Be Still My Bleating Heart (A Scottish Highland Mystery Book 4)

by Hannah Reed

  “I hate this,” I said, let down by our finding, disappointed in the medical doctor.

  “Let’s go break it tae Teague.”

  The doctor’s behavior when we confronted him struck me as characteristic of any accused man, predictable for an accused suspect whether that person was guilt or not. He paled when he saw the knife. Then he denied any knowledge of the ownership or reason for its appearance among his belongings. “Never had one, never borrowed one, and this certainly isn’t mine.” Then his expression shifted to angry. “Did ye set me up? Plant it?” He glared at me. “Or did he?”

  I hadn’t predicted this reaction.

  Jamieson stayed cooler than I did, although I witnessed a small tick in his jaw.

  “You can’t be serious!” I exclaimed. “You’re accusing us of planting evidence in your shed?” My voice hit a high note. “Of all the crazy…”

  “We’ll be taking ye in fer questioning,” the inspector interrupted, addressing the doctor while I yanked off the gloves. “Ye best lock up the surgery fer the rest o’ the day. And ye can forget that cockamamie idea about us planting anything. Ye’ve been watching too many American crime shows.”

  A few minutes later, I stood on the curb, unsure of my role since the inspector had abandoned his crutches. Was I driving? Riding shotgun? What?

  “Ye best be off to Edinburgh,” the inspector said to Sean once he’d deposited the doctor in the back of his police car.

  “No need now,” Sean informed him. “Ye have yer killer. The wifies are in the clear.”

  The inspector jerked open the driver’s door. “I could put ye on traffic control in the village center, if ye don’t like this particular task.”

  “I best be off then.”

  “And take Eden…eh…Constable Elliott home tae get her vehicle. I’m through needing a chauffeur in spite o’ her capable driving skills.”

  Under different circumstances, I would have been pleased by that remark, recalling what a disaster I’d been behind the wheel in the first months. Driving on the left side of the road and entering roundabouts in the opposite direction had been challenging.

  Sean was quiet on the way back to the farm, allowing me time to process the most recent finding. My gut feeling had been that the doctor was innocent. Yet, he had means, considering the knife found in his possession. And motive, after Stuart had disparaged him in front of patients and had publicly threatened him. And plenty of opportunity to commit the murder since he didn’t have anyone to confirm that he’d been anywhere other than in the shadows at Crannog Lane.

  So why was the inspector sending Sean to confirm other alibis, if he thought the case was airtight? Was Sean’s daytrip to Edinburgh nothing other than a merry chase to keep the new officer out of his hair? Or was he unsure about Teague’s guilt and wanted to continue to investigate other possibilities?

  From past cases, I knew that Dr. Teague could be held for at least twenty-four hours. Jamieson would use every minute of that time to try to further prove his guilt or his innocence. Then, he would have to let him go or charge him with murder.

  There were still a few questions that seemed to conflict with the evidence. For example, why would the doctor goad Stuart at a private party in front of witnesses if he intended to murder him a few hours later? And why would he stash the murder weapon inside his own shed, in a drawer, right on top where it couldn’t be missed? I also needed to know whose blood I had found on the window sill and why it was in that particular spot.

  Teague’s accusation against us played in my head again. He’d wanted to know if we’d planted the weapon—if we were setting him up?

  That was absurd.

  But I sensed that perhaps someone else was.

  And I wasn’t about to let the doctor go down for the crime, if he didn’t do it. And I believed that was what the inspector demanded as well. But at the moment, Dr. Teague was the only one at the Scott Supper with a motive for killing Stuart McKay.

  I could let it unravel naturally, let it work itself out under the guidance of Jamieson. But the inspector had doubts, too, I was sure of it, and I thought I detected his consent for further investigation when he ordered Sean to Edinburgh. I decided to be aggressive rather than passive, to arrange a gathering of my own at the Kilt & Thistle.

  And this time it would be all-inclusive.

