Dressed to Kilt (10 page)

Patricia shrugged, helplessly. “No, nothing at all. My sister never was very social, even less so as she aged. We were exact opposites in that regard.”

“Did Henrietta have any psychological issues?” I asked, delicately.

“What do you mean?” Patricia's tone changed.

“She spent her life in virtual seclusion,” I said. “She'd basically withdrawn from society. That could mean a number of things. She might have had a social anxiety disorder. I wonder why is all.”

“It was her personality. There doesn't need to be a reason.”

I dropped that line of questioning. “And you didn't speak with her on Saturday?”

“I assumed she'd be busy with the upcoming tasting and that I would spend time with her that evening. But as you know, she didn't leave her room, didn't pick up the phone when I rang her.” Here, she paused to consider other options. “Or . . . perhaps . . . she was already . . .”

Sean, who'd exhibited remarkable restraint until now, piped up and agreed. “Most likely she had passed tae the great beyond by then.”

Which caused the two women to break down together. I waited an appropriate amount of time, then said to Patricia, “I'd like to discuss your sister's past with you. Perhaps there is something there.”

“What do you want to know?” Patricia straightened, dabbed under her eyes, and pulled herself together somewhat.

“Anything you can tell me about failed romantic relationships, any private matters that have been hidden away.”

Henrietta's sister looked disgusted. Her lips curled in distaste. “It's obvious to me that you and this officer”—her eyes shifted to Sean—“and that inspector don't have a single shred of useful evidence to work with, and so you are grasping at straws, trying to make this Henrietta's fault.”

I didn't respond immediately, startled by her outburst. A moment later she went on. “Instead of attempting to dredge up nonexistent dirty laundry, I would expect you to be focusing on the present situation and who might have committed this horrific crime.”

Patricia's pain over her sister's death was expressing itself in anger directed at me. I shouldn't be surprised. She had to be an emotional mess, and I was an intrusion she was forced to deal with against her will.

“I'm sorry to have to put you through this,” I told her, “but it's important.” Then I turned to Bridie. “Tell me about the rest of your afternoon once you arrived back home.” That translated as a request for an appropriate alibi. Not that I expected the chieftain to need one, but it was a lead-in to Patricia Martin's whereabouts.

“Archie went off tae make sure everything was in order fer the tasting. I wanted tae rest a spell, but I couldn't lie down after visitin' the hairdresser, so I sat in a chair in my room with my feet up, reading a book fer half an hour. Then I dressed fer the evening. Oh, and I should mention that today I had that little family meeting that was postponed after what happened. Archie is relieved that I've decided not to sell and that the business will remain in the hands of our family.”

“That's good news for all of you.”

“'Tis.”

“And yerself?” Sean asked, his attention turned to Patricia. “Where were ye between four in the afternoon and yer arrival at the tasting?”

“In my room at the inn,” came the pat reply, delivered in a clipped manner.

Terrific. Janet, Bridie, and Patricia were all in their rooms.

“Do you have someone who can vouch for you during those hours?” I asked.

“I was alone, of course. Who could possibly have been with me? My husband wasn't able to join me as he had to be in Edinburgh with his constituents. And I resent the implication that I need an alibi! This is my sister we are talking about!”

Wonderful. Just dandy. Three women under suspicion had been in their rooms, with no one to confirm or deny their claims.

“Welcome,” the inspector would have said, “tae the wonderful world of crime solving.”

I could just hear him.

“Tae recap,” the inspector said as we ate a late lunch of fish and chips at my favorite table at the Kilt & Thistle, “ye accused the sister o' blabbin' tae others aboot Henrietta's cancer.”

“I'm pretty sure Sean was the one who alluded to that,” I said defensively, before popping what I'd call a thick-cut French fry in the States into my mouth, after seasoning it with salt and vinegar.

“And then ye challenged her sister's mental state.” The inspector dipped his hearty potato wedge into chippy sauce, a mix of vinegar and brown sauce.

“Well, there could be a psychological reason that Henrietta chose to become some sort of hermit,” I argued.

“I'm surprised that ye didn't accuse the victim o' hiding out from her own criminal activity.”

“That's absurd,” I said, detecting a hint of humor in his tone.

“And ye couldn't have made a fast friend when ye told Patricia Martin ye wanted tae air the family's dirty laundry.”

“I said nothing of the sort!”

The inspector chuckled and dug into his meal.

Reflecting on the interview, I said, “I didn't accomplish much, did I? Aside from alienating Patricia.”

“On the contrary, you confirmed that she hadn't seen Henrietta around the time o' her death. And ye established the lack of one more alibi tae join the pile o' others without them.”

That didn't sound like much progress to me. I wish I'd mentioned Katie Taylor and Tainwick to Patricia. I'd intended to, except things got quite heated before I had the opportunity. I wasn't used to taking heat, and even though I'd remained cool on the surface, I'd come away with a few wounds to lick.

