Competition Can Be Murder (16 page)

I chewed on one last piece of toast while the rest of them chattered away, hashing and rehashing plans for collecting the money.

At 8:40 Robert and Edward decided it was time to go to the bank. I said I’d wait behind with the ladies. Within fifteen minutes, though, I was beginning to wish I’d gone along on the ride to town. Elizabeth’s constant fretting over Richie’s safety and Sarah’s pacing were driving me nuts. I longed for a crew of police and Scotland Yard agents to be here, tapping phones or dusting for fingerprints, just to be doing something useful.

“I think I’ll take a walk and look around,” I told Sarah, finally. “My phone’s in my pocket if there’s an emergency.” I pointed to it.

Outside, the air was damp. There had been rain during the night and high clouds remained, sealing the area in a cocoon of gray. I went out by way of the main entry and scanned the ground for signs of footprints leading toward or away from it. The graveled area immediately outside the door showed nothing, and the damp grass farther out had been trampled by several sets of feet, my own included as I’d arrived at daybreak.

Down by the parking area, the ground was muddy but, again, too many sets of prints made any type of identification impossible. Then I spotted them—a single set of prints pressed into the wet grass, coming from the orchard.

I picked up the tracks at the edge of the smooth, green lawn. Following them with any precision became impossible because as I stood directly over them they disappeared. It was only from the angle at a distance that I was able to pick them out over the glistening moisture on the grass. I headed toward the orchard.

Under the trees I picked out the occasional clear print where the damp ground was free of grass and leaves. There was no way to identify a pattern to the prints, but I could tell that they were somewhat larger and quite a lot wider than my own size eights. Most likely a man’s print, or a woman wearing heavy boots.

The burned-out crofter’s hut immediately came to mind, since this was the same way I’d taken to it before. If the person leaving the note had hidden there before approaching the castle, this is most likely the way they would have come. Only a few people knew of the existence of the hut—someone in the family or those who worked on the grounds.

That shot down theories of random strangers abducting Richie from Waldo Green’s and spiriting him away to their evil lair. The amount of the ransom demand told me that we weren’t dealing with big-time operators, either. Fifty thousand pounds just wasn’t that much money, especially to anyone who perceived the Campbells or the Dunbars as wealthy.

Ahead stood the blackened stone walls of the crofter’s hut. I paused, wondering briefly whether I should be armed. If someone were hiding inside . . . I listened intently and heard nothing but a few birds twittering in the trees and the occasional drip-drip of water from the leaves.

Paying attention to my own footfalls, I approached the small building cautiously. As I’d expected, it was deserted. There were a few partial footprints on the damp, hard-packed earth. They looked relatively fresh, considering last night’s rain, but the indentions were fairly plain and I certainly couldn’t make out any identifiable tread marks.

I circled the hut, keeping to the grass, finding that the prints went all around the place, inside and out. Could Richie and his friends have made them? I stared toward the castle. I didn’t think so. They’d not been here for nearly forty-eight hours now, and the overnight rains would have surely done away with traces that old. My eyes fell on the forest to the south. The other path . . .

I cut back into the orchard looking for the route I’d taken the other day. At the southern edge of the fruit trees I spotted it. Plenty of dips and disturbances showed in the gravel but nothing that could be called a footprint. I walked it slowly. Under the cover of the tall pines, water dripped from a million needles causing a shower in a microcosm. I hadn’t brought an umbrella and my light jacket certainly wasn’t waterproof, and I was quickly becoming damp. I picked up my pace.

At the gazebo I decided to duck under cover for a minute. I shook some of the water off my hair and sleeves. There, at the foot of one of the concrete benches, lay a cigarette butt. Had it been there before? I was virtually certain it had not. Instinct told me that the police would view any little scrap as possible evidence until proven otherwise, but I didn’t know if it was up to me to decide that. I glanced around the area.

