Dressed to Kilt (9 page)

“I gave her yer message, I did,” Jeannie told me when I returned to the inn and firmly insisted on speaking with Patricia Martin in person. “She was on her way out, saying she was goin' tae visit Bridie Dougal tae see how she was coping. And in spite o' me insistin' that she take care o' yer business first, she went right out the door.”

“You did what you could,” I reassured her. Inwardly, I groaned. There was more than one reason I was disappointed that Patricia had slipped away. First, she'd disregarded my request, which most likely wouldn't have happened if it had been the inspector making the same demand. She wasn't taking me seriously and that was annoying. But it was her destination that bothered me the most. I wasn't ready for another encounter with Bridie, one in which she was sure to bring up the side of my family I wanted nothing to do with.

Just don't let her get me off alone
, I warned myself, my
thoughts turning to my father in spite of my efforts to ignore his existence.

Based on the short conversation with Bridie the morning of the murder, she hadn't been in contact with my biological father since my grandfather's funeral over thirty years ago. So he'd gone into hiding someplace far removed from his past acquaintances and their disapproval. He probably obtained some sort of Scottish divorce and remarried and has a new family that he actually cares about. But if he needed my mother's signature, which I wasn't sure about, only positive he hadn't made the request of her, he could be living with someone without the benefit of marriage. And if he'd passed on, my last wish for him was that he had suffered as much as or more than my mother.

I took a few deep breaths and talked myself down from a volcano of erupting bitterness and disappointment that had been my constant companions as long as I could remember, dating back to my earliest memories of my mother's diagnosis of MS, to the moment I realized he wasn't ever coming back.

Sitting in my car outside the inn, the heater turned up full blast, I wondered (not for the first time) if Ami Pederson had had ulterior motives when she'd suggested a Scottish Highlands setting for the series. As a longtime friend, she'd been perfectly aware of my history and my father's abandonment. What if she considered this one of her brilliantly executed subplots? Ami had pushed and prodded until she got her way. As always.

If my suspicions were correct about her motives, she'd been right about one thing, though. The setting was perfect
for a romantic novel. But she'd been wrong if she had thought my trip to Scotland would reunite me with any members of the Elliott clan.

Why did I have to run into these issues now? I'd managed to avoid hearing a single word about my ancestors for the months I'd been in the Highlands. I'd barely thought about them at all. And now, less than two weeks before I was scheduled to depart, I found myself dealing with a clan chieftain who had known my grandfather and father. And on top of that, I was working a murder that put me in an orbit around Bridie. Like the pull of gravity, I was trapped in some sort of magnetic attraction and I couldn't break away.

Which brought me back to the problem of questioning Patricia Martin and steering clear of Bridie Dougal. Bridie was a delightful person, one I would have enjoyed keeping company with, if not for her affiliation with a certain part of my past I'd buried long ago and wished to remain buried while she intended to dig it up.

Maybe if I remained in the car outside the inn long enough, Patricia would return. To while away some time, I dug around in the glove compartment and pulled out a road map I'd purchased my first week in Glenkillen. I unfolded it, spread it out across the steering wheel, and began a search for Tainwick. I found Glenkillen and Loch Ness and began reading the names of villages north of the lake.

There it was, not more than a thirty- or forty-minute drive when roads were in good shape. I spent ten or fifteen minutes studying the map, before realizing I could be sitting in the Peugeot for a long time. Replacing the map, I had an afterthought.

I should have offered to hang around at the hospital and let the inspector chase down Henrietta's sister. Sitting and waiting was more special constable–like anyway.

Thinking that was an excellent idea, I tried calling Jamieson's cell phone. He didn't pick up. Coverage inside the hospital was probably limited. I could drive over there. Then I went on to reason that it would be awkward showing up at Bridie's home to interview Patricia. That wouldn't be very professional. What had I been thinking? Besides, wasn't Sean out at the Dougal home? Why couldn't he interview Patricia?

I called Sean's cell phone. He answered promptly. “Constable Stevens,” he stated with pride. “Servin' the residents o' Glenkillen. To whom might I be speakin' with?”

“I know you have Caller ID,” I pointed out.

“It's habit, is all. What can I do fer ye?”

“Patricia Martin is supposedly visiting Bridie.”

“Aye, she arrived a ways back. Got away from ye, did she?”

I ignored that. Or tried to. I was about to ask Sean to speak with her. But after that flip remark, it didn't seem like such a good idea. Actually, she
had
slipped under my radar. And wasn't she my responsibility, not Sean's?

“Make sure she doesn't leave,” I said instead. “I'm on my way.”

“Okay, then. I'll cuff her if she tries tae escape.”

“Please don't do that.”

“I was only jokin' with ye. No need fer ye tae get testy. Did yer sense o' humor get away from ye, too?”

I hung up without comment. Apparently my sense of humor really had flown out the window.

The drive to the distillery took only a few minutes. It was hard to believe it had only been yesterday morning that I first came here and met Henrietta and Bridie. It felt like ages ago, eons since I'd pulled Henrietta McCloud out of that tub full of whisky.

Sean greeted me at the door. “They're having tea and want ye tae join them.”

“You told them I was on my way?” I'd wanted a certain element of surprise, not an organized tea party.

“Don't worry. I'll back ye up.”

Back me up?

I was confident I could handle the two women but couldn't come up with an excuse to extricate myself from Sean. Besides, he might be my buffer against any personal references and discussion of the Elliott clan. So I nodded in agreement. We'd go in as a team.