“It wasn't easy questioning Patricia,” I told him, using one of the excuses I'd concocted to make myself feel slightly better. “Bridie kept jumping in.”

“The old hen is used tae the limelight,” he agreed. “While ye were havin' tea, I've been following up on the victim's brother-in-law. Connor Martin was campaigning in Edinburgh on the afternoon o' the murder.”

Jamieson was a man of many surprises. I wouldn't have thought of following up on Patricia's husband, at least so soon. Martin wasn't at the tasting, and he hadn't been in town at the time of his sister-in-law's murder. At best, his whereabouts would have been an afterthought, if I were in charge. A good reason to defer to the experienced inspector.

“Where was he after that? In the early evening?” I asked, joining in. “Could he have driven to Glenkillen? And, more importantly, what would have been his motive?”

“It's over a three-hour drive. He's not our killer, but I hadn't thought he was. The only reason I pursued any line o' questioning with him was because he phoned me, all blustery, aboot solving his sister-in-law's murder promptly, as though I'm not in any kind o' hurry without him having tae pester me. I imagine Connor is most worried aboot his own aspirations and how something like this on his wife's side o' the family could affect him politically. He said he wanted tae come tae handle the situation, but his wife talked him out o' it. Then he tried tae strong-arm me intae releasin' his wife tae go home. Anyhoo, he's in the clear.”

“A murder for hire?” I suggested. Then, when the inspector frowned, I muttered, “Playing devil's advocate.” It was farfetched, but my personal opinion is that no theory should be discounted, no matter how unlikely, without at least a cursory glance.

But I'd misunderstood the frown. The inspector seemed to be actually considering that. “Those things have a way o' surfacing,” he said. “Especially if the employer is in the public eye. He'd have tae be mad as a hatter tae arrange fer murder. Connor Martin is known fer his integrity. And he isn't afraid tae take responsibility in times where it's needed. Besides not havin' a motive.”

I sighed after considering the scope of our problem. “It's going to take forever to establish alibis for every single person who is related to someone who was at the distillery that afternoon.”

“Aye, process o' elimination. It's how we plod along.”

“And who else have you eliminated as a suspect?”

“No one, and that's the unfortunate truth. The postmortem examination is underway. It's doesn't take much detecting on my part tae foresee the ruling as a drowning. Only it won't be one o' misadventure.”

I must have looked bewildered because he said, “Accidental drowning. It won't be ruled an accident, not considering the circumstances. And I've already been informed by the coroner regarding an approximate time—he won't be able tae narrow it down as much as we'd like.”

“So we're on our own,” I said, finishing the entire plate of fish and chips. “Bridie is sure she last saw Henrietta around four, but has anyone else been able to substantiate that one way or the other?”

“Are ye suggestin' she might be mistaken aboot the time? Granted, she's gettin' up there in years.”

I shook my head, confident in the old woman's mental faculties. “Bridie seems extremely sharp to me. If she says four, we can believe her. I was out there that morning myself, as you know, and had time to assess Bridie. She's amazing in her awareness.” I paused then, remembering that scene, how she'd blindsided me with mention of the Elliott family. I hadn't shared that topic of conversation with the inspector and wondered if she had. I hoped not. “What I meant to ask was if anyone else saw Henrietta after four.”

“No one's come forward,” the inspector said. “Let's assume fer now that the murder occurred after four o'clock and before seven when the guests gathered in the tasting room. I forgot tae mention when ye inquired aboot the suspect list a moment ago that ye've been eliminated in spite o' yer ability tae hover in the vicinity o' disaster.”

I did a Jeannie-worthy eye roll as he continued, “And fer the sake o' argument, let's add Bridie Dougal tae the list of those who didn't murder Henrietta McCloud. See? We're makin' headway. And one o' the guests wants tae have a chat with me that might shed new light. Although I'm not holding my breath.”

“Janet Dougal?”

“Aye. She wants tae have a chat with me privately. The request was on my voice message first thing this morn.”

“I'll bet she does.”
And light isn't what she's hoping to shed
, I thought.

“And what is that supposed tae mean?”

“Nothing, other than it would be nice if she had something constructive to add.”

After a piercing stare, he presented me with the most interesting news so far. “Henrietta was in Bridie's will.”

“Don't you mean Bridie was in Henrietta's will?”

“I meant what I said. Henrietta didn't have a will or any real possessions tae leave behind other than a few family treasures that Patricia will claim. But if she'd lived, she'd have been well taken care o'.”

After a moment's thought I said, “She was loyal to her employer for a lot of years, and Bridie strikes me as a generous woman. I'd be more surprised if her longtime companion had been left out. What were the terms of the will?”

“Once Bridie was gone, Henrietta was tae stay in the house and be cared for through a trust until her own passing.”

“Did Archie know?” I asked, sensing a possible family conflict.

