Dressed to Kilt (22 page)

Today was Thursday, December 13.

My flight was scheduled to depart from Inverness on the 22nd with a layover in London, then on to Chicago. Only nine full days left in the Scottish Highlands. In the village of Glenkillen. At the MacBride farm. In my cottage.

Six months ago I couldn't imagine coming here. I remembered vividly, as though it were only yesterday. Ami had to accompany me to the airport to make sure I boarded. This morning, I couldn't imagine ever leaving. Vicki might have to shove me on the return flight.

I'd seriously considered an option—going back and forth, living in Chicago and visiting as often as I could. But I know one thing about myself, at least. I needed to establish a home and get involved in a community. I have every intention of visiting Glenkillen again someday, but what I really wanted was to make my permanent home in these beautiful highlands. It was an impossible dream.

With the bed comforter pulled up around my ears and
Snookie practically wrapped around my head like a fur headpiece, I thought about the possibility of a future alone. Men brought complexity and risk to one's life, even in the alternate world of Rosehearty, Scotland, where my Highlands Desire Series takes place.

There, the men are always strong, rugged, competent, hardworking, pretty much perfect, except they are also damaged by past relationships. Either they've sworn off love because they don't believe in it, or they've lost true love and have given up on ever finding it again.

In my stories, the hero and heroine initially work at cross-purposes, butting heads before falling in love.

In the real world, Leith Cameron has been my inspiration for both Jack Ross and Daniel Ross, each brother appearing in his own story—Jack in
Falling for You
and Daniel in my current work in progress,
Hooked on You
.

But Leith doesn't appear to be damaged by anything. He did have a daughter out of wedlock without marrying Fia's mom, and being a single parent must be hard. But in general, he's easygoing. Lately, I've been suspecting that “easy come, easy go” is his real attitude toward life and women. He's committed to raising his daughter and I respect him for that, but if he has a serious side other than when he's parenting, he hides it well.

And as for the two of us butting heads, I couldn't think of a single example. And even though I think he is one of the sexiest men in all of Scotland, my heart doesn't pound when he is near.

What about the inspector? Immediately the rational part of my brain snorted. He was twenty years older, practically old enough to be my father. A widower, who cared
for his wife until the end. Jamieson still wears his wedding ring, an indication that he keeps commitments until death and beyond.

While Leith is outgoing, the inspector is introverted, like me. There's nothing shy about him, though. He just values his privacy. That got me thinking about the home he has somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, a cabin of sorts, according to Vicki. I'd never been invited out and probably never would be.

Talk about butting heads! We've done some of that lately.

Before I could pursue that line of thought any further, someone rapped on the cottage door. I grabbed a robe and opened the door to find Sean standing outside.

“I'm not comin' in,” he reported when I extended the invitation. “This is me seein' ye in the flesh so I can report that ye're in me sight.”

I grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. “It's freezing out there,” I said, closing the door. “And I have a few questions for you.”

Sean moaned. “Ye're gettin' me in deeper and deeper. Can't ye just leave me alone?”

“This one is easy. I haven't heard anything more about that threatening note. I know that Bridie's grandson sent it and that he's come clean, but has there been any subsequent follow-up?”

“I don't know wha' ye mean.”

“Has he been cleared as a suspect in Henrietta's murder?”

“Aye, the lad caused a wee bit o' mischief and the inspector investigated him further. He had nothin' tae do with the murder.”

“What about Florence?” Which was the real question I'd been leading up to but in a roundabout way so Sean's suspicions wouldn't be aroused. “And Archie Dougal?”

“And I suppose ye want all the details on Gordon and Patricia Martin and Bridie herself and the rubbish collector and . . .”

“Any and all,” I agreed, seeing the first signs of resistance in Sean's set expression.

“I'm done with bein' blackmailed by the likes o' yerself,” he said.

I studied him, searching for a break in his confidence, a way to slip in and gain a firm hold. Then with growing horror I realized I'd been as manipulative with Sean as I'd been accusing others of being with me.

“Okay,” I said, taking the first step to correcting my unacceptable behavior.

“O . . . kay?” There was the crack, widening, large enough to squeeze through. I left it alone.

“I apologize for pressuring you,” I told him.

Sean's look went blank while he absorbed this strange turn, and then he grinned. “It's all right. You and me, we go back a bit. A little clash now and again is normal.”

“Okay, great, how's Vicki?”

“Still not back tae her old self. Another day will see her better. I hear ye're havin' a hen party when she recovers, goin' on a visit tae yer ancestors. What are yer plans fer today, if I might be so bold as tae ask?”

“Oh, I don't know,” I said, knowing exactly, thinking the quiet side of my personality needed space today to reenergize, and the only way to get it was through misdirection.
“I'll probably go into Glenkillen and write at the pub for most of the day.”

“I can't see ye getting into any sort o' trouble there. Ye'll be on alert, though, won't ye?”

“Of course.”

“If ye get it intae yer head tae go further afield, ye'll let me know? I'll go with ye or tag along in me own rattletrap.” Sean glanced out the window, up at the gray sky. “On second thought, there's a storm brewin' and it would be best fer ye tae stay within easy drivin'.”

“I'll stay put,” I said, opening the door and shooing him out, thinking,
So what if a storm is on the way? More snow? What else is new?

