbell can’t be coincidence.”
“And it proves you’re wrong about Bo Duff.” I was beginning to feel stronger. “He can’t have killed Agnes. He’s at the Munroe Clinic.”
Devlin didn’t respond. Not a good sign. “We’ll be back at dawn.” He zipped up his jacket. “Until then, I’ve asked Tom to take some precautions for your safety.”
“When are you going to release Bo?” I asked, unwilling to let it go.
“Out of my hands now.” Devlin dug in his pocket and handed me Elenor’s jeweled key ring. “These belong to you.”
The door closed behind him.
Tom carried my half-filled plate to the sink. “We need to talk about safety. Two women connected with the hotel are dead.”
Sofia pulled her shawl closer. Nancy took Becca’s hand.
Several plans were discussed, all complicated. Eventually it was decided that Sofia would spend the night on the Holdens’ sofa in Argyll Cottage. Becca would go to Fort William with Geoff, who was already on the way to pick her up. Tom would sleep on a roll-away in my kitchen. Normally I would have insisted I was fine on my own. Not tonight. Not after hearing that bullet whiz past my head.
Geoff arrived while Nancy was clearing the dishes. He caught Becca in his arms, burying his face in her hair. “I’m all right, Geoff,” she said. “I really am.”
Sofia’s headache was back. Geoff and Becca offered to walk her to Argyll, promising to stay with her until the Holdens were finished at the hotel. Tom and Frank left to set up the roll-away in Applegarth.
I wasn’t allowed to do a thing, so I watched Nancy clean up the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later Frank returned and took the chair opposite me at the table.
Nancy spread her tea towel over the edge of the sink and turned to face me. “There’s something we wish to tell you.”
“You saw me today in Inverness,” Frank said.
“Look, you don’t have to explain.” The last thing I wanted to do at the moment was accuse someone else.
“Aye,” Nancy agreed, “but we’ve had our fill of secrets.” She stood behind Frank, her hands resting on his shoulders.
Frank ran his fingers roughly through his hair. “Bo had some debts last spring. He pawned his telly and some of his mother’s jewelry. I had to be sure that … well, I was wrong.”
He looked up at Nancy, and she brushed the back of her hand against his cheek.
“My mother was seventeen when I was born,” Frank said. “My father was a soldier. That’s all I know. He denied paternity. No such thing as DNA testing back then. My mother’s folks disowned her. She ended up in a shelter. An older couple, childless, offered her a place to live. After I was born, we stayed on. I called them Nana and Gramps.
“I was the kid with no father, so I made up stories.” He spread his thick, calloused hands. “He was stationed in Canada with the Mounties. He’d been killed in Korea. One time I said he was working with MI6 in the Soviet Union. The kids stopped believing me, of course. Eventually I ran away, found a job in construction. Told them I was eighteen. Nobo
dy bothered to check.”
Frank’s hair was grizzled with gray, his face and neck deeply creased from years spent outdoors, but at that moment I could see him—smooth-skinned, lean, angry.
“One night one of the men left his toolbox at the job site. I sold it for twenty pounds. Then I began stealing other things, anything I could get my hands on. I was nineteen when they caught me. Served three years, nine months, and five days of a twelve-year sentence. Gramps came to visit every week. He told me my life wasn’t over, that forgiveness was possible.”
Frank closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“He died a month before I was paroled. Nana moved in with a niece. My mother was married by that time. She was happy, so I decided to go somewhere no one knew me, start over. Then I met Nancy, and somehow I couldn’t lie to her.” He reached up for Nancy’s hand. “That’s why I do what I can for Bo. Payback for the grace I was shown. The mistake I made was keeping my past from our daughter. I never wanted her life tainted by what I’d done, but that meant keeping it from everyone else too.”
“We’re going to tell her,” Nancy said, “in person, as soon as we can.”
“So which of you lied to the police?”
