1 Off Kilter (8 page)

“Well, my dear authoress,” Vicki said when we were alone again, “what do you make of all that?”

I shook my head, remembering how much blood had been spilled at the scene of the crime. “Pig’s blood on the floor around the body? I don’t know what to think. Other than that I’m completely confused.” And disgusted.

“Do you think some sort of werewolf thing got Gavin?”

I glanced at Vicki, who looked perfectly serious.

“You’re kidding, right?” I said.

“Not a bit. But instead of being part wolf, his attacker would have been part pig, part human?”

I spotted the hint of a smile on Vicki’s face at the absurdity of this new direction, so I teased her by saying, “What I think is that you lived in California too long.”

“Don’t laugh at me, or I won’t give you any more biscuits.”

I rearranged my face into a more somber expression, because her biscuits were delicious. “There, is this better?”

“Much.” Vicki rose to clear the table, and I pitched in. “I’m sorry to be making light of such a grim situation, but if I don’t, I think I’ll begin crying and never stop.”

I gave her a hug. “I understand perfectly,” I said.

“What are you up to today?”

“I have something to take care of regarding a certain vehicle.”

My first project of the day would be to get over my fear of the rental car.

“I think I’ll stay indoors and tend to my knitting,” Vicki said.

After happily discovering that the clothing inside my luggage still smelled fresh, and even more happily accounting for everything else—passport, cash, bank cards, etc.—I scooped the car keys out of the vase near the door and tackled the issue of the rental car.

Except it wouldn’t start. Wouldn’t even turn over. I tried every gear, every possible combination. Nothing.

Vicki came out and joined me wearing a rain jacket, the hood up over her head. “I called the car hire for you and told them to pick up this sad sack.”

What a friend! I smiled. “Are they bringing me an automatic?”

She shook her head. “Even better. I have one of my da’s cars for you to use, same as I am. No sense wasting your hard-earned money.”

I followed her to the barn, where she threw open the massive doors. There, beside the blue Citroën I’d ridden in last night, stood what I gathered was the offered transportation.

“What is it?” I asked as we moved inside to take shelter from the rain.

“An old Peugeot that’s been here since I was a bairn,” she told me, beaming. “She’s seen much of the land in these parts, I’m guessing. And with the keys in her ignition, all set to go.”

“Automatic?” I said, ever hopeful.

“Afraid not, but you’ll manage.”

“Does it run?” I said, not wishing to appear ungrateful, but hoping it wouldn’t.

“I couldn’t get it to turn over, but that doesn’t mean much. She might just need a battery charge. We’ll soon find out. Leith will be here anytime now to put the tools to her.”

I couldn’t think of a single tactful way out. “I can’t let you do this,” I said weakly. “You’ve already done so much for me. How could I ever repay you?”

She waved me off, ignored my protests, and went back to the house.

After all my determination not to rely on a man for help, here I was waiting for one to help me. And the same one again to boot. Well, when it came to vehicles, I guess I’d just have to accept any help I could get.

A few minutes later, Leith’s Land Rover pulled up next to the barn.

He hopped out, his border collie, Kelly, right behind him. My heart gave a little involuntary flutter, not a reaction I had expected—but neither had I expected to see Leith climb out of his car wearing a kilt. Not the whole formal getup, like I’d seen on the MacBrides at the funeral or on the occasional bagpiper; Leith wore his kilt paired with a black T-shirt and laced-up boots. A manly look I could definitely get used to.

He headed for shelter from the rain and grinned when he came up beside me, then whispered, his mouth close to my ear. “I see ye staring at my kilt, and I bet yer wondering what’s worn under it.”

I felt my face heating up. Were my thoughts that transparent? Because in a flash I
had
recalled Ami’s airport comment about finding out what was under those Scottish kilts.

“Well, are ye?” he pressed.

I shrugged, willing the color in my cheeks to return to normal.

“Nothin’s worn under my kilt,” he said with a naughty twinkle in his eyes. “’Tis all in working order.” Then he winked and burst out laughing at the expression on my face.

I felt myself continue to blush through the involuntary smile on my lips. He’d rattled me, which I was pretty sure had been his intention.

Thankfully, at that moment Kelly came up to me, and I quickly bent to greet her, hoping to hide my schoolgirl reaction to Leith’s double entendre.

“What’s the occasion?” I asked Leith when I recovered, seeing that he’d opened the Peugeot’s hood and had turned his attention to wires and mechanical parts. “Why the kilt?”

