by Hannah Reed
His kilt colors reminded me of my own. The Elliott tartan was a bold blue, crisscrossed with deep yellow stripes, while Stuart’s was a much deeper blue with green plaid. Plaid was pronounced like ‘played’ by Scots.
A decorative knife was sheathed and tucked into the top of his hose, which brought legal rules and regulations to my mind. Weaponry of any sort was banned in Scotland. The general populace couldn’t even carry pepper spray, a rule that didn’t apply to me thanks to my role as constable.
Whether because the knife was acceptable within a private setting or because Stuart was rather distinguished looking, no one had suggested that he remove it when he’d arrived. But perhaps concessions were allowed when donning this historical garb.
Vicki occupied the seat to my left. To my right sat Dr. Teague, our local general practitioner owning a small surgery in the village center. The doctor, in his late-forties, had bought out old Dr. Keen late last year, allowing the eighty-year-old to retire and move south to be closer to his family. Dr. Teague had dressed as formally as Stuart. I’d been to see him with a case of influenza during the winter, and I found him compassionate and capable.
Rounding up the eight were Dallas Irving, proprietor of the bookshop and current president of the Scott Club, and a red-haired, rather rotund, thirtyish woman introduced as Morag Lisle, who had been a last-minute addition after overhearing Dallas and Vicki speaking about the club event at the bookstore and soliciting an invitation.
“I literally begged to attend,” Morag told us with sparkling eyes. “I majored in the classics and am an avid follower of Sir Walter Scott and took every class on him that I could find. You can imagine my excitement when I learned of this supper. Thank you so much for allowing me tae attend.”
“We’re all so glad tae have you as a guest,” Dr. Teague relied, warmly, glancing my way and smiling. “We have our own celebrity author at the table with us tonight.”
“Hardly literary material,” I said, a bit uncomfortable with the attention, taking a sip from a glass of red wine that Derrick had poured for each of us.
Morag leaned in, her cheeks glowing. “What do you write?”
“Modern romance.”
“And she’s very, very good,” Vicki added, beaming while she exaggerated my talents as only a true friend can. “She’s a smash hit.”
“I second that,” Dallas said. “Her books fly off the shelves.”
“Only because you talk them up,” I replied before turning to Stuart. “I’m curious about your decorative knife,” I said.
He reached beneath the table and banished it for all to view. “Ah,” he said, “ye mean my sgian-dubh.”
The blade was about five inches long. The polished black handle caught a ray of light from the fireplace and gleamed.
“Sheath it, please,” Derrick demanded coldly, putting down his wine glass. “Ye know the custom is tae leave such things at the door. We made an exception fer ye based on yer dress, but will ask ye to remove it from the table if necessary.”
Stuart continued as though he hadn’t heard Derrick, a smirk on his face, “The spear-point tip was handy for eatin’ and preparin’ meats. The blade is German steel. I keep it sharp and at the ready.”
“Stuart?” Brenda said, firmly. “Enough.”
With a shrug, Stuart returned it to the sheath at the top of his hose.
“Stuart,” said Derrick, “I have somewhat o’ a problem and need tae speak with ye about it. Do you think ye could stay after fer a private word?”
“A nightcap, fer my troubles,” Stuart said with anticipation, “and I’ll give ye any advice ye need.”
The meal progressed with small talk and without the haggis I’d expected. We began with a crab and rice soup called partan bree followed by salmon from the North Sea caught fresh first thing this morning and a mashed potato, cheese, and cabbage dish called rumbledethumps.
“I expected that we’d have haggis,” I mentioned, finding all of it delicious.
“Not likely. Haggis is served up at another type of gathering - Burns Nights,” Stuart said, rather smugly, pouring another glass of wine. “Address to a Haggis is a Robert Burns’ poem, and that is an entirely different event, so haggis isn’t appropriate fer a Scott supper. They met, ye know.”
“Burns and Scott met?” I asked, realizing the limitations of my Scottish novelist education.
