Dressed to Kilt (11 page)

Sometimes a reply to an e-mail to her comes zooming right back at me. Ami is addicted to her computer and the Internet, especially to social media, spending many hours every day writing her historical romances on her home computer and then communicating with her fans.

This time, though, all was silent.

I could have really used a word or two of comfort from my friend.

Where was she when I needed her?

Leith Cameron found me, still at the same pub table, staring at my laptop, hoping for a new message in my inbox. While I waited, my mind had been processing all the information I'd learned regarding Henrietta's murder, with special attention to the lack of alibis and newly discovered possibilities for motives within the Dougal family.

“I thought I'd find ye here,” he said, giving me a crooked, boyish grin as he slid into the chair closest to me. “I had tae leave Kelly in the Land Rover, so we have tae be double-quick, or she'll complain aboot the cold.”

I returned his smile. “Double-quick?”

“I've come tae collect you. Tae offer my special brand o' service.”

I arched a brow. “Are you propositioning me?” I teased. Our relationship has been casual and prone to a friendly innuendo now and then, such as the one I sent zinging his way now. This handsome man could make me smile in the most trying of times.

“Aye,” he said, grinning widely. Then he explained. “I'm offerin' tae be yer bodyguard fer a private viewing o' the warehouse. I thought ye might be interested, considering yer lofty status as one o' our finest crime fighters.”

“That's a stretch,” I said with a laugh. But was I interested? Absolutely. “I'm not sure that's possible until the inspector—”

“He approved my suggestion not more than half an hour ago. I was over at the distillery, payin' my respects tae Gordon Martin, when the inspector came by.”

The inspector must have finished searching for clues. There wouldn't be anything left to find, because Jamieson was thorough, but I still wanted to see it from the vantage point of an observer rather than as the unwilling participant I'd been during the discovery of the body. “Yes, I want to see it.”

“Mind ye, it won't be a social event, considerin' the circumstances. A tour o' the distillery can be set up fer a later date when this is behind us. But Gordon is willing tae share a wee bit o' his own opinion as tae how it mighta happened.”

“He's already spoken with Jamieson about these opinions of his, right?” No way was I going to step on my boss's toes.

“O' course. But ye never know. It might be helpful tae have ye do a walk through as well.”

I quickly gathered my belongings, bundled up in my quilted coat, and followed Leith to his vehicle, where the border collie was patiently waiting in the backseat. As soon as she spotted me, she stood up and began to wag her tail.
We reunited after I slid into the front seat, with plenty of hugs, pats, and licks.

“I told ye a porkie,” Leith said, after he'd gotten in behind the wheel. “Kelly likes this sort o' weather just fine. She's got a thick winter coat and doesn't mind nearly as much as we do.”

“I'm used to you stretching the truth.”

He grinned and started the Land Rover, and we pulled away from the village center. A few minutes later we parked in the distillery's lot; reassured Kelly that we wouldn't be long, though she didn't seem concerned about waiting in the SUV; and walked into the tasting room, where we found Gordon Martin.

“I'm so sorry for your loss,” I told him, all the emotions of the previous evening washing over me.

He nodded solemnly and said, “Anything I can do to help find my aunt's killer, I'll do, starting with my own theory and how I think the manner o' her death mighta come about.”

We walked through the warehouse to the back and paused next to the tub where we'd discovered Henrietta's body. I vividly recalled those first moments when I'd tried to pull the body out.

“The final stage in the process o' maturing whisky takes place in this room,” Gordon explained, giving me some background. “Tae be considered whisky, the casks must remain sealed fer a minimum o' three years, but many lie aging in the wood fer eight, ten, twelve, even as long as fifteen years, during which time a small amount evaporates.”

Leith piped up. “Which is called the angel's share.”

“I like that,” I said.

Gordon continued, and I noticed his face was drawn with grief and exhaustion. “Our objective is tae produce consistent flavors each time. That's my most important job.”

“Consistency is an art form,” Leith added. “And Gordon is the best.”

Gordon flushed at the compliment but plowed on without acknowledging his own expertise. “A distinctive flavor and bouquet is attributed tae the essential oils in the barley and a pure source o' water, along with the origin o' the casks. Even our climate influences the flavor. I play only a small part in the final product.”

“I know that the source of your casks is a business secret,” I said, “but are they made specially for you?”

Gordon shook his head. “Ours are shipped from a bourbon producer in the States. Casks can only be used once for bourbon, but they can be used over again fer our whisky. So the bourbon producer is happy and we are happy tae take the casks.”

While I found everything I'd just learning fascinating, and wished I'd taken time for a tour earlier in my Highland visit, the murder was foremost in my mind. I eyed the tub where Henrietta had drowned and said, “Tell me, Gordon, what do you think went on here prior to your aunt's death?”

“Someone pulled the empty washback over to this cask,” Gordon said, and then I remembered that he'd called it that last night. Washback. He'd said something about it being a vat used to ferment whisky prior to maturing. This one was made of wood, still filled almost to the brim with whisky as it had been when we discovered it last night.

“Do you mind?” I asked. Without waiting for his reply, I
walked over to one of the empty ones and gave it a push. It didn't budge. Then I tugged at it instead, pulling it toward me. Step by step, I managed to drag it a bit at a time. A few inches more, having my answer, I stopped.

“Heavy,” I announced. “But I could have moved it over underneath the cask if I'd been determined.”

Gordon selected a wooden hammer from a nearby shelf. “This isn't the exact one used to open this particular cask,” he said. “I brought it along for demonstration purposes. The mallets in this room were taken away by the police fer examination.”