“I did.” Nancy lowered her eyes. “I told them Frank never left my side that night. It wasn’t true.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Frank said. “I was worried about Bo, wanted to make sure he was all right after the blowup with Elenor. Foolish, because by the time I got to Bo’s house, all the lights were out. I didn’t want to wake him. I knew he had to get up before dawn to plow.”
“But you must have been home long before Elenor was killed.”
“We didn’t know when she was killed until later,” Nancy said. “The police always suspect ex-offenders. I thought it would be simpler to tell them Frank was with me all night. Except I didn’t have a chance to tell Frank, and he—” Her eyes filled.
“I accused her of not trusting me.” Frank looked up at Nancy. “That wasn’t fair.”
“Had the silver tray been pawned?” I asked.
“No,” Frank said, “and here’s the strange part. It’s back.”
“It’s true.” Nancy’s eyes were wide. “The laundry delivered the linens this morning. When Sofia went to put the napkins in the butler’s pantry, there was the tray. As if it had never been gone.”
As if it had never been gone. That’s what Guthrie had said about the stolen gun at the Historical Society.
* * *
I said good night to Frank and Nancy on Applegarth’s porch, giving them each a one-armed hug. Becca was right. They had undoubtedly been wonderful parents.
The roll-away was already made up in the kitchen. Tom had changed into navy sweat pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt that said SUFFOLK CONSTABULARY on the front and TAKING PRIDE IN KEEPING SUFFOLK SAFE on the back.
“You must be exhausted,” he said. “Will you sleep?”
“Not if I don’t take a shower first. I feel grubby.” I held up the bag of first-aid supplies Nancy had given me. “Will you help me rewind the gauze on my hands?”
The steamy shower pounded out the knots in my back and shoulders. I poured a whole tiny bottle of Highland Heather shampoo over my head, almost relishing the sting of the soap on my raw skin. I was alive.
The sight of Agnes’s body would be in my head forever. Had someone known the police were on their way and killed her to stop her talking to them? I couldn’t answer those questions, but the field of suspects was narrowing. The murderer was getting bolder. Or more desperate.
The pop of that gunshot echoed in my head. Was I simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, or was I now a target?
I rinsed the shampoo from my hair, shut off the water, and stepped out of the shower. After towel-drying my hair, I combed it out and tucked it behind my ears. Clearing a circle in the foggy mirror, I threw vanity to the wind and applied a thin layer of face cream and cherry-colored lip balm. Why not? Tom had already seen worse.
Once I’d replaced the bandages on my knees, I layered the waffle-weave robe over my pajamas—my new flannels this time (I do have some pride)—and opened the bathroom door, releasing a billow of steam.
Tom was in the kitchen on his cell phone. “Got it. Thanks for letting me know.” He clicked off and slipped the phone in his pocket. “That was Devlin. Agnes died from a stab wound to the heart. She would have lost consciousness in seconds.”
Did that make me feel better? I didn’t know, but I was glad she hadn’t suffered long.
While I was in the shower, Tom had arranged the cheese and crackers he’d bought in Fort William on a plate. And he’d opened the bottle of white wine.
This was unique: wine and cheese in flannel pajamas with a man I’d known for five days.
He must have read my mind. “Awkward, I know, but the police don’t have the resources to provide security. Besides,” he grinned, “I live in a house full of women.”
We sat at the kitchen table, and he poured us each a glass of wine.
I took a sip, tasting citrus and oak. “So what did Devlin say?”
“They searched Agnes’s flat and took away samples of writing paper and envelopes. They appear to match those used in the posted threat letters.”
“So Agnes was the one threatening Elenor after all. It makes sense. She was convinced she’d lose her job if the hotel was sold, and she was losing her security as well. She’d cashed in her pension to offset the pitiful salary Elenor paid her. Agnes risked everything on Elenor’s promise to make her a full partner.” I took another swallow of wine. “What else did Devlin tell you?”
