by Connie Berry
“No, Kate. I’d have been there well after he went up to Oxford. I meet Rob Devlin there, though, and we’ve kept in touch all these years. He’s the one who told me about the homeland security conference in Edinburgh. He encouraged me to come back. To lay old ghosts.”
“Old ghosts?”
“It wasn’t a happy summer. My father had an affair. Mother and I packed up and returned to England alone.”
“Why come back now?” Something niggled at the back of my brain.
“I wanted to see if the pictures in my mind were real. And the solitude appealed to me. I’d come off a difficult case. Triple murder. I needed time to think, to decide if I want to stay in the force. The investigation was brutal. There was a child involved, but in the end—”
My breath caught.
There was a child involved. Agnes had said that. Thirty years ago Elenor had begun an affair with a much older married man. There was a child involved. Not a pregnancy. A child whose family was ripped apart.
I did some quick mental calculations. Tom was my age. Thirty years ago he would have been sixteen. Elenor would have been … twenty-three, working at St. Hilda’s, spending her summers on Glenroth.
What effect would an affair have had on a sixteen-year-old boy—a father’s betrayal, a mother’s humiliation, his world shattered? Had Tom come back to take revenge?
My throat tightened painfully. I covered my mouth to keep from making a sound.
But why would Tom kill Agnes? My mind raced. Had she seen him with Elenor at the Historical Society and threatened to expose him?
No, that couldn’t be true. Relief flooded in. Tom was with me in Fort William when Agnes was killed.
Then my brain made another leap.
He had help. Sofia?
I pressed my fingertips to my temples. I couldn’t think straight with that wretched clock ticking. Thoughts crashed upon thoughts, hardly giving me time to breathe.
Sofia had spent the night in Tartan Cottage. I’d seen the looks that passed between them. I could picture Sofia wielding a bow and arrow—or a knife. Tom just happened to be in the woods on Saturday when I’d seen that shadow disappear into the brush. He’d been somewhere on the estate when the note was pushed under my door. Was that why he hadn’t answered his cell? Tom was the one who opened the door to my frantic knocking at the Lodge. I’d never asked him why he was there.
I swallowed against the lump in my throat.
Was Sofia really sleeping as Tom said, or had she been out there in the woods with a gun? Why had Tom been spending so much time with me, asking all those questions? My vision blurred. The final wave crashed. Maybe it wasn’t Devlin Tom had been speaking to at the coffee shop at all. He might have phoned Sofia, warning her that Agnes was about to implicate him. Telling her to make certain it never happened.
“—and if I have to face that, at least I’m making a difference.”
He was still talking, but I’d heard nothing.
Panic surged. Leave now. Run. The Holdens’ cottage was nearby. If I waited for him to fall asleep—
No. Then he’d realize I’d figured it out. I reached for my phone and tucked it under my pillow. I considered texting my mother, but what could she do from three thousand miles away?
The safest thing was to sit tight and phone Devlin first thing in the morning. Would he believe me? I had no actual evidence of Tom’s guilt. He and Tom had been friends nearly all their lives.
“Are you awake?” Tom’s voice startled me.
I didn’t answer.
“Sleep well, Kate.”
Sleep well? I wasn’t going to sleep at all.
Chapter Thirty-One
Wednesday, November 2
I awoke with a start as a half-remembered dream—dark shapes, menacing voices—morphed into the nightmare that was real.
The cottage was silent. I slipped out of bed and tiptoed toward the edge of the fireplace. Tom’s roll-away was folded and pushed against the patio door, the linens stacked on top. He was gone. Good.
A note lay on the kitchen table: Good morning, Kate. I’ll be at the police station in Mallaig most of the day. Stay close to Frank and Nancy. If you must leave the property, call my mobile.
He sounded so normal.
My brain was muddled, and my heart ached. It actually ached.
I found my phone tangled in the bed sheets and dialed DI Devlin’s cell. He knew about Tom’s history on the island, but he might not know about Elenor’s role in the events of that long-ago summer. He needed to know. I needed to tell him.
I got his voicemail, left a message, and flagged it urgent.
