Dressed to Kilt (21 page)

Leith Cameron rose and came forward to greet me while Archie returned to a chair next to his wife, Florence. “What are you doing here?” I asked Leith quietly as he led me to a vacant seat to the right of his, the last one at the round table, which was mounded with sandwiches, biscuits, and savories. I counted seven place settings, seven of us for tea.

He leaned close and whispered in my ear. “Same as yerself. Doing Bridie's bidding.”

The next few minutes were taken up with small talk, although no introductions were necessary. We'd been together Saturday evening when Henrietta's body had been discovered facedown in a vat of whisky.

The only one missing was Katie Taylor, and I knew exactly where she was and why she wasn't here. Someone had gotten very close and almost succeeded in killing the young woman. One of these guests might very well be responsible for that attack as well as the one against me.

Going around the table from my right, Bridie reigned
from her position as perfect hostess. Next, a scowling, obviously distressed Patricia Martin. Up in arms about the release of Janet Dougal, no doubt. Gordon Martin sat to his mother's right, his expression neutral. Then Archie and finally his wife with her standard knitted brow.

“Thank you all fer coming on such short notice,” Bridie said to the group. “I suppose everyone has heard about Janet Dougal's disturbing release from custody.” She turned to me. “I'm afraid our tea fer two has grown by leaps and bounds, but it couldn't be helped under the circumstances.” Her eyes darted to Patricia, implying that Henrietta's sister had something to do with this gathering.

“It's a travesty o' justice,” Patricia said. Her anger was palpable. “That woman killed my sister!”

Bridie edged back in, and for the first time, I noticed how powerfully she commanded a room in spite of her slight form. “We . . . or rather Patricia . . . thought if we all got together, meaning those of us who were at the tasting that night, maybe we could work on a solution that puts Janet back in jail.”

“Where she belongs,” Gordon said, loyal to his mother.

“I'd like to know why that menace is running loose,” Patricia said, addressing me.

“I'm no longer part of the investigation,” I told her, relieved because I wasn't sure what Patricia would have done to me if I'd been responsible for the present situation. I wasn't about to recite the rules of law to her, either. She'd simply dismiss them as another example of foolish bureaucracy, on par with special constables.

“Janet Dougal was also at the tasting,” Gordon pointed out unnecessarily. “She should be here tae explain herself
and offer an explanation fer what happened tae Aunt Henrietta.”

No one mentioned Katie. Good. Let them forget her. She'd been part of the décor for all they noticed her.

Leith gave me a light squeeze at my elbow. When I glanced at him, he winked. The grin on his face was standard Leith, but his eyes were serious. The wink was reassuring, though. He was the only one at the table who I could trust.

“We know what happened, Gordon,” Florence said, taking a finger sandwich from a three-tiered server, an indication to the rest of us to follow suit. “She killed Henrietta. Then had the nerve tae show up at the tasting and act like nothing happened. She's a mental case.”

“And back on the fair streets o' Glenkillen,” Patricia fairly shouted.

“Not on the street, actually.” Archie corrected her. “She's been told tae keep a low profile, tae stay in her suite and out o' trouble. The inspector told me when he rang up my mum this morning with the disturbing news that the woman had been released.”

Of course, Jamieson would have shown that consideration to the involved parties, advised them of his unpopular decision. I wouldn't want his job for all the homegrown tea in Scotland.

I studied the tiered server closest to me and selected an egg and cress finger sandwich, with a future eye on a smoked salmon, lemon, and dill for my second.

“Delicious,” I told Bridie. “Who made all these wonderful treats?”

“Florence gets all the credit.”

I gave Florence an appreciative nod. Her scowl only deepened, and I wondered if she ever smiled and if she was still holding a grudge against me for our exchange of words early on.

I'd been alert to the group dynamics from the start in case anyone said anything that might be useful. This was the perfect opportunity to listen and learn. I went over the cast in my head. Archie and Florence were now free from Henrietta's claim to remain on the estate for the long term. They gained by her death. Patricia, Gordon, and Bridie didn't have any obvious rewards based on her death, nothing that I could determine anyway. Patricia and Gordon had lost a family member and Bridie had been deprived of a longtime companion. But images can be deceiving.