I wished I knew more about the habits of the family. It could be that Robert came out here all the time to sneak a smoke. Richie or his friends certainly could have. But those footprints leading across the wet grass this morning made me think that someone outside the family had been around. Someone who could have also left this tiny bit that might turn out to be an important lead. And what was I supposed to do about it? Pick it up? Leave it? Report it?

In one pocket of my jacket I found a tissue, wadded but clean. I used it to pick up the stump of filter. It was plain white, with a gold-stamped brand name I didn’t recognize. I loosely cradled it into the tissue and put it in my pocket. Depending on how this all turned out, surely it would potentially be more useful by my picking it up than one of the gardeners discarding it. I scanned the gazebo, inside and out, but didn’t see anything else out of place.

Noticing the smaller path, the one that trailed off and eventually came out at the Brodie’s rented place, I wondered if Ian ever came up here to the gazebo for a little relaxation. I found myself looking for footprints as I followed it, but the trail was so rocky that nothing showed. It was a relief from the constant dripping water when I finally looked down into the clearing behind their cottage. Ramona was coming out of the barn, some fifty yards away. I negotiated my way around the rugged hillside boulders until I was on more level ground. She carried a bucket full of nursing bottles and the two lambs and a calf were trailing hopefully behind her. I gave a shout and she looked in my direction. The hungry babies never took their eyes off the bucket.

“Hi, Charlie,” she said. “I was hoping you’d come by.”

“You were?”

“Sure. Things get lonely out here sometimes. Ian’s been gone for two days and I’ve run myself ragged keeping the wee ones fed and the others under control.”

She set the bucket down and handed me two bottles. The lambs switched loyalties in a flash and I had to brace myself as they attacked their breakfast. Ramona held a bottle out to the calf, who flicked its tail in the faces of two puppies who tried to get in on the action too.

“Where’s Ian gone?” I asked.

“Ah, well his father’s taken ill. They’ve put him in hospital in Aberdeen.”

“I hope it’s not serious.”

“Heart attack.” She grabbed up another bottle for the calf and tossed the first one aside. “Here, get some more. They’ll each take two.”

I made the switch, but not as neatly as she had. I ended up with two good-sized smears of lamb slobber on my leg in the process.

“At least he survived it,” Ramona said. “He’ll probably be in hospital a few more days before he can go home. It’s after that we’re uncertain about. He’ll have to slow down, an’ that’s for sure.”

“No doubt. So, that’s left you running everything here.”

“Yeah.” She rolled her blue eyes skyward. “And it’s usually a full time job for two.”

The two lambs had slowed their aggressive sucking and were now wagging their tails contentedly. I watched their little heads bob happily with the ritual of feeding. I didn’t see any tags on their ears. It didn’t seem likely that these were the missing lambs from Dunworthy—after all, I doubted the Brodies would want me this close to stolen merchandise. But a nagging doubt lingered. What if Ian had somehow removed their Dunworthy ID tags and brought them up from the fields with the story for Ramona that their mother had been killed. She probably wouldn’t know any differently.

“I’ve had to suspend the dog shows,” Ramona said. “I can’t put them through the paces the way Ian does. I put a sign down on the gate, let the tourists know we’re off for a few days.”

We gathered the empty bottles and put them back in the bucket.

“What about the other sheep in the pasture?” I asked.

“Oh, they do fine. Eat and sleep. That’s about all sheep do anyway.” She laughed, a sound that was somehow unfamiliar to her normally serious nature. “The dogs go out with em. Especially at night, it’s good to have them guarding for wolves. I’ve got a shotgun in case there was a ruckus, but I don’t know as I’d want to be using it.”

We’d reached the barn now and the puppies were becoming increasingly vocal. “Think you could get them some food, while I run down to the pasture and check on things?” she asked.

Before I could answer, she thrust the dogs’ large, flat feeding pan into my hands. She pulled a small plastic whistle on a cord from the neck of her shirt. Giving two quick bursts with it, she grabbed the attention of three adult dogs who trotted with her toward the pasture.