“When Scott was but a lad. In the winter of 1787 when Scott would have been fifteen-years-old or thereaboots. The chance meeting influenced Scott’s later career, made him what he became.”
Dr. Teague scoffed. “Of course, the meeting influenced him beyond measure. That encounter was a turning point in his career. Robert Burns is Scotland’s National Bard. No one has been able to match his contributions. Not even Scott.”
“That’s preposterous,” Stuart fairly bellowed, coloring as though he’d been personally insulted. “Sir Walter Scott is the most influential novelist tae ever pick up pen in the whole o’ Scotland.”
“A rank below, is my thought,” Dr. Teague replied, his voice and demeanor growing agitated. “I have a right tae state my opinion, even if it differs from yer own. Scott worshipped Burns. What was it he said once when someone offered up a comparison, There is no comparison whatever,” he’d stated. “We ought not to be named in the same day.”
“I know their history,” Stuart shot back.
“No need tae argue,” Derrick said. “Both novelists were literary giants.”
I glanced around the table. Morag’s face registered discomfort, her bubbly enthusiasm diminished. Brenda scowled at her husband. Dallas busied herself with sips of wine, her eyes flitting over artwork on the wall.
Vicki met my gaze, sighed heavily, and stood up. “I’ll fetch dessert. It’s tipsy laird,” she said, clearly wishing to stop the argument before it got out of hand.
“Brilliant idea,” Dallas exclaimed. “I’ll help serve.”
The women disappeared into the kitchen. Before the contention at the table suppressed what was left of my appetite, I’d been looking forward to sampling Vicki’s whisky trifle. Maybe dessert would return the table to equilibrium.
Stuart snorted, still smoldering. “Ye are an ignorant man!” he said to the doctor.
“Ignorant?” Dr. Teague sprang to his feet. “Name calling, are ye, Stuart. Over such a silly thing. And before we even have heard yer pathetic excuse fer a recitation. Go on, deliver it before ye have so much whisky ye slur yer words.”
Stuart banged his fist on the table. “Callin’ me a drunk, are ye? Let me remind ye that my blade is sharp!”
“Pished, ye are tae threaten me.” Dr. Teague turned to Derrick. “Thank ye fer hosting, but I’ll be on my way. I won’t stay and be threatened by the likes of him.”
“Please don’t go,” Brenda begged.
“Dessert will be served shortly,” Derrick added.
In spite of the host and hostess’ protests, the doctor stormed out.
“Good riddance,” Stuart snarled, with what appeared to be malicious satisfaction.
Morag rose quickly to her feet, practically sending her chair over backwards. “Ah…I…ah…best be off. And thank ye, Brenda, fer having me. And tell Dallas thank you fer the invite.”
Morag departed on the doctor’s heels moments before Vicki and Dallas appeared with dessert.
“What happened to the others?” Vicki asked then quickly went on, “Well, never mind that.”
Brenda worried a string of pearls around her neck, perfectly aware that the evening was sliding into ruin.
It wasn’t a complete disaster though. The tipsy laird was as wonderful as I’d imagined it would be. The trifle was layered with sponge cake, custard, a dash of whisky, and raspberries, then adorned with flaked almonds. A true thing of beauty as well as a culinary delight.
And, although Stuart had presented a bad showing earlier, his delivery of an excerpt from The Lady of the Lake was superb.
Shortly after, Vicki and I departed wi
th Dallas. Stuart stayed as Derrick had requested earlier assuming he had been specially chosen for a nightcap.
“Stuart can be a bit condescending,” I pointed out as we followed the path down to the street.
“A bit?” Vicki quipped. “And Doc Teague went out of his way to provoke him. Those two have been at each other’s throats for the last several meetings. It’s time to take action.” She glanced at the president of the club, waiting for Dallas to agree.
“Stuart is a brilliant scholar of Scott’s life and works,” Dallas said instead, defending him. “But he does tend to the pompous side, a wee bit grating on the nerves and the doctor doesn’t help the matter by goading him. I’ll speak to both of them. I’m afraid the two of them scared away Morag with their sharp words. I doubt she’ll be back. And you, Eden? Please don’t say this is yer last supper with us?”
