His Lass Wears Tartan (15 page)

Rogue stepped backward, grabbing an edge of the counter. She tried opening her mouth, but nothing came in or out.
This is impossible. How did poison get into the soup? Who would murder Mr. Leatherton?

Baillie reached for the kitchen phone and punched the inspector’s number, again. Rogue couldn’t hear the conversation; her ears buzzed and she worried she would faint. She bent over; the bun on top of her head pulled against the hair combs.

Soft, worn shoes appeared in her view of the floor as a warm, soothing hand rubbed her back.

“It’ll be all right, lassie. Take slow, deep breaths.”

Standing upright, Rogue turned and put both hands on the chilled counter. Putney continued kneading the tight muscles in her back. After a sharp knock at the wooden door, it opened. “Bruce?” she whispered. But some other man stepped into the kitchen, a box of perishable food on his shoulder.

“Sorry for the delay, Putney,” he said.

The cook left Rogue to sign the paperwork.

“The boss never came back last night, it looks like. Must have been some hot date to keep him out all night.” The man winked at Putney’s stoic face.

“Dinna come back?” Rogue’s hand clutched her throat, and she took a step toward the unexpected man. “What do you mean he didn’t come back?” The words came out much harsher and louder than she expected.

The man shrugged his shoulders, now looking nervous. “The delivery truck is gone from the garage, and when I pounded on his front door above the shop, nobody answered. I just assumed he’d found himself a girl, you know, holed himself up somewhere and lost track of time.”

The man flinched as Rogue lunged, thoughts of bodily harm on her mind. Putney stepped in the way, holding her arms, as Rogue struggled for a moment.

“Chill, lady, honest, I don’t know where he is. He’s the boss; he can do as he pleases. I’m not his ma. Maybe it was some wench he knew in Glasgow, who knows?”

“What’s going on here?” Baillie’s voice was a calming tone as she stood next to Rogue. “Can I help with anything, sir?”

Rogue fell into her arms, sobbing against her shoulder.

“Bruce’s missing,”

• • •

“I want that conniving delivery boy arrested immediately.” Jonathan stood with his arms crossed. Police and investigators surrounded the drawing room area in front of him while a handful of men continued the investigation upstairs in the professor’s room.

Baillie sat off to one side while Rogue stood next to her, digging her fingers into her shoulders. “You have the nerve of storming in here accusing our local deliveryman, Bruce, of being a murderer? You donna even know the lad. Ya’ve been here but days and start throwing mud on someone you don’t even know?” Rogue’s knuckles turned white, squeezing her aunt’s shoulder, until she felt her aunt shift in her chair as if to slip out from under her grip.

“Oh, sorry, Auntie.”

“Mr. Leatherton asked one simple request of that man: Deliver the requested soup on a daily basis at a very expensive price, mind you. Leatherton paid him an outrageous sum for such little service.” Jonathan made an effort to control himself. “How do we know he didn’t tamper with the container or something? Out of greed, I’m sure, easy money to roll over a rich guy.”

“Just calm yourself, sir. At this point, we donna ken how the old man died. No one’s making this a homicide case, yet. Ya canna just go throwing vicious accusations at our town folk.” The lead investigator glared at Jonathan. “Especially since I’ve known the lad since he toddled in short pants and the man isn’t here to defend himself at the moment.”

“Seriously? Where is your local boy?” Jonathan made air quotes with his hands. “Seems to hang around the castle all hours of the day and night since I’ve been here. And now this morning, nothing? Pretty convenient, I’d say. Doesn’t it seem oddly suspicious no one knows where he is? The louse probably robbed Mr. Leatherton after poisoning him and is halfway to Europe by now.”

Rogue growled behind Baillie. Her aunt reached up to her shoulder with the pretense of swiping at a piece of fuzz, trying to touch her hand. “Shh.”

Closing her eyes, Rogue inhaled wanting to say something to Jonathan’s anger but maintained her composure.

At the end of the investigators’ list of questions, they released Jonathan. The lead man said, “As we told the other guests, we’d appreciate if you dinna leave the area just yet.”

Jonathan squinted his eyes, glaring at the man. “You want us to stay in a place where murders have happened? Are you insane? Can I not move my writers into some hotel in town? They are traumatized, I tell you.”

The uniformed men looked to the senior man in charge. “That would be acceptable as long as we have their information of where they settle.”

