08 - The Highland Fling Murders (10 page)

“Oh, I don’t think so. I mean, I
thought
I heard something. But then again, the birds outside were chirping away, and there was the wind. No, I don’t think she said anything to me. In fact, I’m certain the entire episode was a figment of my imagination.”

“I’m not certain that’s true, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Oh?”

“I would like to conduct an experiment with you, if I may.”

“An experiment? I don’t think so. Is that why you’re here, Dr. Symington? Doing research on ghosts?”

“Precisely. I’ve been aware of Sutherland Castle’s reputation for being haunted for many years. It took me this long to gather enough preliminary data to finally examine it in person.”

“This castle is famous for being haunted?” I asked.

“No more so than dozens of others in the British Isles. But this area is unique, I feel, because a number of its residents cling to the old ways and traditions, ancient myths and beliefs. Witchcraft, ghosts, warlocks, and the like seem to live on here, at least with a core group of people. That, coupled with the castle’s reputation, provide someone like me with a fertile field of research.”

“You mentioned an experiment you wanted to do with me. What is it?”

“You seem to be the sort of person who might attract this woman in white. Perhaps she feels you are someone who would be sympathetic to her.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “You called what I thought I saw to be an apparition. Now you speak of her as being real, someone who would find me a sympathetic character.”

That tiny smile again. “Apparition? Real? That is the point, Mrs. Fletcher. One doesn’t know with any certainty, does one? Perhaps we can find out. As a writer of murder mystery novels, I assume you have a heightened curiosity about such things.”

“As a writer, yes. But not necessarily when it involves me personally.”

George Sutherland and Brock Peterman reappeared.

“Where’s Tammy?” the film producer asked.

“She went to your room,” someone replied.

He left immediately.

“Got a moment?” George asked me.

“For you? Always.”

“In the mood for some fresh air?”

“Sounds inviting.”

We went outside to the castle’s front courtyard. A dense fog had settled over everything. It was like standing in a cloud, an eerie feeling. I could see into the drawing room through a narrow window. Everyone inside was busy chatting; Roberta Walters’s loud and distinctive laugh was heard. I smiled. These were my very good friends, and I was happy the latest intrusive events—Daisy Wemyss’s murder, and Charlene’s alleged sighting of the lady in white—hadn’t put a permanent damper on their vacations.

“Come,” George said, taking my hand and leading me across the grass and through the castle ground’s main entrance. We crossed the road and stepped into a tiny park, with a bench and a small bridge crossing a narrow running stream.

“A pretty spot,” I said. “I wish I could see more of it.” The fog obscured everything beyond four feet.

“Tomorrow,” George said. “When the fog lifts.”

“What did Mr. Peterman want?” I asked.

“He wants me to pay for a camera crew to come here from Edinburgh, and put them up for a few days.”

“Why?”

“He claims to have met someone in town who claims to be”—he laughed—“who claims to have all the answers to the murder of Isabell and Evelyn Gowdie, and poor Daisy.”

“Do you think—?”

“No, I do not. This chap also told Peterman, at least according to him, that he knows the witches of Wick, and can arrange for Peterman to meet with them for filming purposes. For a price, of course.”

“Of course. Will you pay for a camera crew?”

“No. Peterman is a volatile chap. Very angry that I declined to help him financially. Threatens to leave and use his next film to—how did he put it?—to ‘trash’ Sutherland Castle. On the telly.”

“How dare he?”

“My sentiments exactly. I wish he and his wife would simply leave.”

“Any chance of that?”

“We’ll see. Are you all right?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“All these abominable things happening since you arrived. Certainly, not what I intended your holiday to be.”

“Someone once said, ‘Life is what happens while you’re making other plans.’ I subscribe to that philosophy.”

“The songwriter John Lennon.”

“Is that who said it?”

“I believe so. How firmly do you believe in the sentiment behind those words, Jessica?”

“I don’t know.”

I realize—you’ve expressed it quite clearly to me—that your plans do not include another man in your life.”

“I wouldn’t say that, George. There are many men in my life.”

