Competition Can Be Murder (7 page)

“Can Drake help with that?” I asked.

“Oh, Charlie! I’m so glad to see you. Yes, please,” she said, handing the extinguisher over to Drake.

His look told me he knew the small extinguisher would be useless, but he took it and ran to join the others, pulling the pin from the canister as he went.

“What happened?” I shouted above the roaring fire and the shouts of the people.

“I don’t know. We just discovered it,” she said. “Robert’s trying to get the pumper out here.”

At that moment a garden tractor appeared, with Robert driving, pulling an antique contraption of some kind. It jounced over ruts and onto the unmown turf surrounding the little hut. Men ran over to help him and they were soon unwinding a hose and cranking up a generator. Water pumped from the hose, in fitful spurts at first, then as a steady stream which was at least wet, if not forceful.

“What kind of building is that?” I asked Sarah.

“Oh, it’s a crofter’s hut,” she said. “Dreadfully old. Hasn’t been occupied for two or three hundred years, I’m sure. Old thatch ceiling must have been like a candle wick, you know.”

I guess I gave a puzzled look.

“They burned peat fires in those huts, fire ring on the floor, meat hanging from the ceiling to cure. Interiors of those places were coated in grease an inch thick.”

“Well, I can see how that would burn easily,” I said. “Maybe I should see if I can lend a hand.”

The men worked their way around the sides of the crofter’s cottage, dampening the flames on one side, just to have them flare up on another. I joined Drake, who’d set the fire extinguisher aside the minute the pumper showed up. We helped unwind some extra lengths of hose and then to bear its weight as it filled with water. At last, it looked like we were making some headway. The roaring flames had settled into smaller ones, with thick billowing smoke everywhere.

“At least we kept the surrounding grass damp enough,” Robert commented as I stepped aside to let the men finish it up.

“Thank goodness it didn’t spread to the orchard,” I said.

Robert turned to issue an order to the men.

I scanned the surrounding forest, contemplating the amount of potential destruction had the fire run unchecked. A slight movement caught my eye beneath one of the trees in the orchard. A man huddled behind one of the thick trunks, watching the scene. In the dying light of the fire, his red-gold hair glowed. It was Ian Brodie.

“Charlie, here take this,” Robert said, handing me the wrench he’d used to crank open the water valve. “It goes in that toolbox on the other side.”

I reached out for the wrench and when I looked up again, Ian was gone.

Now what was that about? I wondered, circling the pumper to put the wrench away. If Ian were this close, why hadn’t he come over to help?

I remembered Robert Dunbar’s comments yesterday, his suspicions about Ian being the thief who’d stolen his two lambs. Was Ian really at war with the Dunbars? Could he have set the fire? I walked back around the pumper to the spot where Robert stood watching the last of the dousing efforts.

“Any idea what started the fire?” I asked.

“No,” he mused. “Canna figure it out. No lightning tonight. That’s usually what does it. Lucky we have old Betsy here,” he said, patting the pumper’s flank. “Closest fire department’s almost all the way to Inverness. Take ’em twenty minutes to get here. Used to have a volunteer fire crew here in the village, but they’re all gettin’ old like me. Canna do it anymore, that gettin’ waked up in the night.” He patted the pumper again. “Betsy here’s old. Think me grandda’ brought her in more than eighty years ago when we pulled her with horses. But she still works.”

He supervised the rewinding of the hose, then climbed aboard the tractor to drive Betsy back to storage. Sarah came around the corner of the still-standing stone walls to survey the wreckage. Now that the fire was out, the night had turned dark and chilly. Everyone was finding their way around by the beams of a couple of flashlights someone had brought.

“Oh, Charlie, there you are,” Sarah said. “I’d like you to meet my grandson, Richie.”