“I promised my girl I’d wear it fer her. I’m on my way tae see her next.”

“Ah,” I said, my stomach dropping involuntarily. But I quickly regrouped. Not only was I not interested in the man—or any man, I scolded myself—but I’d also suspected Leith was taken from the very beginning. I guess the flirting had made me forget.

Feeling embarrassed, I took advantage of a pause in the rain to leave Leith puttering under the hood while I wandered down to Sheepish Expressions.

And, once again, soon found everything spinning in a new direction.

It was still morning, and Sheepish Expressions could only have been open for a short time. The parking lot was completely empty on this rainy Saturday, but a tour bus pulled in just as I arrived.

Upon exiting the bus, a woman turned to her male traveling companion, and said, “The Loch Ness Monster is only a legend. Just another tourist attraction, if you ask me.”

The bus driver heard her, and piped up, saying, “Oh no, it’s real for sure. Enough o’ us have seen Nessie tae confirm her existence. And bones of another huge sea serpent were recently found in Russia, a cousin to our famous girl, their researchers say.”

The woman harrumphed her disbelief. I figured the bus driver had a good line; whether or not the tourists believed in the giant lake dweller or not, they sure were showing up in one busload after another hoping for a sighting.

I stepped inside the shop behind the skeptic and took a sharp turn away from the counter. I slunk amongst the fine woolen clothing, enjoying the textures of all the lovely apparel. July hardly seemed the right time of the year to buy woolen products, but that wasn’t stopping these shoppers. The woman next to me picked out an armful of brightly patterned cashmere scarves. When she noticed my interest, she said, “I know it’s still July, but Christmas will be here before we know it. My friends and family will love these!”

After making a mental note to do some holiday shopping myself before flying back to Chicago, I ducked into the attached knitting room, where I pored over binders and magazines filled with patterns. They could have been Greek for all that I understood of the directions, but the photos of the finished products again lured me into thoughts of retrying my hand at knitting.

When I returned to earth from a dreamworld of possibilities, the knitting room was empty. So was the shop, judging by the lack of voices. Presumably the previous tour bus had departed for its next destination, and the next one hadn’t arrived yet.

I heard a male voice call out, “Anybody left inside the shop?” and before I could figure out my plan of action, a female voice responded, “They’re all gone, John. Next bus arrives in about five minutes.”

John. That must be John Derry, Kirstine MacBride’s husband, the one who tended the farm’s sheep, the same one who had egged on his wife when she verbally attacked Vicki in the pub. I couldn’t see him at the moment, but I had a visual in my head of the big, brash bully. I’d been about to declare myself, but now I only wanted to hide. I ducked down on the other side of the wall.

“Can I have a word with ye, Kirstine?” I heard him say to his wife. My ear had adjusted to the local accent enough to recognize that John’s was different—somewhat similar, but not exactly the same. Nor did it sound like the rest of the MacBrides’.

I panicked, hearing their voices coming closer. Hiding had been a stupidly rash move on my part. It’s one thing to be discovered alone in a back room, paging through magazines, blissfully unaware of your surroundings. It’s another to be caught hunkered down, listening like a Peeping Tomette.

But that’s exactly what had happened.

I’d hunkered.

And I was about to be busted with no good explanation to offer.

“The inn had ta close,” John said from way too close, right on the other side of the wall. “And now the nosy American is here at the farm, those two gettin’ tight like herrings in the salt.”

Were they talking about me? Of course they were. Nobody else fit that description. And my current dilemma went a long way in proving the nosy part.

“The plan is in place,” Kirstine said. “She could ruin it for us.”

“I’ll take care oof it. We want what’s rightfully due us, is all.”

“Turner should’ve warned the rest of the family,” Kirstine said, “before it was too late. He’s supposed to be the loyal family solicitor, but after this, I can’t be so sure.”

“Your stepsister killed Gavin Mitchell, then, that’s the story we continue ta tell?”

“Who else would have done such a thing?”

“Handle both busybodies at once, is me thinkin’.”

“That’s my thought exactly.”

If I was interpreting this pair’s meaning correctly, and I was pretty sure I was, they were dangerous to my health. And to Vicki’s. If they came around the corner into the room and saw me, I’d be in very real danger. The next bus of shoppers couldn’t arrive fast enough.