  Chapter 11

  We met in the early afternoon at the same table that Dallas, Brenda, Derrick, Morag, and the late-arriving doctor had occupied yesterday. This time, I maneuvered into the head position at the table with Vicki seated at my side. Whether or not I had the legal right to interrogate the group as a volunteer constable was a question for which I conveniently didn’t pursue an answer.

  As to the inspector, I’d failed to notify him in case he wouldn’t view my plan in a positive light.

  Everyone had agreed to the meeting. FOMO, I imagined.

  After we’d ordered beverages and exchanged small talk for a suitable period of time, Dallas inquired about the doctor. “Where is he?”

  “Dr. Teague is assisting with the investigation by responding to more inquires,” I replied, having anticipated the question and prepared for it.

  “I knew it!” Brenda banged an open hand on the table. “He murdered Stuart!”

  “That’s premature,” I answered. “He’s simply cooperating with the investigation.” There, was that vague enough?

  “As we all have,” Morag said. “Please let this be done with soon. I’ve been warned tae remain in the village. I’d like tae be away from here as soon as I’m allowed tae leave. My holiday has turned into a jail sentence.”

  “It isn’t pleasant for any of us to be suspects in a murder investigation,” Vicki said politely. “But we must make the most of it. The more we cooperate with the authorities, the sooner this will be over.”

  “What do ye mean we?” Brenda asked Vicki. “Ye make it sound like yer a suspect as well, when we all know that ye and Eden alibied out very nicely, thanks tae that fiancé of yours.”

  I could have mentioned that she and Derrick had done the same for each other. Instead I tried to appease everyone. “We all want the truth and we want justice for Stuart.”

  Derrick leaned into the table. “Tae tell ye the truth, nobody especially liked McKay. He was stuck on himself, and had an adversarial disposition.”

  “Aye,” his wife agreed. “He riled all with his harsh words.”

  Morag leaned in as well, conspiratorially, “I hardly knew the man, but he didn’t make a good impression, that’s fer sure.”

  “Time will rust the sharpest sword,” Derrick said.

  “Time will consume the strongest cord,” said his wife.

  Morag stared at the couple with a puzzled expression. “What are ye speakin’ of?”

  “I’m not following, as well,” I agreed.

  “Quotes from Sir Walter Scott,” Dallas informed us. “Classics.”

  I was still confused by the bookshop owner’s explanation. “How does that apply to the murder of Stuart McKay?”

  “The quotes are from Harold the Dauntless,” Dallas explained. “It was Scott’s last long verse narrative and he decided tae publish it anonymously. He was curious tae know if his critics would detect his hand in it.” She glanced at Brenda. “Honestly, I don’t understand the reference, either.”

  “Again, what does that have to do with this?” I prompted, addressing the Findlays.

  “Ye detected the doctor’s hand in this, didn’t ye?” Brenda attempted to explain. “A direct stab tae the heart with the skill o’ a medical professional and his dislike fer Stuart. He wasn’t able tae hide behind anonymity.”

  I sighed. “The doctor has not been charged with any crime.” Not yet anyway.

  Derrick and Brenda, united and potential co-conspirators, were certainly offhanded when discussing a man who’d been murdered practically on their doorstep. And neither expressed shock at assuming that the doctor had done the deed.

  I was a
bout to stir the pot, mix a little confusion in with the brew. “I’d like to suggest another theory; one that you might think is a bit farfetched. But take some time to consider it.”

  Vicki spoke up on cue. “They might be wondering why they should trust you, Eden, with you being a constable. Or me, for that matter, for being engaged to a police officer.”

  I studied each of them then said, “Unless you are guilty, you have no reason to distrust me. We are on the same side.”

  “Of course,” Morag said, her tone turning friendly. “What’s yer theory?”

  “Dr. Teague and Stuart McKay have had their differences and on more than one occasion the public was privy to their squabbles. Not only that, the doctor doesn’t have a proper alibi,” At this I paused momentarily before adding, “and I should point out that some of you at this table don’t either, but that doesn’t make you a killer.”

  “Derrick and I were together,” Brenda made sure to announce.

