08 - The Highland Fling Murders (18 page)

“He says his father does.”

“Ay. Seems like everyone does. Except me.”

I nodded. “I don’t believe it. That makes two of us. But Malcolm says he’s actually afraid for you working here at Sutherland Castle.”

“No need for him to be. Because Daisy Wemyss was murdered? Some sick person killed her, that’s for sure. Probably not even from Wick. Somebody passing through. That’s the way I see it.”

“I hope you’re right. Fiona, have you seen the so-called lady in white here at the castle?”

“Her? Never have, not likely I will.” Another giggle. “Too much a’ the
baurley bree,
I think.”

“Does that mean whiskey?”

“
Ay
. It does. I’ll have you speakin’ in the Scottish tongue yet.”

“I look forward to it.”

“May I ask you a question, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Of course.”

“Providing you don’t think me too forward.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Are you and the inspector—?” She covered her mouth with her hands and looked at the floor, then back up at me. “Are you and Inspector Sutherland having a bit of a
screed
?”

“I’m not fluent in Gaelic yet, Fiona. Translate.”

“Mrs. Gower says you and the inspector are havin’ yourselves a romantic fling.”

“Does she, now?”

“Everybody’s talking about it.”

“Are they?”

“I have to admit I can see it in your eyes. In his eyes, too. Hard to miss.”

“Well, Fiona, I hate to dispel any juicy gossip, but Inspector Sutherland and I are simply good friends. That’s it. Sorry to disappoint.”

“All right.” Her expression said she was placating me, not believing a word of my denial of any romantic relationship with George.

“Well, Fiona, thank you for the tea and the plate of—
tablet
?”

“You’ve got it, Mrs. Fletcher. I’d best be going before the old shrew gets to yelling for me.” She grabbed two pieces of fudge from the plate, went to the door, and opened it. “Good night, Mrs. Fletcher. Glad you like Malcolm’s writing. He’ll be famous one day, and I’ll be his proud wife.”

I didn’t try to fight my sweet tooth. I savored a piece of fudge with my tea and returned to reading Malcolm James’s novel. Time passed quickly. I finished it, took off my glasses, and leaned back in the chair to contemplate what I’d read.

Malcolm really hadn’t endéd the story because, I suppose, there wasn’t a closure to Evelyn Gowdie’s murder twenty years ago. Malcolm’s fictitious detective character worked the case up to the point where he’d identified a number of suspects in the community. Malcolm had inserted a final handwritten page on which he’d made notes to himself concerning integrating Daisy Wemyss’s murder into the overall story. I was disappointed he hadn’t wrapped things up. After all, he was writing fiction. Ending his story didn’t depend upon a real solution to the actual murder. I couldn’t help wonder why a publisher would commit to a first novel without the ending having been written. Probably because the rest of the manuscript showed such promise. The story woven by Malcolm James was compelling, taut, a proverbial page-turner.

I mentally reviewed the suspects he’d developed. One in particular stayed with me: a woman who aroused the detective’s suspicions because she was one of only a few people who knew where Evelyn Gowdie would be when she was killed.

Thinking of her caused me to turn my attention to Rufus Innes, the gillie who’d guided Ken and me that day. As far as I could tell, he was the only person who knew we’d be going to that particular river, and that we would be fishing near the bridge from which the log was thrown. At least I assumed he was the only one who knew where we’d be.

Maybe he’d told others where he intended to guide us.

Maybe he was known to always take fishing clients there. No, he’d made a point of telling us that he and his fellow guides seldom took clients there. But he took us there that day. He even directed me to the spot in the river near the bridge where someone was waiting.

But was someone waiting there for me? Perhaps not. Whoever threw that log might have come along
after
I was in the water and fishing near the bridge. And I had to accept the possibility that the log wasn’t aimed at me. Maybe it was a kid throwing it into the water just for the fun of it, not realizing anyone was down there.

Conjuring such scenarios proved to be fatiguing, so I decided to go downstairs to see if any of my Cabot Cove contingent was still up. I found Seth Hazlitt sitting in front of the fireplace reading a book he’d found in one of the castle’s many bookcases.