I held my breath, my heart pounding so loudly that I thought the sound of it would give me away. But a bell tinkled in the front of the shop, and I heard the husband-and-wife conspirators move off.

They said they had a plan. What plan? And how did they think I could ruin it? There had been so many scary implications of ill will toward Vicki and me in that conversation. John had sounded disappointed that I was safe.

The purpose of the fire might have been to shut down the inn, but John had just presented another, one that concerned me decidedly more. Had he set it himself to scare me away?

Just as I was about to give up, I heard a miracle—voices at the front of the shop. As more voices joined in, I rose up on shaky legs and leaned against the wall until I felt strong enough to make a hasty retreat, hopefully unseen.

A fine mist was falling, but I hardly noticed as I hurried back to the barn. On the way, I really began second-guessing the meaning of the conversation I’d overheard.

Never trust a writer for an accurate, unbiased account of any situation she can infuse with additional drama. My vivid imagination tended to take over, making the smallest, most insignificant detail a major point of concern. Were John and Kirstine really responsible for the fire
and
for Gavin’s death
and
guilty of planning to add Vicki and me to their pile of corpses?

I slowed my pace, let a little rain fall on my face, and came back from the edge of reason.

By the time I returned, a very sexy and very unavailable Leith Cameron was able to proudly proclaim the Peugeot to be in fine working order, and I had pretty much convinced myself that I’d read way more into their meaning than I should have.

But part of me wouldn’t let the idea die. I decided to share my concerns with the inspector.

Once Leith went off to see his girl, I drove myself to Glenkillen behind the wheel of the Peugeot for the first time. I coaxed the car through the roundabouts, staying well below the speed limit, and still managed to scare myself silly.

After parking and taking a moment to compose myself, I found Inspector Jamieson standing in front of the Whistling Inn, intently studying the exterior of the building as if clues to the fire would appear if he stared long enough. What did I know? Maybe they would.

“Excuse me,” I said, “but I’d like a word with you.”

“Ah, it’s yerself again. Very well, let’s find a quiet place tae talk. How about inside the pub? Will that do?”

“Yes, thank you.”

A chalk billboard on the sidewalk outside the Kilt & Thistle announced
Pub Fayre!,
a new advertisement addition since last I’d been here, and even in my agitated state I managed to find some humor in that small slice of local color. Inside, we wound between occupied tables and found one tucked back in a corner, where we both decided on hot tea. The inspector also placed an order for food, and we made small talk until the tea arrived.

Over tea, I related to him what I’d overheard inside Sheepish Expressions—skipping over the part where I’d hidden on the floor, a detail too personally embarrassing to share, but the rest I laid out on the table, so to speak—as close to verbatim as I could possibly remember.

Inspector Jamieson listened without interrupting. When I finished, he said, “Based on my previous association with MacBride family members, I’m o’ the personal opinion that they would have no qualms about using ye tae their own advantage. Kirstine and John probably knew ye were within earshot and were playing ye like a fiddle. That’s why they had such a conversation right where ye couldn’t help but overhear.”

“I don’t believe that,” I said, although there was some logic to his explanation, one much less threatening to my future good health. If scaring me had been their intent, they’d succeeded.

The inspector went on with his assessment of the family. “John Derry has a hot temper, but it’s all bluster, it is. His brother-in-law, Alec, tries to keep him in line but he’s a hopeless case. John’s already been spreading rumors aboot ye and Vicki, suggesting you two are in cahoots.”

In the big city, for better or worse, nobody cared what anybody else said or did. Our lives were busy with long commutes into work, and afterward with families to tend to. Who had time for all this speculation and gossipmongering? Small-town ways were going to take some getting used to.

“Cahoots?” I echoed.

“Aye. According tae John, he wouldn’t be surprised if ye’d been caught robbing Gavin Mitchell and one o’ you killed him.”

So John and Kirstine were already putting their so-called plan into place. They intended to drive us away one way or the other. “Is there anything you can do to counter that outrageous claim?” But I knew the answer before he opened his mouth.

He shook his head. “I don’t make a habit o’ responding one way or the other tae local gossip. All that matters is that I know the truth, and the truth o’ your statement has been confirmed as accurate.”

My knee-jerk reaction was to be offended that he’d actually checked up on the details, but I reminded myself that it was his job not to take me at my word. I sighed and let it go.

“John Derry is causing trouble for ye, and it isn’t right,” the inspector went on. “But he won’t continue tae be a problem.”