I dressed quickly and walked to the hotel. Yesterday’s sunshine had fled. Clouds hung low in the sky. A stiff wind presaged another storm.
Nancy and Sofia were in the kitchen as usual. Nancy was doing something with pastry. She looked dreadful. “Good morning, Kate. How are your wee hands?”
“Much better.” I held them out for inspection.
“Becca’s still in Fort William. She’ll be back for supper.” Nancy placed a mug of coffee in front of me. “Tom stopped on his way somewhere. He made Frank promise to keep an eye on you.”
I’ll bet.
Sofia was preparing acorn squash. I watched with horrified fascination as she held a large green head with one hand, severing it with the thwack of a butcher knife. After scooping out the seeds, she placed the halves on a baking sheet and slid it into the oven. She touched her forehead. “I go lie down.”
“Those headaches of yours are worrying,” Nancy said.
And way too convenient.
“Get some rest,” Nancy added as Sofia wrapped herself in her knitted shawl, “but make sure your mobile’s turned on. If you see anything suspicious, call Frank.”
Sofia ducked out, her head bent against the wind.
Nancy covered the pastry with a cloth and wiped her floury hands on her apron. “Frank and I talked last night. We wondered if the murders could have something to do with Elenor’s money. It’s none of our business, but do you know the terms of her will?”
It was a natural question, and I didn’t mind answering. “My children are the beneficiaries. I’m the executor.”
“Of course. I’m glad.” Nancy rinsed her hands at the sink and dried them with a tea towel. “We did wonder if Elenor had left a wee something for Agnes, poor thing.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. Elenor was almost bankrupt.”
“Bankrupt?” Nancy looked startled. “No wonder she’d been bothered about money lately.”
Yes, no wonder. And according to the accountant, there was precious little money left. If the hotel had a genealogy seminar booked for November and a full house for the holidays, they’d need to purchase supplies, arrange for extra staffing. “How will you manage until May?”
“Becca will take on the manager’s job for now. We’ll get local help for anything we cannae handle ourselves. Assuming guests will want to come. I’m not sure I would.”
“If you and Frank decide to leave, I’ll make sure you get a glowing recommendation.”
“That’s kind.” Nancy looked close to tears. “We’ll let you know.”
I downed the last of my coffee. I had plenty to keep me busy until Devlin called. “I’m going to make a start on the inventory. Let me know when Tom gets back.”
Forewarned is forearmed.
I passed through the reception hall on my way to Elenor’s flat. The desk was empty, the phones silent. Maybe Nancy was right. No one would ever want to stay at the hotel again. And if the Swiss buyers backed out—
No. I couldn’t think about that now.
The east wing was deserted. No footsteps. No disappearing shadows. I turned the key. Four days since Elenor’s death, and the flat had already taken on the stale, airless feel of a place long abandoned. I locked myself inside.
Better safe than sorry.
Terrific. Suddenly I was a font of aphorisms.
I had devised a plan of action.
As I did with consignments at the shop, I’d give each item a number, photographing it and recording its description and approximate value. Fortunately, I’d brought the digital camera and tape measure I use almost daily in my work. Andrew Ross’s receptionist had given me a new spiral-bound notebook and a package of peel-off labels.
I transferred the box of junk from the dining room table to the floor, making room for my notebook and camera. As soon as Devlin gave the okay, I’d return the box to the twins.
The top right-hand drawer of Elenor’s desk was stuffed with receipts. These would go to Stephen Trask, Lord help him. I found a metal ruler in the center drawer and used it to divide several notebook pages into three columns: Number, Description, and Approx. Value.
The living room was as good a place as any to begin. I wrote the number 1 on a label, peeled it off, and stuck it inside the hand-blown glass bowl. In the notebook I wrote 1, then Blue and white art glass bowl, contemporary. After measuring the bowl, I added 12"h × 18"w. I set the camera and took the picture. In the value column, I wrote $300? TBD—to be determined. I’m not an expert on contemporary art glass. Next I cataloged the book on fashion and the glass coffee table.