“It takes more than an over-inflated egotistical college prof and a doctor who knows how to push buttons to frighten me away,” I replied, opening the door of my Peugeot and sliding in as Vicki climbed into the passenger seat.
Arriving home, I was still wound up from the evening so I joined my friend in her home. Moments later, Sean’s police vehicle pulled up. I lingered long enough for a recap of the evening, Vicki and I recounting the altercation between the two men for Sean’s benefit. Right around eleven o’clock, I wished them good night and walked over to my own cottage.
I greeted Snookie and changed into a nightgown while Snookie wound around my legs, purring. We settled on the bed, and I pulled the quilt up close to my ears, considering whether or not to read for a bit.
Before I could decide, my phone rang.
“Get yerself up,” Jamieson said from the other end. “There’s been a murder. Sean’s already on the way.”
The location of the scene of the crime chilled me to the bone.
Chapter 3
Crannog Lane had been cordoned off. I had to park several blocks away and walk. As I approached, I could see a blow-up tent at the foot of the path leading to Derrick and Brenda Findlay’s home. Jamieson was waiting and grimly spoke to one of the officers guarding the perimeter, approving my passing under the white and blue barrier tape.
The victim’s identity was still unknown to me since the inspector had refused to stay on the line once my presence had been requested and the address imparted. He’d ended the call abruptly, leaving me with growing concerns.
Was the victim Derrick? Or Brenda?
But as I walked toward the tent, both of them were standing off to the side, speaking with Sean.
“I ken ye have yer own version o’ the evening,” Jamieson said to me. “And I want tae hear it once we’re finished here. The body o’ Stuart McKay is inside the tent.”
“Stuart?” But I suspected as much once I’d noted that the Findlay’s were in attendance. Stuart been the last of us to leave, lingering with the host and hostess at Derrick’s request.
“Are we through with the Findlay’s fer now?” Sean called to Jamieson.
“You’re free tae go, but we will have more questions later.”
Brenda and Derrick turned and slowly made their way up the path. Sean joined us.
“The Findlay’s told me about the argument during supper between the doctor and the victim,” the inspector said to me.
“Their version matched years and Vicki’s from yer accounts last night,” Sean added.
“The discussion became heated, but certainly not murder-worthy,” I replied. “Dr. Teague left rather abruptly after Stuart referred to him as an ignorant man.”
“Maybe their exchange isn’t a proper motive in yer own mind,” Sean replied. “But who can tell what goes on in the mind of criminal elements.”
“But he’s our village physician,” I insisted, sounding naïve even to my own ears. “He’s sworn an oath. The Hippocratic Oath.” I turned to Jamieson. “Dr. Teague couldn’t have done this, could he?”
“Let’s not get ahead o’ ourselves before we huff the facts.” The inspector’s eyes were cold and sharp. “Do ye want tae take a look inside the tent?”
I’d rather not, was on the tip of my tongue, but if I ever wanted to excel in my position, and I truly did, then I needed to handle situations like this with strength and awareness. Besides, as I reminded myself, this wouldn’t be my first stabbing victim. The other one that I’d encountered had brought me to the inspector’s attention and to this job.
I followed Jamieson, stooping to step inside, where one of the forensic team members was packing up.
Stuart’s torso was covered with black plastic. His eyes were sightless, the smugness and self-assuredness gone. Instead, an expression of shocked disbelief was etched permanently into his face.
“He was stabbed in the heart,” Jamieson said at my side. “A direct hit. Either very lucky or the attacker knew what he or she was about.”
“Where is the murder weapon?” I asked.
“It isn’t here. I have officer’s combing the neighborhood in case it was dropped hereabouts.”
My eyes traveled to Stuart’s legs jutting out from the plastic, to the top of his argyles. “The knife he carried is missing.”
“Aye, the holster in his stocking was a tipoff that he’d had a sgian-dubh on his person. The Findlay’s confirmed the fact, along with relating the threat he’d made tae Dr. Teague.”