“They searched the Historical Society. The Highland dirk and the gun are missing, no surprise. So are the keys for the display cabinet. No one admits taking them, and no one remembers seeing the knife after the previous afternoon when Guthrie showed it to you. He says he was the last to leave today, around four thirty.”
“Why do you think Agnes was killed?” I layered a slice of spicy cheddar on a Scottish oat cracker and took a bite.
“If I had to guess, I’d say Agnes followed Elenor the night of the ball and saw or heard something that put her life in jeopardy. If the strands of purple wool found on the bush outside the Historical Society match Agnes’s purple knitted gloves, I’d bet money on it.”
“I know she’d hurt herself. I saw scratches on her forehead.”
“Sounds like she panicked. Maybe she was the one who left the main door ajar.”
“I agree, but it still doesn’t explain how these murders are tied to the murders in the past. And it doesn’t explain why someone wants me to destroy something I don’t have.” I stifled a yawn. “It’s like tangled yarn. Find the right thread and the whole thing comes undone.”
“Leave thread pulling to the police.” Tom corked the wine bottle. “Come. Sit here. I’ll help you with your hands.”
We sat facing each other. I held up each hand in turn so he could wind clean gauze around my raw palms. He frowned, examining his workmanship. “Too tight?”
“Just right.” I met his gaze.
He reached up and tucked a lock of damp hair behind my ear. “You’ve cut your face.” He traced the line of my cheekbone with the back of his finger.
A bubble of pleasure caught in my throat. I leaned into his touch.
He took my face in his hands and kissed my forehead, then my mouth. Warm. Sweet. I felt something inside me starting to melt.
I pulled away.
“I know,” he said, smiling wryly. “We’re being watched. Sarah and Bill.”
The thought so perfectly expressed what I’d been thinking that I wondered if he’d read my mind.
He stood and dropped a kiss on my head. “You need sleep. I’ll straighten up.”
I climbed into bed, wrapping myself in the duvet. What was it I felt? Pleasure, yes, but something else, too, deeper, more elemental, and tinged with—what? Not guilt. More like disloyalty.
Absurd. How can you be di
sloyal to a man in his grave?
Sounds drifted in from the kitchen. Tom was checking the doors, closing the window over the sink. The kitchen light went out. The roll-away creaked.
“Call if you need anything,” he said. “I’m a light sleeper.”
We were separated by the fireplace, but I imagined I could hear the soft rise and fall of his breath. My throat tightened. I touched my mouth, still feeling the pressure of his kiss. I’d almost forgotten what a proper kiss felt like.
The clock on the mantel ticked.
Time, like an ever-rolling stream, bears all its sons away;
they fly forgotten, as a dream dies at the opening day.
I lay on my back and gazed into the inky blackness. Gradually shapes emerged. The fireplace stones, the tops of the chairs, the bathroom door frame.
They fly forgotten …
His voice broke the silence. “Do you ever stop missing them?”
I knew what he meant. “I don’t know.”
“Sarah’s been gone four years. Sometimes it feels like yesterday, sometimes another lifetime.”
“I’m beginning to forget what Bill looked like. It scares me.”
“I remember too well, those last months. She was no more than a skeleton, her eyes huge in her face, pleading with me to do something. For months afterward, I saw those eyes in my sleep. Sometimes I still do.”
“At least you had time to say good-bye.”
“Yes, at least I had that.”
The clock on the mantel ticked.
“Tom, why did you really come to Glenroth?”
Silence. Then, “I lived here once.”
“You lived here?” I sat up.
“The summer I turned sixteen. My father was in the RAF, stationed at Lakenheath in Suffolk. My parents met, married, had me. We moved around a lot. Cyprus, Gibraltar. Eventually my father decided to get out of the military, move back to Scotland. Mother agreed to spend a summer on the island. His family had a croft house here. It’s gone now. He said he’d find work. We could see what we thought. They sent me to the Adventure Centre. Interesting to see it yesterday.”
“Don’t tell me you knew my husband.”