Two hours later I was on number seventy-two, one of those antigravity recliners in sculpted wood and leather. I longed to sink into its buttery folds and take a nap. Instead I massaged the muscles in my neck. Why hadn’t Devlin called? Was he ignoring me? I dialed his cell phone again, leaving a second message. Then I tried the police station at Mallaig.
“Sorry, Mrs. Hamilton,” said a female voice. “Detective Inspector Devlin is in Inverness today. All-day meeting.”
“I’ve left two messages. It’s important.”
“Would you care to speak with Detective Inspector Mallory?”
“No. No. I’ll wait for DI Devlin.”
“He has his phone with him. I’m sure he’ll call you as soon as he gets a chance.”
At noon Nancy brought lunch, that wonderful squash soup again, this time with rounds of puff pastry topped with a layer of chèvre cheese, a slice of tomato, and a sprig of fresh basil. She’d stuck a phone message from the funeral home on the tray. Elenor’s service would be held tomorrow, eleven AM, at the Wee Free in the village, followed by a short graveside ceremony. The women of the church were organizing light refreshments afterward and suggested the Historical Society as the venue. A perfect choice. Apart from the hotel, the Historical Society seemed to have been Elenor’s main interest in life.
The sky was turning dark. Rain pricked the windows.
I finished every drop of soup and popped the last bite of pastry in my mouth. After shifting the tray to the chest in Elenor’s entrance hall, I went in search of coffee.
Elenor had probably never fixed herself so much as a bowl of cereal, but she did have a coffeemaker, one of those single-cup jobs with a tiered holder for pods.
Carrying the warm mug, I wandered into Elenor’s bedroom.
The top drawer of Elenor’s bureau was jammed with jewelry—totally disorganized but genuine and expensive. Bill had told me once that Elenor had a fine pearl necklace passed down from their grandmother. That should go to Christine, but would she appreciate it? Christine’s style at the moment was more biker chic than classic retro. The only thing keeping her from tats and piercings was a needle phobia.
I was working on a set of vintage botanical prints when my cell phone rang. I snatched it up, praying it was Devlin.
It was Frank. He’d been at the Munroe Clinic. Bo’s psychiatric evaluation was complete, and the report had been forwarded to the court. The competency hearing would take place as scheduled, at eleven the following morning. Brenda had contacted the care facility in Perth.
I clicked END. Raindrops gathered into rivulets that ran down the wavy old window glass. Tomorrow Elenor’s body would be sealed in a coffin and lowered into the earth. Tomorrow Bo Duff would be buried, too, in one kind of institution or another.
I sat on the sofa and plunked the mug of coffee on the glass table. For all my clever theories, I hadn’t found a single shred of evidence to clear Bo Duff of Elenor’s murder.
I’d failed Bo. I’d failed Elenor. I’d failed Bill.
My eyes filled. I shut them and leaned back against the soft cushions.
Every man I’d ever loved had been torn from me without warning. My brother, my father, my husband. Now Bo. And Tom? Thinking about Tom made me physically ill.
I gave in to great gulping sobs. Tears streamed into my ears and dripped from my chin. I’m not a pretty crier.
With a final hiccup, I swabbed my face with my sleeve.
My old friend. Grief.
* * *
I stood at the window in Elenor’s flat, watching sheets of rain blow across the parking lot. My tears had dried, leaving my eyes sore and gritty.
Nearly three o’clock and DI Devlin still hadn’t returned my call. Should I leave him a third message? Text him?
I dropped into the recliner. Even if Devlin believed me, it was probably too late to save Bo. Brenda had made up her mind. Unless something changed immediately, his fate would be sealed.
My cell phone rang again. Nancy this time. “Frank and I will be at our cottage for several hours. Why don’t you come along, dearie? I don’t like leaving you there on your own.”
“Thanks, but I need to keep working.” I clambered out of the recliner as if to prove it. “I want to finish as much of the inventory as I can before the funeral.”
“Call us if you need anything,” Nancy said. “We’re locking both doors on the way out. Don’t leave the house.”
“Too busy for that.” I gave a breezy laugh, hoping I sounded more sanguine than I felt.