A gangly kid of about fifteen stepped forward. His large hands flopped at his sides, as if they weren’t quite sure they belonged at the ends of those long, skinny arms. His blond hair hung over his forehead, having received a few too many sprays of water to stay in style. He wore baggy black pants and a black pullover that hung halfway to his knees. In his case, I wasn’t sure whether he was trying to be stylish or if virtually any clothing would hang on his skinny frame. He nodded jerkily toward me and murmured a hello that almost made it past his lips.

“And Richie’s friends, Lewis and Alisdair,” Sarah added, summoning two other boys over. Lewis was a bit more filled-out than Richie, and I noticed that he and Alisdair went for the same baggy clothing. They each gave me a polite nod but I sensed teenage sullenness just under the surface.

“Let’s go inside,” Sarah suggested. “I’ll make us some cocoa.”

We trooped through the orchard in a line, one of the torch bearers at the head and one at the end of the scraggly procession. When we reached the castle, three men, presumably grounds keepers, left. Richie and his friends informed Sarah that they were off to town.

“Now where—” The slamming car door cut off her inquiry.

Drake and I were now the only ones standing with Sarah. I introduced them and included Robert as he came walking back from one of the outbuildings with a flashlight in hand.

“I’m afraid we should beg off staying for cocoa,” I told Sarah. “It’s been a very long day. I’ll have to tell you about it sometime.”

“Let’s do plan on dinner one evening soon,” she insisted. Turning to Drake, she added, “I understand you have some fascinating stories to tell.”

I could have almost sworn she winked at him but he didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m going to figure out where Ian Brodie is leasing land and which cottage they live in,” I told Drake in the car on the way back to our place. “I think I need to pay him a little visit.”

Brodie’s cottage stood among a collection of old barns and wooden-fenced corrals. The land was somewhat hilly with gray-white rocks that jutted up through the rich, green grass. In the distance, a flock of fifty or sixty sheep grazed in a low spot at the base of a rocky promontory. I’d followed the sketchy directions Ian had mentioned when I met him and found the place without any trouble.

Three grown collies and a half dozen puppies bounded out to meet me as soon as I stopped the car. One of the adult dogs, a female with nipples hanging inches below her belly, sniffed cautiously at my fingers before slowly wagging her tail and giving her tacit approval for me to touch her babies. With acceptance by the adults, I stooped down and became instantly covered in puppies. Their small bodies wiggled uncontrollably as they crawled over my shoes and worked their way up to my knees and lapped at my chin. I got a case of the giggles; there was no way not to erupt in laughter.

“Sorry, ma’am, there’s not another show until twelve-thirty.”

“Show?” My confusion must have registered on my face with a look of stupidity.

“The dog shows? Did you come for that?” The young woman standing in the driveway wore denim overalls and a gray T-shirt that I sensed must have once been white. Her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail that brushed her shoulders and delicate tendrils of hair framed her forehead and cheeks. I guessed her age to be mid-twenties.

“No, sorry I didn’t know anything about that.” I stood up and tucked the tail of my pink T-shirt back into my jeans. “You must be Ian’s wife?” I would have extended my hand to her, but hers were full of baby bottles dripping foamy milk.

“Yes, I’m Ramona,” she answered cautiously.

I introduced myself by letting her know which cottage we were renting. “I met Ian outside one day and he suggested I drop by to meet you too.”

“Well, it’s nice to know a neighbor,” she said with a widening grin. “Hey, want to help me feed a couple of lambs?”

At my nod, she led me toward one of the corrals. The puppies trailed behind us and the two adult dogs wandered off. Nudging a small metal latch with her knee, Ramona opened a gate. “Catch that, will you?” she said as we walked through.

I pushed the gate shut, leaving the puppies outside. Two lambs, standing about eighteen inches high, scampered toward Ramona, eyeing the bottles in her arms. She tilted one bottle downward to the nearest baby and handed the other bottle to me. I mimicked her technique with the other lamb. His mouth latched onto the nipple and his little tail went into furious wagging. I had to laugh again.

“They’re so cute,” I said.

“Never worked much with farm animals?” she asked.

“Not really.” I remembered one early field trip to a local dairy when I’d been in first or second grade, but the animals were so huge no one had even suggested that we get near them.