  I continued on, presenting my hypothesis, “We’ve all been to the doctor’s office for one thing or another. No one had a bad word to say about him, other than Stuart. Before the supper, before some of us became suspects in Stuart’s murder, would any of us have thought our local doctor capable of this crime? Especially, considering his chosen field. Surely, he’s had to deal with difficult personalities many times over. Are you really going to believe that this time he snapped because the two of them disagreed over national novelists?”

  “Yer theory is that the doc didn’t do it?” Derrick asked. “That’s not much o’ a theory, Eden.”

  “I’m suggesting that the doctor is being framed.”

  The table went quiet while they took this in, their faces reflecting first surprise then doubt. “It is a stretch of the imagination,” I admitted. “And it takes a calculating and twisted mind to use an innocent man that way.”

  “I don’t believe any of us are capable of such a thing,” Brenda said.

  Vicki remained silent beside me, well aware of my intention to cast uncertainty among them. There was little doubt in my mind that either the killer really was the doctor or someone sitting at the table at this very moment had murdered Stuart and had further plotted to turn suspicion on Teague.

  “What about his ex-wives?” Dallas asked.

  “Stuart’s exes and adult children have been interviewed and we are following up on their whereabouts. We haven’t eliminated them as suspects, but if my theory is correct, we can conclude that they are the least likely to have been framing Dr. Teague, since they knew nothing of the animosity between Stuart and the doctor.”

  “That doesn’t mean one of them didn’t kill him,” Derrick said dryly.

  “That’s true,” I agreed. “We’re following up on their alibis.”

  “Yer suggesting one o’ us then, according tae yer idea?” Brenda looked suspiciously at the group. “At this very table? One o’ us killed Stuart and is attempting to implicate Dr. Teague?”

  “I’m only saying it’s a possibility.”

  Morag looked doubtful. “And what reason would any of us have fer doing a thing like that?”

  I didn’t have an answer for that yet and was relieved when the moment was interrupted by a disturbance at the counter. We turned our attention there.

  Bill and Andy Morris had arrived and were standing at the bar. Dale placed two drinks before them while a small elderly woman with bluish gray hair tucked into a bun and sitting on a barstool made a ruckus.

  “I tell ye, that’s him!” she shouted, pointing at Andy. “He robbed me in my car just the other day!”

  Andy’s freckled face registered panic. “Yer…yer mistaken, ye are.”

  She jumped down from the stool, glared up at Andy, who was twice her height, and grabbed him by the arm. Her eyes swung my way.

  “Yer a constable, aren’t ye?” she called out.

  I rose from the table. “Yes.”

  “Arrest this tosser!”

  Andy’s eyes met mine and his went as wild as a caged animal. He yanked his arm free, almost toppling the woman and bolted out the door.

  I was right behind him.

  Why I thought I could catch him was beyond me. Or why I felt a need to try, since I knew who he was and could easily track him down. Andy was half my age. Thirty-eight and counting is no time to take up sprinting without easing into it with a responsible training plan. In a few leaping bounds he had outdistanced me, yet I continued the pursuit.

  Past the Whisky Shop and A Taste of Scotland. Next, he veered left, leaving the tourist office in his dust. Then he vanished into the Glenkillen cemetery on the hill.

  I paused at the cemetery’s gate, scanning the grave stones and trees, finding no sign of Andy. I collapsed on the soft grass at the entryway. Gasping, struggling to fill my lungs with air, I finally found a clear, deep breath.

  I sat there for a few minutes recovering before I would return to the pub and interview the blue-haired pensioner.

  As luck would not have it, Jamieson’s police vehicle pulled up beside me. He rolled down the window. “We’re in the middle o’ a murder investigation and yer lollygaggin’. Getting some fresh air, are ye?”

  I covered my face with a hand and rubbed my temple. “I was chasing a suspect.”

  “It appears that yer target has gotten away from ye.” The inspector’s shrewd blue eyes took in the quiet cemetery then bore into me. “And what suspect are ye referring tae, may I ask.”

  “Andy Morris. He’s been accused of car robbery.”