I reviewed what I'd learned about Patricia from Katie's research. She'd had a difficult young adulthood, a poor home life, but she'd persevered and had a lot to show for her efforts—a son who seemed to be doing well for himself at the distillery, a husband with a successful career, a good life from what I could tell.

“I'm in the same inn as that murderess!” Patricia went on, and I felt another pang of sympathy for the inspector and the characters in this case he'd had to deal with. “Forced by the local authorities to stay in Glenkillen with a killer free to kill again. I should be allowed to return to Edinburgh. I could be next!”

“I doubt that Janet Dougal is some kind o' serial killer,” Leith said, speaking up for the first time. “And our local authorities are the best in all o' Scotland. The inspector wouldn'ta released her without sufficient reason tae do so.”

“Good God, man”—this from Archie—“ye aren't suggesting that one o' us knocked her off?”

“That's a cold way of describing it,” Patricia said to him.

“I'm not suggesting that at all,” Leith said, “I'm tryin' tae say that the inspector knows what he's about.”

“Janet Dougal is obviously unhinged,” Bridie said. “She's off her head. We've all seen examples of very bad behavior. Before we start off accusing each other, I believe with my whole heart that Janet Dougal killed our dear Henrietta. And Inspector Jamieson had tae let her go because he doesn't have enough evidence tae charge her, is my guess. So . . . how are we goin' tae help the inspector prove it?”

The table went silent as we ate, sipped, and thought.

“Someone called in an anonymous tip,” I said. “Somebody saw Janet leave the inn late Saturday afternoon.”

Everyone turned and stared at me. That comment hadn't been a slip on my part. I intended to give the conversation a lively boost. I no longer had an obligation to secrecy, although I'd never do anything to jeopardize the case.

“She was seen coming here?” Bridie asked. “While I was having my hair done?”

“Around then, yes,” I said. “But the caller didn't mention her destination, only that she'd been out and about.”

“Who saw her leave the inn?” Archie said, looking around the table. “It musta been one o' us since no one else in the village knows her. If one o' ye saw her, what direction had she taken?”

No one said anything for a minute. Then Leith said, “I didn't know who she was until the tasting when we were
introduced. And I'm guessing the same goes fer most o' the rest o' us.”

“That's right,” Bridie agreed. “She just appeared at the tasting room door. Who of us had been introduced to her before then? Did any o' you know who she was? Well, the person who tipped off the cops knew her, or else how would they have been able to recognize her?”

Gordon and Patricia exchanged glances and held them long enough that I picked up on the interchange. When Gordon looked away, he saw me watching and gave me a polite smile.

“There's still the issue of how Janet knew about the tasting,” I added. “One of us
must
have told her.”

Again, no one offered up an explanation. I was disappointed and really wanted to go on to tell them the rest—that Janet claimed Henrietta invited her out before the tasting, then was turned away by the very woman who had extended the invitation. But I couldn't break that confidence. Besides, the only other person who could vouch for or deny that statement was dead.

I asked Bridie, delicately rather than boldly, “You didn't ask Janet out to the house prior to the tasting, did you?”

“I wouldn't think o' it. First off, she was pushy and demanding when she phoned, and secondly, I was preoccupied with the details o' the tasting. So was Henrietta. Neither o' us wanted her underfoot.”

“Henrietta didn't invite her to the house or to the tasting?”

“A resounding no! Henrietta held her in less regard than I do!”

That passionate outburst brought a few more minutes
of silence to the table. We focused on our tea and sandwiches. I helped myself to a toffee cupcake.

I had fresh doubts about Janet's guilt. What if Janet Dougal had been telling the truth about her final confrontation with the dead woman? It may have actually happened the way she explained. She might have had a call from someone impersonating Henrietta with the intention of sending her speeding off to the estate. That someone could have been the killer, setting Janet up to take the rap.

If true, that meant a clever murderer, sly and calculating.

My eyes wandered the room. No beam of light from above shone expressly on any one particular person. Except maybe Leith, who radiated his own source of heat. Our eyes met and he gave me that lopsided grin of his.

“I ought tae take matters into my own hands,” Patricia said. “And wring the truth out of her.”

“Ye need tae calm down, Mum,” Gordon told her. “And focus on carrying out Aunt Henrietta's last wishes instead.” His eyes swept over us as he explained. “My aunt had very specific ideas regarding her ashes.”

“Ye aren't dumping them here, are ye?” Archie said. “Ye aren't scattering them at the distillery? I dislike the idea o' people's ashes thrown willy-nilly.”