“Easy for you to say,” I said. “People will believe what they want to believe. I’m most concerned about the MacBrides’ campaign to cast suspicion on Vicki regarding Gavin Mitchell’s murder. At some point in the near future, I’ll fly back home to Chicago, but Vicki will have to face these vicious rumors daily.”

“The killing of Gavin Mitchell is aboot tae be cleared up anyway, thanks to an important tip from Dale Barrett and his wife Marg, the owners of this fine establishment.”

Just then, said owner set a steaming plate in front of us. “Always willing to help put criminal elements away,” Dale said, before heading off at full speed to serve his other customers.

“The Kilt and Thistle has the best Scotch eggs in all of the country,” the inspector announced when he noticed me observing the contents of the plate he’d ordered for us. “A new experience for ye tae put intae that novel yer writing. Careful—they’re hot out o’ the fryer.”

Chicago’s Irish pubs might serve Scotch eggs, but if so, I’d never had them. “They aren’t wrapped in haggis, are they?” I asked, suspiciously eyeing the items in question.

He smiled. “No, but that’s a fine idea. I’ll suggest Dale give it a go. But this batch has similar ingredients—these hard-boiled eggs are wrapped in sausage, then rolled in bread crumbs and deep-fried. That’s hot mustard sauce in the bowl beside it. Well, what are ye waiting for?”

Then he helped himself. So I followed his example, cutting off a piece of the egg, dipping it into the tangy mustard sauce, and carefully taking a small bite. They certainly couldn’t be classified as health food, what with the sausage and the frying involved, so of course they were delicious.

“What’s this new tip about?” I asked after I’d devoured two eggs and wiped my greasy fingers on my napkin.

While we continued to eat Scotch eggs and drink our tea, the inspector told me about how Dale’s tip had given the case a new direction, pointing toward a likely suspect and, hopefully, a solved murder case.

“A while back, Gavin Mitchell, God rest his soul, made a trip to shear sheep near Elgin,” Inspector Jamieson began. “Afterwards, being a man o’ routine, Gavin stopped at a local pub he frequented when he was on the road, tae have a wee dram before heading home. He’d barely had time tae park when he came upon a nasty fight between two boozers. One o’ them smashed a glass bottle over the other’s head, seriously injuring him, but the other fella went on kicking the man even as he lay on the ground.

“Gavin always was a peaceful type, but strong as they come. He got involved and managed tae keep the brute from escaping until the police arrived. The both of them were charged with violent disorder. The loser got a suspended sentence, mainly because he’d been pounded tae pulp and he didn’t have any prior incidents in a police file. But the other—Samuel Kerr’s his name—had a long record of arrests, mostly for assault. Kerr was incarcerated for nine months.”

“Gavin Mitchell sounds like a good man.”

“That he was. We all knew aboot Gavin’s experience at the time. When he went tae court tae testify, the folks here at the Kilt and Thistle bought him a round for making sure justice was served. But then it became old news, and we all forgot aboot it. Turns out Kerr was released last week.”

“And Dale’s tip?” I prompted.

“Our Dale has a sharp eye, and he spotted something. Not right away, but after his mind had a chance to dwell on it for a few days. He remembered the boozer’s face from the papers all those months ago. So he rung me up last night in the middle o’ the night tae say he’d seen the same face in the bar just the week before. Dale’s wife, Marg, vouches for it as well. They went on their computer and found this Kerr fella’s likeness. Marg confirmed that it was the same man as was in the pub, sitting in a corner looking like he had a heart filled with hate.”

“This was the week before Gavin was killed?”

“Aye.”

“He might have hung around the area, waited for Gavin.”

“We’re tracking down this Samuel Kerr now.”

“Revenge is a powerful motive,” I said.

The inspector said sadly, “That was an unlucky day for Gavin. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and sure he saved the one bloke from more o’ a beating, but he paid a steep price. He never did get that whisky for the road, and now he’s dead, possibly at the hands o’ that violent character.”

“We can’t know how our good deeds might affect our lives,” I said. Then a new thought occurred to me. “But how does that explain the pig’s blood?” I asked.

Inspector Jamieson scowled, whether from the fact that animal blood had been left at the scene or over his unprofessional new partner’s loose lips, I didn’t know.

“Gavin was killed someplace else, according to the official finding,” he said. “Murdered in the early hours of Tuesday morning in a different location.”

“Really?” This was big news. Although nothing was adding up. “What was the point of moving the body, let alone mixing in animal blood?”