“Still awake, Jessica?”

“Yes. I was reading. I see you are, too. Good book?”

“
Ayuh.
About Robert Burns. Died at thirty-seven, poor fella. Lived near a seaside town called Ayr for most of his short life. Loved it there evidently. Wrote this about the town. ‘
Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonny lasses.‘
Bonny lasses. I like that.”

“It does have a nice ring to it.”

“Gotten over your episode on the river?”

“I think so.”

“Still don’t have any idea who might ‘a thrown that log at you?”

“I’m not even sure someone did. I mean, someone did—throw the log—but maybe it wasn’t intended to hit me.”

Seth raised his eyebrows the way he always does when doubting me.

“I just don’t know,” I said defensively. “It all happened so fast. Maybe Constable McKay will know more after they cut the cross out of the bridge’s railing.”

He stared into the fire, brow knitted, lips pursed.

“How much for your thoughts?” I asked. “You’ve never given them away for a penny.”

He slowly turned and looked at me, locked his eyes on mine. “Jessica, we’ve been friends for a very long time.”

“We certainly have.”

“And I’ve lived through most of your misadventures, either because I was with you, or heard about it over the television or radio.”

I squeezed his arm. “And you’ve been staunch and loyal at every turn, Dr. Seth Hazlitt, for which this particular lady has always been very grateful. Now, what’s your point?”

“My point is, Jessica, I’m not at all comfortable staying here.”

I sighed. “I suppose I can’t say I don’t understand. But despite the things that have happened since we arrived, I’m actually having a good time.”

“Of course you are, considerin’ you get to spend time with George Sutherland.”

I cocked my head and didn’t attempt to keep a smile from forming. “And what does that mean?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know Jessica. It just seems to me that you and the handsome Scotland Yard Inspector have an obvious mutual respect for each other.”

“Why shouldn’t we?”

He held up his hand. “Of course you should. Anything beyond respect, Jessica?”

“Romance, you mean?”

“Ayuh. Always known you had pretty strong feelings for him. Knew that years ago when you met him in London. Fairly obvious to any astute friend. I know you pretty well.”

“You certainly do. But do you know what, Seth?”

“What?”

“As much as I adore you—and you know I do—I really don’t think whatever feelings I might have for George to be—of interest to anyone but me.”

“And him, of course.”

“Yes. And George. Of course.”

“Just don’t want to see you get your feathers singed, Jessica. Only reason I bring it up.”

“I don’t have any feathers, Seth.”

“ ‘Course you do. Every beautiful woman’s got ‘em. You’re no exception. I’m sure Sutherland has noticed ’em.”

“I think it’s bedtime,” I said, standing.

“A little sleepy myself.” He stood and clamped a hand on each of my arms. “Just want you to know that I’m always here for you, no matter what happens. You remember that,
heah
?”

“Yes, Seth. I
heah
loud and clear. Good night.”

I made sure I was out of his sight before I dabbed at a tear that had formed in my left eye, and was running down my cheek. He was such a dear friend, and had been for many years.

And he was jealous of George.

Chapter
Seventeen

At first, I wasn’t awake enough to discern what I was touching. It was warm and soft.

I removed my hand and turned over, felt a cramp in my leg and returned to my original position. I opened one eye. Sunlight was streaming through the open window. Good, I thought in my sleepy haze. A pretty day to spend with George. I smiled, and stretched.

My hand touched it again. I closed my fingers. It moved. It made a sound. And then I felt the prick of pain on the back of my hand.

I sat bolt-upright and looked to where my hand had been, then at my hand itself. A slender trickle of blood ran from a tiny cut up near the wrist down over my knuckles.

I didn’t want to scream, but it was involuntary, erupting from my throat.

My vocal reaction sent the big fat black cat flying to the floor and to the window.

“Get out!” I shouted.

The cat turned, arched its back, hissed at me, and disappeared onto a narrow ledge that ran the length of the exterior castle wall.