In about two minutes, both lambs drained their bottles and Ramona handed me a second one. “Just toss the empties on the ground,” she said.

“Why don’t their mothers feed them?” I asked.

“These two were orphaned.”

“Oh? Recently?” I wanted to believe that she wouldn’t lie to me, but couldn’t help but remember the Dunbars just happened to have two lambs of their own missing. I ruffled the ears of my animal but didn’t notice any kind of tag or brand.

“Yeah, Ian brought them in from the west pasture a few days ago. Said the mother was attacked by a big cat.”

I pictured someone’s tabby run amok, but she clarified. “Sometimes mountain lions come down from the hills. It’s sad.”

“Didn’t the dogs raise a fuss?”

“Dunno. Usually they do.”

The lambs had polished off two bottles each and Ramona pushed them away, their fat little tummies bulging. “Enough for now,” she said. “Off you go.”

We gathered the empty bottles. “Let’s go inside,” she suggested. “Sorry I couldn’t offer you a more proper welcome. Just can’t put off these little ones when they’re hungry.”

We walked up a rocky path from the corral to the house, an unpainted wood and stone structure nestled into a curve in the rocky hillside. A small garden area contained some well developed vegetables—tomatoes, beans, and the leafy tops of potato plants—but the flower beds near the cottage were filled only with the bare sticks of last year’s annuals.

“I’ve still got some coffee,” Ramona said. “We could sit a minute and have a cup.”

Inside, the cottage consisted of a main room with a combined living and kitchen area. Doors on the far wall presumably led to bedroom and bathroom. The cottage’s dominant feature was a stone fireplace on the wall opposite the front door. Its opening was nearly large enough to garage a compact car. A battered coal scuttle sat to one side and an unruly pile of logs graced the other.

The living area contained an oak-framed sofa whose faded frame looked like it had been out in the weather for a few seasons before being brought back into service. The nubby gray fabric on the cushions showed snags and a couple of rips large enough for white stuffing to poke through. A wooden end table made of logs, a small television set, and a floor lamp with a fringed 1940s-era shade were the only other furnishings, if you didn’t count the stack of magazines that held an egg-smeared plate and a dirty coffee mug.

On the kitchen side of the room, there was a folding card table with two chairs. Built-ins consisted of a metal one-piece cabinet with sink and a tiny four-burner stove. A slope-shouldered refrigerator hummed noisily in the corner. On the plus side, a window above the sink gave an unbroken view of the spectacular Highland countryside. The odor of burnt coffee filled the room.

“Oh, no,” Ramona exclaimed. “Guess I left this on.” She pulled a metal coffeepot from one of the stove burners. A low gas flame glowed bluely. She turned, embarrassed. “Sorry. Maybe some tea, then?”

I sensed that my accepting a cup of tea would be important to her, after the disaster with the coffee. “Sure. That would be nice.”

“The place comes furnished,” she explained in answer to my unasked question. “We really do have nicer stuff than this at home. But when you’re renting only for a summer, it hardly seems worth the bother to bring a lot.”

She rummaged through pans under the kitchen sink and came up with a small kettle.

“Where’s home?” I asked, trying to stay on neutral ground.

“Near Aberdeen. We live with Ian’s parents. They’ve got a few acres and a guest house out back. We’ve got that. But Ian’s father runs his own sheep on his land and it’s not really enough to support ours too. We’ll do a season here, then sell them in the fall.”

“Oh, I’ve only got tea bags,” she apologized. “Hope that’s okay.”

“It’s all I ever do at home,” I answered truthfully. “Most Americans probably can’t tell the difference.”

She pulled out two mugs, inspected them for cleanliness and took two bags from a canister that I noticed was otherwise nearly empty. I turned away, pretending to admire the stonework on the fireplace, while she put water on to boil and discreetly stacked the dirty dishes that had covered the table.

“So what part of America are you from?” she asked, working to keep a conversation going.