He went on to point out what he referred to as a keystone near the rim of the cask. “That area is thin enough tae punch out with this mallet once we want tae tap it fer the whisky inside.” He showed us what was certain to have taken place prior to Henrietta's murder. “The washback was placed there, just so, then the hole was punched, and the whisky allowed tae pour out intae the washback.”

“Wouldn't someone who worked here have noticed that sort of activity?” I asked. “It had to have been arranged in advance.”

“This warehouse isn't frequented much, other than tae bring in another batch tae age. It has its visitors during tours, but we don't do much in the way o' during the winter months. Sometimes we'll have a private tour, but none recently. Especially not yesterday with the private tasting planned. Someone must have known that and taken advantage o' the opportunity.”

I gazed at the vat filled with whisky.

“This was extremely well thought out,” I muttered. “Someone set this up prior to the tasting fully intending
to lure the victim . . .” I paused, realizing whom I was talking with. Henrietta's nephew. Did I really have to go into graphic details?

“Don't try tae spare my feelings,” Gordon said.

“I don't want to cause you any more pain,” I said, not sure that was possible.

“The only way tae relieve what my family and I are going through is with the capture o' the monster who did this tae my aunt. Someone drew her in here, overpowered her, and held her head under until she drowned.”

“She musta been in a weakened state anyway and easy to overcome,” Leith said. “Last I saw her, she had lost a lot o' weight. She was thin as a groat.” Then to me, “It's out and about that she had cancer. I'm not at all surprised. Seeing her waste away, I knew she wasn't well.”

“Gordon,” I said, “think back. Did she say or do anything that might be significant to the investigation? Any change in her mood? Was she more anxious than usual?”

“I've been goin' over and over the days leading up tae her death, askin' meself those same questions.” He gave me a helpless shrug. “But nothin' comes tae mind.”

“She was dying,” I prodded. “How was she handling that news?”

“Aunt Henrietta wasn't a complainer even at times when she had all the reason tae gripe. She kept going on as usual, regardless o' the circumstances. Once we found out about the cancer, my mum tried to convince her tae accompany her back tae Edinburgh where she could be cared fer properly. She refused tae budge.”

“We should all be as determined tae carry on when our time comes,” Leith added. “There's something tae be said
aboot passing on in familiar surroundings, not away from the comfort o' yer own home.”

Then Gordon frowned. “Sometimes she would make a comment or two regarding her past. I think she had regrets.”

“I imagine that's a normal reaction,” Leith said. “We all have things we'd change if given a second chance.”

I glanced at Leith. He'd expressed a truism, one well worth remembering. If I could have a do-over, what sort of man would I choose now that I was older and wiser? One more like myself? Someone prone to introspection and more sensitive to the needs of others? Next time, if there even was a next time, I'd put more value on kindness.

I wondered what Leith would have done differently. He'd produced a daughter but hadn't been able to establish a lasting love relationship with the mother of his child. Based on his devotion to Fia, she definitely wasn't one of his regrets, though.

And what about Henrietta McCloud? Did she regret her choices? Apparently so.

“What did she say that made you think she regretted past actions?” I asked Gordon.

“A few weeks ago we had lunch together. She got a faraway look in her eyes and looked about tae cry. When I asked her what was the matter, she wiped her eyes and said something tae the effect of, ‘If only I'd been a better person. I dinnae deserve tae have a happy life filled with bairns like I'd always dreamed o'. I don't even deserve tae have a nephew like yerself, Gordon, ye're like a son tae me, and every day I give thanks fer havin' ye in my life.'”

I didn't find her ruminations particularly unusual. My mother, when dying, had uttered similar sentiments. “If
onlys” and “why hadn't Is” are probably very common when one is facing the end of life. But my mother had let go of unresolved issues from her past and accepted what was. Henrietta hadn't had the chance for that reconciliation. She'd been robbed of that possibility, not by an inner malignancy but by an external one.

“Then last week,” Gordon continued, “I heard her mumbling something about setting things right, and it seemed like whatever decision she made had lifted a heavy weight from her shoulders. She wasn't exactly happy, but I thought she'd come tae terms with her lot.”

“Any idea what she meant by setting things right?”

“None. I asked what that was all aboot, but she said tae never mind.”

I continued to question Gordon about his aunt while Leith listened patiently. As far as her nephew knew, Henrietta minded her own business, attended church regularly, didn't gossip, and took care of Bridie's needs with loyalty and dedication. When I asked him how she got on with Archie and Florence Dougal, who were the only ones at the moment with legitimate motives, Gordon responded that their relationships remained courteous from the beginning until the end, if not exactly warm.

“They appreciated her attention tae Archie's mum,” he said. “No one could fault her fer her care o' Bridie, that was fer sure.”

“Your aunt came to live with Bridie when she was a young woman,” I said. “I would have thought she and Archie would have developed an affection over the years. ‘Courteous' seems an odd way to describe their relationship.”

“I was thinkin' more o' his wife,” Gordon said. “A cold
fish, that one. From the first time Archie brought her home tae meet his mum, Florence didn't warm tae Aunt Henrietta. But then she hasn't warmed much tae me, either.”

Gordon's observation was the first concrete evidence I had that Archie's wife had an issue with the dead woman prior to the discovery that Bridie had revised her will. If Florence hadn't liked Henrietta from the very beginning, how would that have changed once Florence found out about Henrietta continuing to live in the house once Bridie was gone? It wouldn't have gone over well at all.

I rearranged the suspect list in my head, moving Florence Dougal ahead of her husband. Florence was about my height and carrying a bit more weight. If I could pull a heavy wooden tub across a warehouse floor, so could she. And she certainly knew her way around the distillery.