“I don’t mean men you simply know. Friends. I mean a man who might fill the same role your deceased husband, Frank, did so ably.”

“Oh.”

“I won’t beat around the proverbial bush, Jessica. You know
I be keen o you.
”

I smiled. He’d said that to me before, and I liked the sound of it. “I know,” I said. “And I’m fond of you, too, but in a different way than when Frank was alive.”

“It’s been a long time since you and Frank enjoyed life together,” he said.

“A very long time.”

“People shouldn’t be alone for too long. Not good for them.”

“I probably agree with you,” I said. “But, in my case, I don’t need to be as close to a man as I was to Frank in order to feel I’m not alone. It’s hard to explain, George. I have a wonderful life. I’ve been blessed. I had many years with a wonderful man, who unfortunately died much too soon. I’ve been blessed as a writer. I never dreamed when I started that my books would be best-sellers, and that I’d travel the globe to talk about them. I live in what I consider a heaven of sorts, Cabot Cove. I love it there, love the people, some of whom are with me on this trip. It’s a close-knit community, each person caring about the other. With a few notable exceptions. Am I rambling?”

“No. Please go on. I have a feeling I’m about to hear the most elaborate explanation since meeting you of why my intentions are not to be realized.”

“I wish you wouldn’t put it that way,” I said. “It makes me sad.”

“Oh, no, no sadness, Jessica Fletcher, and I apologize for making you feel that way. I’m not a bloody schoolboy. I expect nothing from people except what they wish to give me.”

“And I’m not a bloody schoolgirl,” I said.

“Two graduates of life. You were saying?”

“I was saying that my life is idyllic. Full and fulfilling. I suppose if I were totally honest, I’d admit I am—”

“Yes?”

“I am afraid to change my life, George. It has nothing to do with any lack of feeling I have for you. To be truthful, I felt a spark the moment we met at Brown’s Hotel in London. Remember?”

I saw his smile through the fog. “The spark singed me, too, Jessica.”

“You questioned me regarding Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder. I recall exactly what you wore that day. And I especially remember our parting on the sidewalk after tea, and watching you stride away.”

“Hmmm.”

Marjorie Ainsworth had been the world’s reigning queen of mystery writers. I’d come to London to address a writer’s group, and was Marjorie’s weekend houseguest when someone stabbed her to death in her bed. The local authorities weren’t up to the task of solving the crime, and Scotland Yard was called into the case. Enter Chief Inspector George Sutherland.

“Any other fond memories of our first meeting?” he asked.

“Just that as I went back to the Dorchester, I kept thinking about you. Of course, those pleasant thoughts were mixed with concern about some of the questions you’d asked me. I was a suspect, and I knew it.”

“Only because you were there when Ms. Ainsworth was killed.
Everyone
was a suspect then.”

“As it should be.” I wrapped my arms about myself. “George, would you mind if we went back inside. I’m cold.”

“Of course. Aren’t you ever lonely, Jessica?”

“Honestly?”

“Nothing but.”

“No. My problem is finding the time to do everything on my agenda. I’m always working on a book. There are so many things in the house to tend to. I have my garden. And I’ve become obsessed with the labeling machines someone gave me last Christmas. I’m labeling everything in the house. My friends joke that they’re afraid I’ll label them when they walk through the front door.” I sighed and smiled. “No, George, I’m not at all lonely.”

“I’m pleased to hear that, Jess. May I make an important announcement before we go inside?”

“Of course.”

“You might not find it so important, but it’s something I’ve had a need to say to you for quite a while.”

“Yes?”

“I am in love with you!”

“But—”

“And
as ae door shuts anither opens.”

“Translation?”

“We are never left entirely without hope.” He took my hand. “Come. We can discuss it at another time.”

“Mrs. Fletcher, got a couple of minutes?”

Brock Peterman, dressed in a Hard Rock Café T-shirt, safari jacket, cargo shorts with numerous pockets, and alligator loafers, intercepted me on my way to breakfast the next morning.

“Yes?” I said. “What can I do for you?”