As the room emptied, Rogue followed Jonathan as he stomped toward the stairs to his room. Standing down below, she didn’t understand the cornucopia of emotions swirling through her right now. Infuriation seemed hardly enough to cover her anger at his outbursts against Bruce. Yet, she tried, through gritted teeth and clenched fists, to remember he had just lost his working partner of many years and was probably lashing out in pain.

• • •

Alone, Baillie closed the door before reaching for Kai, leaning into his arms. They stood together in the quiet of the room. Kai rubbed his hands on her back in distracted circles; she knew his mind was working on the puzzle pieces of this horrific mess.

“This is insane. No one’s seen Bruce or his van, and Mr. Olson won’t shut his mouth about accusing him of poisoning the soup.” She took a deep breath and looked up into his face. “Kai, I’m calling Gillian. We need him and his girls to help us with this mess. I know they were scheduled to arrive in a couple weeks for the wedding, but I think we need them now.”

Kai’s dark eyes looked pained. “This is going from bad to worse. He’s not my favorite person of your friends, Annie.”

“I know.” She sighed. She’d battled his emotions regarding her dear friend Gillian many times. No amount of explaining had convinced him of Gillian’s affinity for the same sex, not hers. “Time is of the essence. Something is terribly wrong, and the girls will bring a fresh perspective.”

“If you must.”

“The only alternative is putting you as a constant spy on Jonathan. But knowing you, your temper would explode and haunt the daylights out of him, frightening him into a comatose state making him worthless to us.”

Kai chuckled. “Ye know me too well.” And he bent his head, kissing her hard.

“Wha ... where am I?” Bruce rubbed his face with both hands. His hands looked clean, smooth. A soft gray mist trickled through the trees and ferns around him, playing catch me through sunbeams lighting a meadow in the distance.

Nothing seemed familiar.

He took a hesitant step forward, then another toward the light. He began squinting at the brightness, throwing his arm up to protect his eyes as he moved closer. The outline of a man who looked vaguely familiar stood in front of him. The slump of the shoulders and stance of the rather tall man squeezed Bruce’s heart.

“Da, is it you?”

As Bruce stumbled toward him, a woman stepped into the meadow next to the man and their arms entwined around each other’s waists. “Ma?” He fell to his knees, no longer able to stand and continue forward
. This can’t be happening.
As much as the desire to talk to his parents again screamed through his heart, the meaning kicked him in the stomach, hard.

“I canna be dead,” he whispered.

The young couple moved out of the warm, golden sunlight and bent down to him. “Aye, my boy, I’m afraid so.” His father put a strong hand on his shoulder. “I dinna expect ye so soon, but here ya are, and our hearts are blessed.”

“No, no, Da, I canna be here. I donna want to be here. I have much to be grateful for on earth, much yet to do, do ya not see?”

His mother kissed the top of his head. “Ya’ve grown up handsome and hardworking like your da, son. I am so proud of you. And the girl is a lovely lassie, my boy. I couldna ask for anyone more perfect for my son.”

“But if I’m here, I am gone from her.” He stood up and made a strong stance, spreading his legs. “I canna stay. This is a bloody mistake, and I willna have it.” His voice echoed through the soft, unfocused woods.

“Boy, ya needn’t shake the angels from the trees with your shouting.” His father chuckled. “This is paradise, son. No more illness, no sorrow, just a heavenly peace forever. Ah, we’ve missed ya something fierce. We have watched ya build the business up nicely. But what’s done is done. Now come along, and we’ll take ye farther.”

What was wrong with his da? How could he not remember the months, the years of agony when he’d lost his mam? This was cruel for him, not heaven. “No, Da, Ma, please, is there not some way for me to go back?” He shut his eyes against the beauty around him and prayed to return to Scotland, pleaded with the Almighty to let him go home.

A touch on his cheek, a flicker of memory from childhood, deflated his efforts. “My wee little Bruce, follow us for a moment. There is something we want you to see.”

With a heavy sigh, he looked at his mother, youthful, content, dressed simply with her hair down and tied back with a bow, and gave a slight nod. She took his hand and brought him close to her side. His father fell in step on the other side of him. They wandered through the trees and moors, an ancient landscape of Scotland before men invaded its beauty. Bruce noticed no change in temperature as they walked, nor strain or breathlessness from the trek. Just the constant movement with peaceful balminess surrounding him.