I sat in bed and tried to recover my composure, telling myself over and over that it was just a cat that had undoubtedly entered the room through the window I’d left open, and who’d decided to share my warm bed. I grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and pressed it against the scratch.

A
black cat.

Dr. Symington had said that to me the previous evening.

“What happened to you, Mrs. F.?” Mort Metzger asked as I entered the dining room holding a tissue against my hand.

“I had company last night,” I replied. “Anyone have a Band-Aid?”

“I do,” Maureen Metzger said, pulling one from her purse and handing it to me.

“Best put some antibacterial cream on it,” Seth Hazlitt said. “Got some in my room. Back in a second.”

“What visitor?” Jim Shevlin asked.

“A big fat black cat. I left the window open when I went to bed, and he must have come through it.”

Dr. and Mrs. Symington sat at the far end of the table. “A
black
cat?” he asked in his reedy voice.

“Yes.”

He stared at me with beady eyes, causing me to avert my gaze. What did he think the experience represented, that I was a witch, and the black cat confirmed it by drawing blood? What nonsense.

“You okay, Jess?” Charlene Sassi asked.

“What? Oh, yes. Why?”

“You looked like you did at dinner the other night. You know, zoned out.”

“Someplace else,” Ken Sassi said. “Please pass the sausages.”

“Pancakes or eggs, Mrs. Fletcher?” Forbes asked somberly. I hadn’t realized he was behind me.

His voice startled me. “Oh. Ah, neither, please. Just fruit, and some cereal if you don’t mind.”

“Where’s our host?” Pete Walters asked.

“Inspector Sutherland went to town,” Forbes answered before disappearing through the door to the kitchen.

“Tell us more about the cat,” Roberta Walters said. “Why did he scratch you?”

Seth returned with a tube of cream, and carefully squeezed out a small amount onto the scratch. “That been washed good?” he asked. I confirmed that it had been. He applied the Band-Aid over the cream, admiring his handiwork.

“Did it bite you, or scratch you?” Jed Richardson asked.

“Scratched me, I think.”

Forbes brought me my breakfast. “Do you know when Inspector Sutherland plans to return?” I asked him.

“No, ma’am.”

“Do you know why he went into town?”

“No, ma’am.” To the group: “Would anyone care for anything else?”

A negative response from everyone at the table.

“What’s on tap for everyone today?” I asked as we went from the dining room to the large parlor, where a fire glowed in the fireplace. It was chilly in the castle, but Jed and Alicia had taken an early morning walk and reported it was shaping up to be a warm and humid day.

No one seemed to have any specific plans, except me. “George and I planned to spend the day together,” I said when asked how I intended to spend my day. “He has a favorite pub he wants me to see. Other sights in the area, too, I imagine. I just wonder why he—”

“Probably had some business to tend to,” Seth said, anticipating what I was thinking. “Probably be back momentarily.”

“I suppose so,” I said.

“Mrs. Fletcher.”

I turned to face Dr. Symington. “Yes?”

“A word alone with you, please?”

“Oh, Doctor, I think I forgot to do something in my room. Perhaps another time. At dinner? Over cocktails?”

“I don’t think it can wait,” he said.

“Well, I think—”

Malcolm James entered the room. “Excuse me,” he said, “but has anyone seen Fiona this morning?”

We looked at each other and shrugged.

“I just thought—”

“Is she missing?” I asked. “Was she supposed to be here at work this morning? She worked late last night. Maybe she—”

“Her mum called. She never returned home last night.”

“Mrs. Fletcher, perhaps if we could—”

I cut Dr. Symington off by saying to Malcolm, “There must be a reasonable explanation for it. Maybe she stayed overnight with a friend.”

“She wouldn’t do that without telling her mum first,” he said.

I was sure he was right. The only thing I could think of at the moment was Daisy Wemyss, Fiona’s predecessor on the castle’s staff, whose body I’d found in Wick.

“Excuse me,” Malcolm said, fairly running from the room.

I followed him to the kitchen, where Mrs. Gower was stirring something in a large metal pot on the stove.