A short time later I pulled out from the lane onto the main road. I'd packed what I anticipated needing for the day—a freshly charged phone and laptop, water bottle, extra outerwear in case of a breakdown, and the map of the Highlands. The route to Tainwick wasn't complicated, a direct shot to Loch Ness and then due north. Applefary was even farther north than Tainwick, and I'd go there if time allowed. Otherwise, I'd save that village for another trip in a few days with Vicki when I retraced these steps for her benefit.

And with her history-gathering expertise.

Remembering that, I decided that the library historical section could wait as well. Vicki would enjoy combing through the files, searching for genealogical tidbits. While I reveled in researching topics myself, I couldn't take the fun away from my friend. She'd be upset enough if she learned I'd left her behind today.

Morning's first light was a spectacular visual display.
Clouds hung low and red over snow-covered hills and frost-coated trees, and as I approached Loch Ness, the colors reflected brilliantly on the icy lake. When I turned due north, a wild deer stood out on the side of a glen watching me.

I took it all in until twenty-some kilometers outside Tainwick, when my mind turned back to Henrietta McCloud's murder. I attempted to find new angles, fresh perspectives, starting not from the very beginning but after her death. When she'd wanted to speak with me after the tasting. At first I'd assumed she intended to pinpoint the note writer, to send me off to handle this person who had threatened Bridie. Then after I'd learned of Henrietta's link to my father, I'd figured that she wanted to share information about him with me, or that she was seeking word of him.

Henrietta was a dying woman, even before her unexpected murder, after her diagnosis and prognosis. She'd talked to Gordon about regrets, about setting things right. What if she'd wanted to tell me something before it was too late? What if she'd been killed because of what she intended to reveal to me Saturday night?

Setting things right.
Weren't those the words Gordon had used, implying that she was going to make amends? There was a distinct difference between making amends and offering apologies. Amends were much more complex than apologies; their intent was to restore justice, to set right a wrong. Amends were more active than apologies.

Henrietta gave those who knew her the impression that she was in denial over her deadly disease, but she'd expressed regrets to her nephew and she'd made some provisions for her imminent death by leaving written instructions regarding her ashes. Was I one of her pieces of unfinished business?

But Henrietta never did anything to me personally. Had she hurt my father in some horrible way that she'd lived to regret? From Katie's account,
he
had been the one doing the hurting. What could she possibly have done to him that she needed to set right?

I felt a growing sense of inexplicable unease and tried to shake it off as I approached the outskirts of Tainwick. But it stuck with me. I turned my thoughts elsewhere.

An online search had informed me that the Tainwick parish churchyard had originally been in the center of the village but had filled up with no room for expansion in the latter part of the nineteenth century. A public cemetery had been created south of Tainwick at the turn of the twentieth century. Since my grandfather had passed away in the early 1980s, that was where I would find his grave.

When I realized that I didn't have an exact location for his site, I considered driving on past the cemetery to the village library. But it was still early morning; not much would be open, certainly not the library. And I wasn't sure that the genealogy section could even supply specific gravesite information. Besides, how large could the cemetery be?

The Tainwick Cemetery signage was large enough that I didn't miss it. I followed the arrow, turning off and driving down a narrow road that had been recently cleared of snow. I pulled into a car lot. Mine was the only vehicle there at this time of the morning.

I placed a call to Bridie, mildly surprised that it went through from this remote location.

“You mentioned that my father and mother visited you right after they were married.”

“Aye, Dennis was showin' off his new bride.”

“Was Henrietta living with you at the time?”

“She was, but . . . let me think . . . something came up with her family and she went tae Edinburgh.”

“That's an excellent memory you have. So Henrietta didn't meet them?”

“Ye can't take away an old woman's memories. The past is clearer than the present when ye get tae my age. I believe Gordon was ill and she went off, and I remember because I wanted everything tae be shiny fer the visit and had tae rely on a local girl. As I recall, she didn't meet yer parents.”

“You also said that you and my mother exchanged letters.”

“A few here and there.”

“Did you receive any from her after my grandfather's funeral, once my father left us?”

“No. And it's a shame. Yer mother was a lovely woman.”

After disconnecting I sat for a moment thinking about the letters my mother had written to Scotland in search of information regarding my father. She'd told me about them and that they'd gone unanswered. Who else might she have written to? I didn't know.

My thoughts shifted to plotlines and my frustrating inability to create a full-blown outline before beginning to write a new story. Some writers can do that. They can see the big picture before ever putting pen to paper. Mine have to grow organically, each scene playing off the last. Sometimes I feel like I'm just along for the ride and am as surprised as my characters at the turn of events.

So it wasn't surprising that I'd go at this murder plot in the same fashion. By the seat of my pants.

A bit of information here, something that appears entirely unrelated there.

In a flash, I decided that Archie and Florence probably hadn't had anything to do with Henrietta's murder. They had the best motive, and they'd been “skating on thin ice” ever since that threatening note, even when it turned out to be a prank. But having a motive and actually committing murder were two very different things.

I didn't know enough about Gordon Martin to make that same declaration, but he'd been honest about his aunt's wistful expressions and there wasn't anything false about his pain when he and I discovered his aunt's body.

Janet Dougal might very well end up with a guilty charge and verdict. But it was hard for me to believe that she'd kill another human being over a slight. The inspector would call me naïve. I'm sure he's seen it all.