Before long, another patch of extreme sunlight came into view. The noise from the area was high pitched and lyrical. Squeals and giggles flowed through the trees, making Bruce smile despite himself. The trio stepped from behind the trees, and before them, a gentle river flowed among fields of heather and soft grass. Nestled between the tall blades, children and babies played. Girls, boys, tall, short, a diversity of youth scattered everywhere. A wall of crags beyond was dotted with more tiny, moving beings, laughing and climbing on the rocks.

“
Bairns
?” he asked.

“This is the future, son,” his father said. “They will bring life to the towns and hearts of those left behind for us. Our time is here now so they may take their turns.”

Bruce scanned the faces and smiles of the hundreds of children before him. Puppies and kittens of various colors of fur pounced and cuddled around them, a paradise of love and contentment. Could he not ask one of them to hold back for a time and let him return to earth instead? They’re just children. Surely they wouldn’t be eager to leave this place.

“But I love her, Da. I don’t want to leave her. There’s been a mistake, I tell ya. This shouldna be happening.”

“Shh.” His mother leaned her head on his broad shoulder. “Aye, and neither did I want to leave you and your da when you were just a wee pup. It is not for us to make the choice, Bruce, no matter how much it hurts us at the time.”

Like a piece of paper, he crumpled to the ground, his face in his hands. His parents stepped away as the pain ripped through him with a viciousness unlike anything he’d known. His deep sobs soon turned into howls of grief as he buried his face into the ground, blocking the sounds of joy and infants’ laughter beyond the trees. Tears dampened the dirt under his face as he poured out his feelings of loss and finality.

A tiny hand brushed the top of his head, patting his hair in soothing strokes. “My name is Andrew,” came a sweet voice next to him. The boy’s voice broke through the pain like a sharp pair of scissors snapping the cord, releasing the agony like a balloon set free. Is that one of their tasks; they ease the pain of the newcomers? The soft little fingers continued patting Bruce’s head until darkness overcame him.

Hanging up a newly soaped halter, Rogue tried to stay focused on her work in the stable and not stress herself out over Bruce’s whereabouts. The professionals would do their job. Surely he’d show up any time now with a reasonable explanation for his absence. A shadow fell across Rogue’s feet.

“Jonathan, you startled me.” She brushed her hands against her jeans. This must be his idea of casual wear, no jacket and a white, deep V-neck, pirate-looking shirt.
You are no Johnny Depp, sir.

“My, you look much more comfortable out of your daily costumes, my dear.” Jonathan gave a half-hearted smile, his demeanor somber. “Might I say you look most becoming today?”

“What do you want, Jonathan? Canna see I’m busy here?” she snapped. She was in no mood for his simpering flattery.

He stepped into the stable. “Such terrible tragedies these last few days have thrown us all into dire moods. I had hoped we’d become better acquainted during this week together.” He moved closer. “Have I not apologized countless times for my rude reactions toward your delivery friend?”

With locked jaw, she mumbled, “You have.” She bit back a retort—it didn’t matter if he apologized a thousand times. She’d had her fill of dealing with his mood swings.

Dougal snorted, kicking his stall door and making Jonathan squeal. Rogue chuckled as Jonathan leaped aside and stood behind her. “What a ... a magnificent, terrifying beast.”

“He’s no beast; he’s a Friesian. And, yes, he’s mine, to answer your next question.”

“No doubt.” He wiped his hands together. “I’ve settled everyone into new lodging, but I wanted to discuss the possibility of my staying on here at the castle. I’ve found such a sense of inspiration during my stay.” He leaned closer to her face, his perfume almost gagging her. “Not only the ancient setting as motivation, but the delightful staff, so prudent and unobtrusive.” A lock of dark hair fell forward, shadowing his crystal-blue eyes.

Rogue lowered her gaze; his baritone voice sent eerie chills up her arms. The audacity of the man, shoving his wants and demands in her face. “I’m sorry, Jonathan, but the castle is closed to the public for the next few weeks. Police investigation and all, you know.”

“Ah,
ma chérie
, even for me?” He moved with silent swiftness, facing her and taking her hand to kiss the back of it. “I’d be no trouble to anyone. I’d stay in my room writing, and I wouldn’t eat much—you know, starving artist and all.”