I carried the puppies’ dish into the barn, where I set the bucket full of empty nursing bottles on a shelf. Seven tiny black and white bodies swarmed around my feet.

“Okay, you guys, now where was that food?”

I remembered the large bins against the wall and fumbled through them until I found the one with the small nuggets. Adding milk, as I’d seen Ramona do, I swirled the mixture and set it down. I couldn’t help but smile as all seven of them crowded around and into the pan.

I glanced around, wondering if there was something else I could be doing to help Ramona. Against one wall of the barn I noticed a large deep-sink, so I carried the used milk bottles to it and ran water over them. There was just a single cold-water tap, but if Ramona wanted them taken into the house for a better cleaning, she could let me know.

A couple of the feed bins stood open, so I closed the lids and stacked some buckets, attempted to tidy the place a bit. The puppies were now wandering away, except for one who still sprawled inside the food pan, licking furiously at the corners, and another who pawed at the edge of the pan, wanting to tip it over and dislodge his smaller brother.

“Okay, you guys are done, I think,” I said. “Let’s pick this up now.”

I’d just reached for the metal dish when a bright fleck of white caught my eye near the wheel of an old wooden wagon that sat jammed into a corner of the big wooden structure. Letting the puppies have their fun a little longer, I walked toward the wagon. The white fleck was a cigarette butt. I knelt down to get a closer look. It looked identical to the one I’d just picked up at the gazebo.

I was pretty sure Ramona didn’t smoke; I’d never smelled it on her. But Ian did. Were these the same brand, and did that mean he’d been out at the Dunbar’s gazebo recently? Why?

I reached for the little stub of filter and picked it up gingerly. I slipped it into my pocket just as the door to the barn opened.

“Well, things look all right out there,” Ramona said. She gave me a questioning look, clearly wondering what I was doing kneeling on the ground near the old wagon.

“This looks like an interesting antique,” I sputtered. “Is it yours?”

“No, it was here in the barn,” she said, still looking at me crossways.

Had she seen me stick my hand in my pocket? I almost got the feeling she’d caught me stealing.

“Oh, look at these guys. They’re all finished,” I said. “I put the other milk bottles in that sink over there. I hope that was the right thing.”

Ramona relaxed a bit. “Yes. Oh, thanks for doing that. Here, I’ll just add the puppy bowl to the stack and I’ll wash them up later.”

She carried the pan to the sink, losing her wariness as she slipped back into doing the familiar.

“Want to come in for tea?” she asked. “I think I’m due a break by now.”

“I’d love to,” I said, “but I really should be getting back. Drake has a mechanic out working on one of the helicopters right now, and he’ll probably be calling me soon to come out and do my share of the flying.”

“Ah, well, then. That must be pretty exciting work.”

“It has its moments,” I had to admit. “Not all of them fun.”

She looked like she was about to say something sympathetic.

“But most of them are. And like you, I enjoy working with my husband.”

“Ian can be . . .” Her voice trailed off and I wondered what she was about to say. Something she decided against, since her face clicked into another mode almost immediately. “But I love him. He’s got big plans, you know. Says we’ll make a lot more money this season. More than we ever have.”

Like ₤50,000 more? Was Ian that angry at the Dunbars? I felt a rock thud to the pit of my stomach.

“Charlie? Are you all right?”

I gave myself a little mental shake and willed the blood to flow back into my lips. “Oh, yeah, fine. You know, that tea does sound good.”

“All right, then.” She led the way toward the cottage. “I get those little mid-morning sinking spells myself. Tea’ll be just the thing.”

I walked behind her, letting her chatter on. A hundred questions raced through my mind. If Ian had indeed kidnapped Richie, where had he taken the boy? Ramona seemed genuine. I couldn’t imagine her being in on it and staying this calm toward me. Surely she wouldn’t be inviting me inside. Unless . . . I made myself stop. Just keep your eyes and ears open, Charlie.