“Only a little in the gardens,” Patricia said. “Bridie doesn't have a problem with that.”

“It's only fitting,” Bridie said. “Ye wouldn't think it now that winter is upon us, but the gardens are lovely and Henrietta spent hours sittin' out there.”

The party broke up soon after that. Everyone departing, subdued compared to earlier. Besides the sadness of the
subject matter, I guessed that everyone was stuffed to the gills and needed naps. I knew I did. But I hung around. So did Leith.

“I'd like a private word with Eden, young man,” Bridie said. “Ye can wait outside fer her, if ye wish. It won't be long.”

“I'm on my way tae get my daughter fer a few days away,” he said, his Scot blues trained on me. “Ye take care o' yerself.”

When he was gone, I withdrew the sketch from my purse, unfolded it, and handed it to Bridie.

She studied it at length, wiped her eyes several times, and said, “It brings back memories, it does. It's a mighty crest, one o' great honor. Ye should be proud tae carry the Elliott name.”

Proud? I hadn't considered anything honorable about my name. Having Bridie feel it was special was something I hadn't considered. At least my grandfather had lived up to her larger-than-life image of what a gentleman should be. “Do you recognize this?”

“I've never seen this particular sketch before. But I have a warm place in my heart fer the Elliott crest and motto, and I'd do anythin' tae make you see it the same way. If only ye'd soften yer heart.”

“You loved my grandfather, didn't you?”

“More than life itself,” she said with wet eyes. “But it was a long time ago and not meant tae be. We went separate ways and never connected in a way I'd hoped we would. He was a special man.”

She slowly folded it along the worn crease, halving it.

Her eyes widened in surprise.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

“‘Princess Hen.' I know that term o' endearment. Yer da used it when he was visiting with his new bride. He used it often. He called yer mum Princess Hen.”

“Are you saying my father drew this?”

“Aye, who else could have?”

This sketch was a link between the two that I had been looking for, but not the one I'd expected.

“But it would have been intended for my mother. So what was it doing in a notebook belonging to Henrietta McCloud?”

Bridie and I looked at each other.

Neither of us had an answer.

It was late in the afternoon, a little after six o'clock. Evening's twilight had arrived hours ago, along with a steady drop in the temperature that caused me to reach quickly for the car's heater control and turn it up as far as it would go. By the time I drove away from the distillery, I felt weary and ready to relax in front of a warm fire with Snookie. But instead of turning toward the cottage, I resisted the urge to indulge in creature comforts and headed for Glenkillen.

The teatime gathering hadn't produced much new information, but old questions had been raised, and they were foremost in my mind. Until I resolved them, or at least began the process of inquiry, starting the ball in motion, I wouldn't be able to unwind.

I parked and entered the Whistling Inn only to discover that Janet Dougal wasn't in her room.

“She was told tae stay put,” Jeanie griped with a sour expression, nervously fingering a hoop ring on one of a
multitude of ear piercings. “I suppose I have tae inform the inspector. He won't like it one bit.”

All tiredness vanished at this new development and I felt a surge of adrenaline. “She skipped town?” I was ready to run her down myself if need be.

“No, no, nothin' as bonnie as that. Herself is over at the pub.”

“I'll apprise the inspector,” I said, already turning away to pursue Janet before realizing that he and I were no longer a team. Our friendship had suffered during this investigation, and I wasn't sure that we could find our way back to what we'd once had, especially considering the limited time before I left. The inspector had been cold and detached when we'd spoken earlier, without a hint of the camaraderie we'd once shared.

I went back to the car, hauled my laptop out, and slung the computer bag over my shoulder as a pretense for my presence at the Kilt & Thistle. Not exactly a cover, since I needed the computer to contact Ami, if for no other reason than to make arrangements for my first week back in Chicago. I'd need a place to stay while I regrouped and planned the next phase of my life. Even though I'd originally needed a break from her, the reality was that I needed her now more than ever.

Thankfully, the pub was lively, more so than when I usually hung out here during the day. Entering gave my mood an upbeat swing that matched the atmosphere of the place. There were plenty of customers, and a musical duo—one on the fiddle, one on guitar—entertaining the pub's patrons with some fine traditional folk music. After I
ordered a pint at the bar, one song ended and another started up, a song I recognized, “Annie Laurie.” I sang along with what seemed like the entire pub. We raised our voices. “Her voice is low and sweet and she's all the world to me / And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doon and dee.”