He motioned for me to follow him into a small room off the hallway. He was hyper, eyes darting every which way like tiny ball bearings in a fluid, his tongue working over his lips.

“You wanted to say?” I said.

“Yeah. Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I didn’t know what a big star you were when we were introduced.”

“Star? I’m not a star.”

“Sure you are. Big-time murder mystery writer. Best-selling books everywhere. I don’t read a lot. No time. That’s why I didn’t pick up on your name right away.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Mr. Peterman. I’ve never seen any of your movies. I’d like to get to breakfast. You said you wanted to talk to me about something.”

“Yeah. Look, you and I should pair up, you know what I’m saying? Here we are in this nuthouse of a castle, this Looney-Tunes town called Wick. You and I can make one hell of a movie about this place and the murders. You write the screenplay, and I bring it to the big screen.”

“Mr. Peterman, in the first place I don’t write screenplays. In the second place, this lovely castle is owned by my dear friend, Inspector Sutherland. In the third place, I find Wick to be anything but Looney Tunes. It’s a fine village, with good and decent people.”

He guffawed. “Yeah, right. Fine, decent people who go around sticking pitchforks into girls’ chests.”

“Mr. Peterman, thank you for your kind words about me, and for the offer. But I’m not interested. I’m here enjoying a much-needed vacation and have no intention of collaborating with you.”

“Wait a minute,” he said. “I found this guy in the village who knows all about the craziness going on around here. I can introduce you to him. He’ll give you enough material to write the screenplay, and a couple of books besides.”

“Mr. Peterman, I—”

“We could do this with Sutherland, your buddy. Maybe you can talk to him, convince him to bankroll a crew to come here. You promote your books. One of your friends says you travel all over promoting them. Promotion. That’s the key to everything. I can help Sutherland turn this dreary dump into a real winner. He’d be turning tourists away.”

I started to leave.

“Hey, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m talking megabucks. The silver screen. I can get this flick made if I have your name attached to it.”

“Sorry, but you’ll have to get ‘this flick’ made without me. Excuse me. I’m hungry.”

The conversation with Peterman caused me to be the last one of my group at the breakfast table. Everyone seemed in good spirits, including Alicia Richardson and Charlene Sassi. We were served by Mrs. Gower and a new face, a tall young woman with large bright green eyes, flaming red hair, and an abundance of freckles splattered across her narrow face. Her name was Fiona, and her ready smile and pleasant voice were a delightful counterpoint to Mrs. Gower’s stony and stem face.

“Where to today?” Seth Hazlitt asked as Fiona refilled our coffee cups.

“I haven’t decided,” I said. “Any suggestions?”

“Thought I might just stroll the village. Looks like a fat day comin’ up. Sun should shine.”

“Mind if I tag along, Seth?”

“Be my pleasure.”

I turned to Mort Metzger: “You and Maureen interested in some serious walking?”

He asked his wife, who indicated she liked the idea.

“We’ll go with you,” Roberta Walters said.

“Us, too,” said Susan Shevlin.

As we prepared to leave the castle to walk into Wick, Brock Peterman cornered me again. “Have any second thoughts, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“No. Well, let me ask you this, Mr. Peterman.”

“Call me Brock.”

“All right, Brock. I’d like to talk to this man in the village you say knows so much about local witchcraft.”

He fixed me in an accusatory stare. “You wouldn’t do an end run around me, would you?” he said, his tone indicating that’s exactly what he thought I was doing.

“I don’t make end runs around anyone, Mr. Peterman. Brock. But if you expect me to consider entering into a business relationship with you, you’ll understand my need, and right, to see just how reliable your sources are.”

“Yeah. Sure, I understand that.” He pulled a slip of paper from the pocket of his safari jacket and handed it to me. The name written on it was Evan
Lochbuie.
“He comes off like a crazy old coot, but I think he’s dumb like a fox. Runs a little boat from the docks, looks like a homeless bum—maybe he is—babbles on, drools a lot.”

“Sounds charming.”

“So you want to talk to him. Go ahead. You’ll see why I’m hyped up over this flick. See you tonight.”