My phone was low on power. I plugged it in at the dining room table.
A blustery wind whipped the sodden leaves and hurled them against the windows. I picked up the pen and wrote #234. Set of six dining room chairs.
By three forty-five, the living room and dining room were complete. Elenor’s bedroom was next. Fortunately I wouldn’t have to inventory Elenor’s massive wardrobe, but I would have to arrange for disposal. I might try a resale shop in Inverness. Or donate them to a clothing bank. Did Scotland’s poor need size 2 designer evening gowns?
The second drawer in Elenor’s bureau was filled with lingerie, transparent wisps in silk and lace. I held up what was supposed to be a bra, marveling. Even if charity shops accepted lingerie, these flimsy things might be banned.
On to Elenor’s jewelry. I would document and photograph each piece, but a gemologist would have to do the official valuation. I’d as good as promised the business to Mr. Paterson, Senior.
I found a permanent marker in Elenor’s desk and, in a kitchen drawer, several unopened boxes of sealable plastic baggies. Pulling out the jewelry drawer, I carried it to the bed and dumped the lot on the pale-blue spread.
I worked steadily for an hour, pushing thoughts of Tom Mallory and Bo Duff out of my mind. I was getting good at compartmentalizing.
I found the pearl necklace in a dark-red clamshell box with MAISON CARTIER PARIS printed across the top in gold lettering. The pearls were high quality, a lustrous cream with lovely pink undertones. The clasp was Art Deco—late 1920s or early 1930s—gold with small diamonds.
After photographing the necklace, I returned it to the clamshell box and sealed it a quart-size plastic baggie. I wrote the inventory number in permanent ink on the label strip.
Elenor’s jewelry would add substantially to the value of her estate—unless it had to be sold to cover her debts. That remained to be seen, but if the police found the missing casket, my children’s inheritance might double or triple. Eric would do something sensible like pay for his doctoral degree. I didn’t want to think about what Christine would do with that much money.
Someone knocked. Probably the Holdens, come to tell me they were back.
I ran to open the door.
Tom stood in the hallway, his head and shoulders flecked with rain
. “Nancy says you’ve been working all day. How’s it going?” He stepped past me into the room, shedding his rain gear.
“Making progress.” I forced a smile. Was I acting normally? I couldn’t tell. “Would you like a coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’ve had enough coffee to last a lifetime. I have news. Can we sit?” He took a seat on the sofa, stretching his long legs under the coffee table.
I faced him on the love seat, eyeing my cell phone on the dining room table and trying to look relaxed.
“More toxicology results came back this morning,” he said. “In addition to alcohol, Elenor had two different sedatives in her system when she died. One was her own sleeping tablets, the bottle on her dressing table. But there was another compound as well, a different medication entirely. Tablets matching that compound were found in Agnes’s flat.”
I frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means Elenor took—or was given—some of Agnes’s sleeping pills as well as her own.”
I remembered what Nancy had said about Elenor’s memory issues. Weren’t sleeping pills said to be a cause of early-onset dementia?
“Are you saying Agnes drugged her?”
“Easy enough to do. Slip a few tablets in a hot drink, mask the taste with spices.” Tom met my gaze, calm and cool.
Was he speaking from experience? He’d left the Tartan Ball right after Elenor. If he had followed Elenor to her flat, he might have—“Where’s Detective Inspector Devlin?”
“In meetings all day. He asked me to give you the update.”
Was that why Devlin wasn’t responding to my messages? Don’t bother returning her calls. I’ll be seeing her later.
A headache was building between my eyes. Looking relaxed is stressful.
“There’s something else, Kate. I wanted to tell you in person.”
That didn’t sound good.
“The police searched Bo’s shed this afternoon. They found arrows concealed behind an old refrigerator. One of them was fitted with a multiple-blade broadhead. Same as the arrow that killed Elenor. I’m afraid that’s evidence.”
I jumped to my feet. “But everyone knows Bo’s shed is never locked. Someone probably planted those arrows to implicate him—the one person on the island who can’t defend himself. It’s cruel. It’s absurd. Bo was in custody when Agnes was killed.”