Things weren’t looking good for the doctor. With a squabble only a few hours before. Now one of them dead, thanks to a professional thrust to the heart. And Dr. Teague, a skilled medical professional. He’d need a rock-solid alibi to redirect the focus of the inspector’s investigation.
The tent’s walls began closing in on me, the air turning repressive. I abruptly turned and made my way outside, relishing the fresh air. The inspector stayed inside.
“I’ll need tae question ye,” Sean said, writing in a notebook, puffed up with importance. “And Vicki, o’ course. And the book lady. And that other one. And learn where each o’ ye were at the time o’ the murder. The boss wants tae handle the doctor.” Sean flipped a page in his pad, scanning his notes. “According tae Derrick Findlay, the victim departed shortly after Vicki and yerself. And he dinnae make it far, as ye can see.”
“Vicki and I drove home together around ten o’clock, as you well know.” The over-eager new cop could be exasperating at times. Really? He needed to know where I was at the time of the murder? “The three of us were together until shortly before the inspector called informing us of the murder. You. Vicki. Me. We have alibis.”
“I knew that. Just being thorough.”
“Stuart’s murder might not have anything to do with the supper or with the doctor,” I suggested. “Perhaps Stuart entered the street at the wrong time and saw something he shouldn’t have. A robbery gone bad perhaps.” A thought occurred to me. “That car robber. Maybe Stuart saw an attack in progress and tried to intercede.”
“Could of happened,” Sean agreed, bobbing his head.
Only where was the targeted pensioner? Had the panic-stricken woman driven off, leaving Stuart to fight for his life? Maybe. If that were the case, hopefully she would report it soon.
“Who found the body?” I wanted to know.
“Cabbie driving past, saw a form on the sidewalk, and pulled over. Must o’ been right after the attack. We have a very small window of time here, and that’s going tae help us. The perpetrator shoulda killed Stuart out o’ public view tae gain more time.”
“Looks to me like his attacker gained plenty of time, since we don’t have a suspect in custody.”
Jamieson stepped out of the tent, returning his cell phone to a clip on his belt. “I’m afraid yer statement will have tae wait, Constable Elliott. It appears that the Pensioner Robber has struck again. This time out on Laurel Crescent.”
“I’ll take this one, too,” Sean said. “I’m on my way.”
“Constable Elliott goes with ye.”
Sean was already hurrying away. “Meet me at me beat car,”
he called to me. “And hurry yerself up.”
“And Eden,” the inspector said. “Don’t let him mess this up.”
“A little faith, Inspector.”
“Chust keep an eye on him.”
*
Laurel Crescent was a poorly lit street that led into a quiet residential area directly off the main artery from Glenkillen to Inverness, a perfect place to commit a crime without witnesses. A grey Vauxhall Corsa sat off the road in the dark shadow of a silver birch tree with a Highland patrol car parked behind it. On our approach, one of the officers stepped out of the patrol car’s passenger side. His partner in the driver’s seat appeared to be writing a report.
We showed the officer our credentials.
“My partner and I came upon this car here,” he told us. “Almost missed it off the road like that and no street lights tae help. On closer inspection, we found the victim in the boot, none the worse fer wear, but missing a handbag and mobile.”
“The Pensioner Robber strikes again,” Sean said. “Twice in less than twenty-four hours.”
“She’d been in the boot over three hours,” the officer informed us.
Sean wrote something in his notebook. “Steppin’ it up, he is. Getting’ careless.”
“Can we speak to the woman?” I asked.
“I’ll turn the entire situation over tae ye,” the officer said, opening the rear door of the patrol car. “We patrol the main thoroughfare. We only happened on the car while doing a turnaround. This one is yours.”
To my surprise, Morag Lisle crawled out of the backseat.
“Morag!” I exclaimed. “What happened?”
“Eden!” She practically fell into my arms.
The officer interrupted before he stepped back into the patrol car. “A reunion it tis then. We’ll be on our way.”
I untangled myself from Morag and we watched them speed away.