“Aye, Bridie updated her will this past summer, before Henrietta's diagnosis, and she told her family all about the
change. At the time, the old girl assumed that Henrietta would still have a long life tae enjoy—twenty years or more, barring some unexpected illness.”

“Like terminal cancer.”

“It's a sad situation, it is. Archie and Florence Dougal weren't too happy when Bridie presented them with that arrangement, thinkin' they would move intae the family home once Bridie was buried.”

“Bridie will probably outlive us all.”

“Aye, isn't that the truth.”

I remembered that Archie and Florence had their own home in the village, and mentioned it.

“They do,” the inspector said. “But the daughter-in-law had her sights set on playing lady o' the manor and didn't get on well with Henrietta.”

“I don't see a motive for murder, considering Henrietta wouldn't live to enjoy the house. Oh . . .” It was becoming clear. “Except they didn't know she was dying.”

Jamieson nodded. “Bridie's son and daughter-in-law weren't apprised o' the victim's condition. And neither o' them has a solid alibi. They were flitting here and there. According to him, he was seeing that the whisky was properly selected. And the wife was busy with the table settings and getting herself ready.”

“That certainly makes for interesting speculation.”

“That it does.”

I pondered this new information. Archie and Florence had a motive. They wanted their mother's house and her companion gone. And they both had plenty of opportunity to slip into the warehouse and fill a washback with whisky. One thing we knew for sure—this was premeditated.
Someone had put a lot of thought and planning into her murder.

We sat for a few minutes, quietly contemplating, sipping tea. I was going to miss these shared moments at the pub, hashing over possibilities with the inspector. I especially enjoyed times like these, when our conversations ended and each of us sat in reflection, at ease without the need for spoken words.

“How is Katie doing?” I finally broke the stillness to ask.

“Aboot the same. The doc says the next twenty-four hours are critical. Her parents have arrived and are optimistic that she'll make a full recovery. When I questioned them about Tainwick, neither was acquainted with Henrietta McCloud nor her sister Patricia. They weren't even familiar with the McCloud name, saying none are living in the area, at least that they are aware o'. I did a bit o' investigating, and what they say is true. Whatever McClouds were there in the past, they've moved on since.”

“So, if the murder and attack are connected, it isn't through Tainwick.”

“Other than a common place o' birth, there isn't another link at present.”

We fell silent again.

The assault on the caterer was most likely a robbery gone wrong. It certainly appeared that way. Unless Katie had seen something at the tasting she shouldn't have, something that didn't impress her as important at the time, but had worried the killer enough to go after the young woman.

“Do you have Katie under protection?” I asked.

“The medical team has been advised against allowing any visitors other than the parents and Gayle, who, by the
way, is stayin' with her boyfriend temporarily in case whoever did this returns to her house. She didn't seem too put out by the arrangement, though. I suspect she'll enjoy a few days cozying up tae her beau.”

“I was thinking Katie could use additional security.”

“We think alike, we do.” He frowned in concentration, then brightened as an idea struck. “I believe we've found another job fer our Sean.”

“I thought he was protecting Bridie.”

“Bridie dismissed him without my consent, claiming he has better things tae do than babysit her.”

“I hate to see her all alone in that big house.”

“Ye're looking at me as though ye think I have a say in the matter. She's a tough old bird, used tae having her own way. Besides, even if it turns out that her own son murdered the house companion, he isn't about to harm his mother.”

I was forced to agree. “The obstacle of contention has been removed.”

“Both of his problems have been eliminated. Henrietta is gone. And he's been assured that the family business will remain in the family for at least another generation. Archie will groom his son tae take the reins after him.”

“I really hope the murderer isn't Bridie's son.”

“It would kill Bridie faster than advanced age is goin' tae.”

He used his cell phone to call Sean and assign him to the hospital to guard Katie. “And don't leave her side until I relieve ye,” he warned. “Plan tae spend every night until she's released intae the care o' her parents. And don't let on that we're concerned over her safety. Tell the parents it's routine.”

I'd heard that before. I was quickly learning that routine was anything but routine.

When the inspector departed and I was alone at the table, I dug my laptop out of a tote to touch base with Ami and was surprised to discover that she hadn't left any messages for me. It was odd for her to go off and forget about me. Didn't she want to hear about the whisky tasting? In her own words, she'd been excited about it. Not that I had anything earth-shattering to report about my personal life. Leith and I hadn't shared anything more than a hug. And that was only because of the murder.

Missing her, I sent off a short synopsis of yesterday's main event, starting the action at the tasting, with a brief description of the food and differing flavors of each sample of whisky based on age. I even included a description of my date and his innate ability to wear a kilt to its best advantage. Then I went on to share the ending with her—the horror of finding Henrietta, drowned in a vat of whisky, and the subsequent investigation into her death after the abrupt end to what should have been a great evening.