“Eden,” Bridie called out when I entered the room. “Come join us. Sit here next tae me and have a cuppa.”

I glanced around, searching for Henrietta's Scottish Fold cat, before I took the indicated seat. Bridie tuned into my thoughts and said, “Snookie is in Henrietta's room, waiting fer her tae return. It pains me to see the poor thing, so trusting and me knowing she's never coming back.”

Patricia, sitting erect, her long legs crossed, gave me a head-to-toe appraisal before saying, “Constable Stevens tells me you are a volunteer constable.”

I glanced at Sean, who had stopped just inside the doorway as though guarding against intruders or unexpected problems. Actually,
he
was part of the problem. What a blabbermouth!

“Yes, that's right. I'm a special constable.” I sat down
and accepted a cup of tea from Bridie, my heart going out to Snookie, wondering what would happen to her. I supposed she'd remain with Bridie.

“We have special constables in Edinburgh as well,” Patricia said. “I keep up on those sort o' things since my husband, Connor, is up for re-election in May. This will be his second term as a member of the Scottish Parliament, but he's made quite a name for himself in a short period o' time. Because of his position, I don't express my personal views in public, of course, but privately I can't say I agree with allowing ordinary citizens the full rights o' our police force.”

I reminded myself that when I first heard about these volunteers, I'd reacted exactly the same way. There was a time I would have agreed with her. Private citizens with police powers wasn't typical in the world I was used to. But would it be common practice in the States someday? I highly doubted it. Trying to explain the reasoning behind the unusual volunteer policy to Patricia was going to be challenging. Especially after the condescending tone she had affected.

I was about to make the effort, but our gracious host headed off any possible difference of opinion that might lead to an unpleasant disagreement. “Come in and join us,” Bridie called out, addressing Sean.

I could tell he'd taken offense to Patricia's comment regarding special volunteers by his coloring. He was several shades redder than normal as he reluctantly sat down in the only available chair next to Henrietta's sister and said, “Many o' the special constables are cut o' the same cloth as the others on the force.”

“I don't doubt it,” Bridie said, hastily.

I looked at Patricia. “I have a few routine questions to ask you,” I said, deciding we could debate that issue another time. “We can proceed in a more private setting if you wish.”

“I have nothing to say that can't be said in front o' others.”

Bridie cut in. “The last I saw o' my dear Henrietta was about four o'clock yesterday afternoon, several hours before the whisky tasting. That's when I left fer the hairdresser.” She carefully handed a cup of tea to Sean, who gave me a slight nod, implying that her whereabouts had been verified.

“Your appointment was in the center of the village. How did you get there?” I asked, assuming that at her advanced age and with the road conditions treacherous that day, someone surely would have driven her to Glenkillen.

“Archie took me and waited at the pub”—Bridie's voice began to quiver—“and brought me back around half past five. We didn't see Henrietta on our return, so I automatically assumed she'd decided to remain in her room. That wasn't unusual fer her. She hasn't been well.”

Bridie gave a little gasp of anguish and buried her face in a handkerchief.

“I woulda got around tae askin' that very question aboot her transportation,” Sean assured me, giving himself away. He hadn't even asked that? Sean had been assigned to Bridie. For now, she was his only job. Shouldn't he have been more thorough? At the moment, I could understand the inspector's ongoing frustration with his trainee.

“About her illness . . . Patricia . . .” I said, steering the questions and answers over to Henrietta's sister. “Besides Bridie, who knew about Henrietta's prognosis? I imagine Gordon did.”

“Yes, my son knew. And my husband, of course.”

“I didn't tell another soul,” Bridie added, then, after a pause, amended her statement. “Other than the local vet, who happened to be here when Henrietta had a wee bit o' a fainting spell. Even Archie and Florence were kept in the dark. Henrietta insisted and made us promise, didn't she, Patricia?”

Henrietta's sister nodded. “It was a secret only a few of us shared.”

“Secrets have a way o' getting out,” Sean said. “Like they have a life o' their own.”

Sean was right. Secrets are hard to keep.

“Perhaps, but we did our best,” Bridie continued, “In any case, Archie and Florence weren't informed, at least not by me. Henrietta couldn't abide by the thought o' any o' us taking pity on her. And she refused to let me hire someone tae help her with the more strenuous household chores. Her efficiency was slipping, but I pretended not tae notice. It woulda hurt her tae the quick if I'd brought in others tae keep up. She was a proud woman, determined tae continue with her duties.”

“She
was
stubborn,” Patricia agreed. At the tasting, Henrietta's sister had expressed frustration with Bridie, but hopefully she now understood that the old woman really cared about her companion's well-being. The truth had been that Bridie couldn't slow her down.

“Do either of you know of any reason why someone would kill Henrietta?” I asked. “Did anyone hold a grudge against her that you were aware of?”

“She rarely left the house,” Bridie said, “only tae run the occasionally personal errand. Florence always takes care
of my own purchases and the household supplies. And Henrietta didn't have any friends tae speak of, although in the past I encouraged her tae have a life o' her own. She always claimed my family was enough fer her. And her sister and nephew were important tae her. She adored ye, Patricia.”

Tears gleamed in Patricia's eyes as I addressed the next question to her. “When did you last see her?”

“Friday morning,” she said without hesitation. “And since you will certainly ask, she appeared to be exactly the same as always. We spoke of the upcoming tasting and its preparation, and when I attempted to address her condition, she refused to discuss it. Typical Henrietta.”

“So she wasn't upset about anything? Had no personal issues of concern other than her health? She didn't give you any indication that might be associated with prior circumstances leading to her death?”