This was one gathering place I'd really miss, my home away from home. Where else would a roomful of customers join together and sing like this?

I sipped the ale, my eyes sliding over the patrons until I spotted Janet sitting alone at a table far from the musicians, with her own pint in front of her. That seemed strange to me. I'd never have pegged the American woman as a beer drinker. To me, beer lovers are easygoing, happy sorts who go with the flow. Janet didn't fit with that image.

“I suppose you are going to haul me back to that wretched inn,” she said, a bit loud and aggressive when I walked over. This wasn't her first pint. “You can't expect me to stay in my room day and night, eating the same food over and over. And that proprietor! I swear she isn't even trying to make those meals tasty. But what can you expect from the Scotch. Anyway, it's a free country last I checked and I have a right to be here. If you try to arrest me, I will demand to place a call to an attorney.”

So she didn't realize I was an ordinary citizen, that my rank had been pulled and I didn't have any authority over her. I decided not to enlighten her and to take full advantage of her inebriation.

“Would you like a dram of whisky with that?” I asked, thinking that Janet spouted off about her rights every time I ran into her. It must be rough when the whole world is against you. “Beer and whisky go together well.”

Janet shook her head, and it bobbed a bit loosely. “I never want to see another glass of whisky in this lifetime. I never should have gone to that tasting. Look where it's landed me.”

I sat down without being invited.

“It will turn out okay,” I reassured her in a best-friend voice. “The inspector released you. That means he has his doubts. The important thing for you to do is to help us catch the real killer.”

“I told that inspector all that I know.” She looked directly at me with slightly vacant eyes. “I told you, too. You were there.”

“Yes, I was. You admitted to driving out to Bridie's home after Henrietta invited you.”

“She did! I didn't make that up.”

“And when you arrived, she turned you away.”

“That's right.”

“Let's back up a little and work this out.”

“It isn't going to help. I already did that.”

“Perhaps you'll remember something more,” I said, sounding just like some character on a cop show. “Tell me how you originally found out about the tasting.”

Janet's eyes rolled up in thought. I sipped my ale and waited.

“Friday,” she announced. “There were two Scotches sitting next to me in the inn's dining room. At first I couldn't understand a word they were saying. You know how they mangle the English language.”

I let her outrageous comment slide. And I'd already tried to correct her on several other counts with no luck whatsoever.
They aren't Scotch
, I wanted to say,
they're Scots
. But
apparently Janet wasn't going to learn what she didn't want to learn.

“Go on,” I said, gritting my teeth and attempting to appear pleasant. “Did you recognize them?”

“Not then, but certainly at the tasting. It was that sister and her son.”

“Patricia Martin and Gordon?” Neither of them had offered this information when I'd asked the group directly how Janet Dougal had found out about the tasting. But perhaps they hadn't been aware that she was eavesdropping. And on Friday, they wouldn't have met her yet. She would have been just one more diner.

“They were talking about this whisky tasting out at the distillery,” Janet continued. “Hosted by Bridie Dougal. That's when my ears perked up, when I heard her name. And the man said something about Saturday night, and that it was a small intimate group, and that he'd meet her in the reception area a little before seven o'clock and drive her out to the distillery.”

That was an easy explanation. Simple. Direct.

“So you decided to join them.”

“Not at first. I was put out that Bridie hadn't included me, but that wasn't my initial plan. It was only after the fiasco with that woman, that housekeeper. She'd been cruel, asking me out and then slamming the door in my face. I drove back to the inn, changed my clothes, and demanded a ride when Gordon arrived. Biggest mistake of my life. Oh well, you know what they say about hindsight.” She took a chug of her beer. “Twenty-twenty.”

“So you didn't speak to Gordon and Patricia when they were discussing the tasting?”

“Not him, no, he got up and left. Then I leaned over toward the table and said something about needing a ride and did she think I could ride out with her. And all I got was a sort of glare and right then another woman joined her. It was that housekeeper sister of hers. Course, I didn't know it at the time, having only spoken with her on the phone, but the next day, when she pulled that stunt on me, then I connected that face to the same one from the night before.”