  “Ye better get in and explain yerself. This is turning out tae be quite the day.”

  Chapter 12

  The accusing woman introduced herself as Rhona Selkirk. She recognized the inspector immediately and directed her first question to him. “Inspector, did the girl catch him?”

  “Ye can ask her yerself,” Jamieson said, leaving me to shake my head in the negative.

  “He was fast,” was all I had to offer.

  The club members had cleared out, but Morag remained behind citing her personal interest in apprehending the robber as her reason. A valid one considering she’d been one of his victims. She sat beside Rhona, two women with a common bond.

  “Rhona was confined in her trunk as well,” the inspector informed me, and I remembered him describing her as feisty at the time of the incident.

  “I could o’ caught him a few years back,” Rhona announced, looking me up and down and, by her expression, finding me lacking in either stamina or intelligence or perhaps both. “And ye even were wearing trainers,” she said, glancing at my feet and shaking her head.

  I shrugged. “We know who he is and where he lives. He won’t get far. Where’s Bill?”

  “He left,” Morag said. “Right after you went on yer foot chase.”

  “We know how tae find the uncle, too,” the inspector said. “Now, Rhona, tell me what happened in here.”

  “I came in tae get a nice bowl o’ hot soup. A wee bit after I ordered, here comes Bill with that nephew o’ his and they order drinks and stand there yammering with each other. All of a sudden, I got a spooked feeling, like I better pay attention. I get them once in a while and they’re dead on. I knew he was hairy at the heels the minute I turned and saw him.”

  “Who might ye be referring tae?” Jamieson asked. “Bill or his nephew?”

  “The nephew, that’s who. Dodgy looking. Although the other was no prize either. Anybody ought tae be able tae see he’s trouble by the shift in his eyes. He robbed me and he’s going tae pay behind bars. And I want my purse back all accounted fer and I want him tae get me a new phone, one o’ them fancy ones that cost a lot.”

  “Are you absolutely sure Andy Morris is the one who robbed you?” I asked. “How can you be so certain? Wasn’t the man who attacked you wearing a mask?”

  Rhona crossed her arms firmly and tipped her chin. “Young lady,” she said. “I could pick him out o’ a lineup a mile long. And it wasn’t his face that I recognized, although he ha
s a look about him. It was his voice. Everybody’s voice is one o’ a kind, chust like fingerprints. And that stutter of his was enough tae identify him. I should have hit him with my new purse.”

  I glanced at a large red handbag next to her on the counter.

  “Let’s go talk to Bill,” Jamieson said to me.

  “I’m coming, too,” Morag said.

  “No,” the inspector said. “The two o’ ye stay put.”

  “You did well, ma’am,” I said to Rhona.

  “Is there a reward?” she asked. “I could use a wee bit extra.”

  “Justice should be reward enough,” said the inspector.

  *

  Day after day, Jeannie Morris runs the Whistling Inn next door to the pub while Bill wastes his life away drinking. His daughter shows her rebellious side with a nose ring and brash bottled red hair, but she’s reliable and runs a successful establishment.

  “Ye looking fer my da,” she said, wagging her head in the general direction of the dining room. “He’s in there.” Then she addressed the inspector, “But he says he won’t speak tae you. Only her.”

  “He doesn’t have a say,” Jamieson said.

  “It’s all right.” I placed a hand on his arm. “I can handle this.”

  “Fine then. Ye go ahead and talk tae the old bugger.”

  Bill had poured himself a drink from a wet bar and was waiting for me. “I did everything I could fer that boy,” he said. But I knew him as an unreliable narrator. The man could barely take care of himself. “Took him in when his parents didn’t know what to do with him. Thought I’d saved him from a life o’ crime. Now this. He’s made his bed, now he has tae lie in it.”

  “Where is he?” I demanded.

  “Not sure, at the moment. He’s been staying upstairs. Room seven. Jeannie can give ye the key.”

  “For the record, I’m taking that as consent to enter without a warrant.” I was already striding toward the front desk, pleased with myself for sounding official.