“It would take an individual with a very low IQ tae think he could fool Forensics with that ploy, but this jailbird doesn’t strike me as a particularly smart individual.”

“Have you searched near the pub?” I asked. “Maybe he followed Gavin and killed him on his way home.”

“Aye, I have, and nothing came o’ it. Someplace out there is the real crime scene, and I’ll find it. Once we bring in Kerr, we’ll have more answers.”

If Inspector Jamieson was able to wrap up this case with charges against Samuel Kerr, that would change a few things in the public’s eyes in favor of my new friend. Any more attempts by John Derry to sway public opinion in regard to Gavin’s death would go up in smoke, along with his credibility. The locals would see right through him and not be so quick to accept his lies in the future. At least, so I hoped. But I couldn’t get the conversation I’d overheard between the Derrys out of my head. Even with a new suspect in the inspector’s sights, I worried that John and Kirstine were dangerous.

“I’m still afraid of what John Derry is capable of doing to Vicki or to me,” I told him. “The man is an ogre.”

But the inspector scoffed at my concerns again. “John Derry is a big blowhard. I still believe he knew ye were listening in. He must o’ seen ye enter and knew ye didn’t leave with the rest o’ the customers. At most he was just talking tough. I’ve seen the man cry over one of his dogs when the poor thing had tae be put down. Does that sound like a man who would hurt anybody?”

The inspector looked up, and recognition crossed his face. I followed his line of sight as he said, “There’s Alec MacBride. He just came in. See him ordering from Dale?”

“What is Alec MacBride’s role in the family business? I haven’t heard him mentioned much.”

“Not even a wee bit of interest,” the inspector answered, proving me right. “He’s an accountant by trade, and the business coulda used his skills. But he chose tae go off and start his own practice.”

“Was James MacBride disappointed that his son didn’t pursue the family business? Did he consider him the black sheep of the family?”

The inspector smiled. “Ah, you noticed that black sheep on the hills aren’t nearly as plentiful as the white. They’re a particularly hardy lot. As tae James’s opinion o’ his son, that I couldn’t tell ye. He kept his private affairs tae himself. But look now, Alec’s spotted us and is coming our way.”

Sure enough, Alec MacBride was winding his way from the bar toward our table, carrying a pint of ale. I continued my quick assessment as he stopped before us. Alec was shorter, stockier, and darker than his sister, his deep tan unusual amongst the classically pale Scots. And it was further set off by his crisp, spotless white polo shirt, cargo golf shorts, and white canvas shoes, worn with no socks. He sported an expensive watch but no other jewelry, and was clean-shaven. He’d clearly nicked himself this morning, though. A tiny flaw in his otherwise perfect appearance.

He nodded a greeting to the inspector, then gave me a warm and welcoming smile.

“Have ye two met?” the inspector asked.

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Alec said.

The inspector performed introductions in perfect gentlemanly form, and I cringed inwardly when he said my name. Call me paranoid, but I expected the entire town to know that I’d participated in the discovery of the sheep shearer’s body.

But Alec MacBride didn’t have any reaction other than to offer his hand, which I took.

He practically bowed. A strong, confident grip, no calluses—Alec was a white-collar type through and through. Definitely not working class.

Inspector Jamieson rose, and said, “I’ll be on my way. I’ve got a murder tae solve.”

“You’ve answered my question then,” Alec said. “That’s the reason I came over, to inquire about the investigation.”

“It’s ongoing, is all I can tell ye.” And with that, the inspector bid us a good day and walked off.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Alec asked me.

“Not at all.”

As he took the inspector’s vacated seat, I wondered if Alec knew that his half sister Vicki and I had hit it off and that I was currently rooming at the farm. If he did, he didn’t give me any clues. But I vowed to stay alert for signs of manipulation, calling to mind the inspector’s warning that the family would use me as a tool in their battle if I wasn’t careful. Alec MacBride turned out to be one of those people you meet from time to time, the sort who spews personal information faster than a ruptured pipe gushes water. Within a very short amount of time I knew quite a bit about him, along with an assortment of his eclectic personal opinions on various subjects.

An avid golfer who lived in an apartment at his club, Alec told me that he was a financial advisor by trade who’d managed to escape the marriage trap multiple times—but, he was quick to reassure me, he certainly enjoyed a woman’s company. This was accompanied by a big smile of appreciation to prove his point.