“Henrietta was in the dining room?” I racked my brain and dredged up a little of the conversation I'd had with Patricia when we were establishing timelines. She'd stated that the last time she'd seen her sister alive had been Friday. That fit with what Janet was telling me. But Patricia had still withheld information that I'd asked for a few hours earlier. I wondered why and if the glances exchanged by Patricia and Gordon had anything to do with it.

“The same. Those two put their heads together like I didn't even exist, so I went back to minding my own business, as much as I could.”

“You told all this to the inspector?”

“Ad nauseam. A zillion times.” I heard neediness in her tone as she continued. “And a few more wouldn't hurt. Do you ever see him with a woman? Does he date?”

“We need to focus.” Janet was the victim of unrequited love, something that doesn't enter into my romantic stories. Nothing is one-sided about those relationships even though it might seem that way at the beginning. Real life is much more painful, and Janet was suffering. “Back to answering questions regarding the investigation.”

“Don't you and the inspector share information? We already addressed all this.”

“You and I are going over things once again with fresh eyes,” I told her, the assumption being that the inspector and I in fact collaborated on all aspects of the case. At least my eyes were fresh. Hers were glazed. “Did you overhear any of the conversation between the two sisters?”

Instead of answering, she held up her empty glass. “Bartender,” she shouted out during a brief pause in the music. Her glass was quickly replaced with a full one. I was nursing mine. Not that Janet noticed or cared or offered to buy me one.

“Did you hear any more of the conversation?” I repeated.

“Those two sisters lowered their voices. The one who died the next day was facing my table. I didn't hear much, but that housekeeper was upset, I could tell, blubbering and wiping her eyes and shaking her head as though she disagreed with what the other one was saying. She might have been refusing whatever the other one wanted, or something like that. Pretty soon, the one staying at the inn stood up and said they'd discuss this further and the other wasn't to do anything until she said so.”

“Is there more?” I asked when Janet didn't continue. “Anything else?”

She thought a minute and said, “No, but those two are like two peas in a pod. Both nasty, if you want my opinion.”

And that was pretty much all Janet had to offer. She quickly finished the next pint and teetered out the door. I powered up my laptop, settling in to enjoy the music, and found an e-mail from Ami.

“Don't be angry with me,” she wrote. “I'll explain my reasoning, but I want to do it in person. What time should I pick you up at O'Hare? And I insist that you spend the
holiday with me. Wait until you see the decorations in downtown Chicago! And we'll shop and wine and dine. Have you gone to Applefary yet? Hope all worked out well. Love and kisses, Ami.”

Suddenly, I felt warm and cozy and loved. All the annoyance with her that I'd experienced earlier drained away with the last swallow of the pint of ale. I shot back an e-mail with my arrival time and went on to return her loving sentiments before telling her I was going to Tainwick to the grave site first thing tomorrow.

After that I headed for my cottage, parked the Peugeot in the barn, and popped in to check on Vicki before calling it a night.

She was on the sofa, propped up with a pillow, with her laptop on another pillow.

“You look better,” I told her.

“And I feel a little better.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Yes, Sean made chicken soup.”

“Where is he?”

“Off doing cop stuff,” she said vaguely. “I'm loving these ancestry sites I'm finding online.”

I laughed. “You're obsessed.”

“It's addictive,” she agreed. “Still no leads on Dennis Elliott, though. Unless he's changed his name, which I sort of doubt.”

“I hadn't thought of that.”

Would he have gone to that extent to disappear? He wasn't wanted for any crimes, at least none we knew about. Why else would a man with a richly historic Scottish name change it? I agreed with Vicki. It was unlikely.

“We need more information,” Vicki added, “and I'm not going to find it online. I've exhausted those resources.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Your grandfather's gravesite might hold some clues. Lots of the older gravestones are like memorials. Sometimes they mention relatives and friends who aren't even dead and buried at the time.”

“His grave isn't
that
old. He died in the nineteen eighties.”

“If that doesn't pan out, we can visit the Tainwick library. It has a local history section. If nothing else, we might find out where some of your current relatives live and contact them.”

“Bridie seems to know a little. She offered to help.”

“The more, the merrier. When should we make the trip?”

“When you're up to it. In a day or two?”

“Okay.”

I left it at that, intentionally dangling the loose ends. And then I went home to the cottage to the soft welcoming meows of Snookie, with her cute little folded ears and her reassuring purr.