Holy Terror in the Hebrides (16 page)

No! No, it doesn’t. No murderer. Certainly not.

I put the receiver back on the cradle, slowly, quietly. The sounds of the storm intensified, took on a keening, human quality. Something, a tree limb probably, was thumping on the front of the house, and the sound rasped at my nerves.

Especially when I remembered that there were no trees at the front of the house.

I crept out of the kitchen into the tiny hall, my heart pounding, my fear growing, and tried to peer out the window of the front door. Something obscured what little view there was, something dark . . .

. . . that shouted my name in a Scottish accent.

I eased the door open, pushing hard against the fierce blast that tried to tear it out of my hands. Andrew Campbell stood in the doorway, dripping wet, his legs braced against the force of the gale.

“Mrs. Martin,” he shouted, “the electricity is out on the whole island, and the phones—the cables have snapped. You’ll not be able to cook, you’ve no light, and there’s the worst gale coming we’ve seen in years. I’ve sent my staff home, but you’d best come back to the hotel with me.”

“But—”

“We’ve no time to talk; in a wee bit I’ll not be able to drive! You’d best gather up what perishable food you have. It’ll spoil here, and we have our own generator and proper refrigeration. Or—I’ll do that, while you pack up what you’ll need for two days. Hurry, woman!”

The last two words told me more than the rest. If Andrew Campbell, a quietly courteous man, felt obliged to issue curt commands, he was seriously worried.

I did as he told me.

That five-minute drive to the hotel rivaled any roller coaster ride for sheer terror. Andrew’s little car, buffeted by the howling wind, left the narrow road several times; once I was sure we were going to turn over. The rain was tropical in intensity; I hoped Andrew could see, for I couldn’t. I also hoped the screams I kept hearing were only the wind, and not animals in distress.

I had expected to see the hotel beckoning from its hilltop with welcome lights. Surely those could be seen, even through the rain. But my straining eyes saw nothing but rain and darkness until an even darker bulk loomed close to us, and I realized we had pulled up to the back door of the hotel.

Oh, no. No electricity here, either? Their generator had failed?

I saw the answer as I struggled through the door with my groceries. Every window was firmly shuttered. Although a few lights were on inside the house, not a glimmer reached the outside. Nailed shut, I supposed.

It hit me for the first time, then, that this was going to be one doozy of a storm, the like of which I had never seen. Nor, I devoutly hoped, would I ever see its like again.

The tumult was subdued as soon as we were inside. It took both of us to shut the door and bolt it against the manic frenzy of the wind, but the solid oak of doors and shutters created a semblance of peace.

The voices I could hear coming from the lounge, however, weren’t peaceful. The natives were restless. I ignored them and went to the kitchen to drop off my groceries.

“Hester, is there anything I can do? It’s a big job, running this place without any of your usual help.”

“No. I thank you, mind, but Andrew and I have done this before. Storms are not unknown on Iona.”

I liked the way she said it, with the dry humor I was beginning to associate with the Scots.

“There’s always food in the freezer, cooked and ready to serve, some of it. Tonight it’s
boeufbourguignon
, with me not lifting a finger! I’ll just ask you to conserve the electricity, though. Andrew will have told you we generate our own in emergencies, but the supply is limited, and we’ve none too much petrol on hand.”

“Of course. I won’t turn on any lights. I was just going to take a bath. Is the water heater working?”

Hester beamed. “We’re very fortunate. Ours runs on Calor gas, and they brought a new bottle last week. So use all the water you like! Dear knows there’ll be enough and to spare in the loch, with this rain.”

We’d be lucky, I thought darkly, if the loch didn’t overflow and send waterfalls cascading down to flood all Iona. I had the sense to keep my mouth shut.

As I went into the hall, the angry conversation in the lounge seemed even louder.

“But we’ve
got
to catch our plane! The CRA, stingy misers, told us we had to pay for ‘any changes in travel plans.’ And I don’t know about the rest of you, but I can’t afford—”

“Honey, the money’s the least of it. I got responsibilities. Who’s gonna take the choir to Indianapolis next week? Who’s gonna take care of my boys? Who’s gonna—”

“This is an utterly pointless discussion. We can hardly be held responsible for the weather. We will leave this island when we are able to leave. Surely the CRA—”

“‘Go to Iona,’ they said. ‘Peace and quiet,’ they said. I want peace and quiet, I should stand in the middle of Michigan Avenue at rush hour—”

“—never get home, never see my church again, the choir, the organ—”

“It’s her fault.”

I walked into the room to Janet’s accusation. The rest of them stopped talking.

“We could have taken the ferry this morning if she hadn’t made us stick around for the cops.”

They all looked at me. I stood where I was. I was soaked through and needed a hot bath, but it was time I asserted myself.

“Janet, that’s nonsense and you know it. You had no plans to leave today until you knew the storm was coming. No, don’t interrupt.” It was my best schoolteacher tone, known to quell a roomful of unruly sixth-graders. No one said a word.

“Furthermore, I had nothing whatever to do with the fact that you were required to be questioned. That’s standard police procedure. And certainly I didn’t cause the breakdown of the ferry. We’ve all been forced together by the storm. It will be easier if we try to be nice to each other.

“I don’t know my Bible nearly as well as Hattie Mae, but I do remember a remark from another source at about the time of the New Testament. I quoted it to Jake when we first met: ‘See how these Christians love one another.’ I recommend we try it.”

And I stalked out.

Andrew had put my suitcase in my same room. I filled the tub, stripped off my wet clothes, and prepared to luxuriate.

It didn’t work.

Oh, I got warm, all right, but my taut muscles wouldn’t relax. It didn’t matter how often I told myself that I was being foolish, that there was no murderer in the building. My mind struggled to believe it, but my nerves stayed tense. Just be careful, something in a hidden layer of my consciousness kept saying. Just watch yourself.

I splooshed out of the tub, put on dry clothes, and plodded down to the lounge.

I wasn’t sure how I would be greeted after that remarkably self-righteous little speech I’d felt obliged to make, but at least they had all calmed down. Hattie Mae and Chris, if I could believe my eyes, were sitting together in front of the fire drinking tea. Teresa, Grace, and Jake, around a small table, were sipping various liquids out of small glasses and talking, while Janet sat alone, reading. Only one electric light had been turned on, but oil lamps glowed all over the room, creating a coziness that belied the howl of the wind.

There is a kind of camaraderie, sometimes, that pulls people together in an emergency. I remembered the winter, long ago in Indiana, when a world-without-end blizzard had struck, and we were all stuck in our houses for days before they managed to get the streets plowed and the stores open. Neighbors Frank and I didn’t even know stopped by to ask if we needed anything from the grocery; they had organized a flotilla of kids with sleds and were walking to the nearest open market, two miles away.

Perhaps the same spirit of “we’re all in this together” had possessed the Chicago group. I hoped so. Given, however, the abrasive nature of their relationships with each other, I was far from confident.

Teresa saw me standing in the doorway and beckoned me over to join them. Jake looked me over as I sat down. “I like that sweater. You feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you. Also in a better temper, you’ll be glad to know.”

And that seemed to be that. Apologies were understood to have been exchanged. I sipped the gin and tonic Grace ordered for me and tried to relax.

We all winced when something struck the house with a loud crash.

“Tree limb,” said Andrew, who was tending the bar. “I reckon. I can’t see for certain with the shutters in place.”

“How bad is it going to be, Mr. Campbell?” asked Grace.

“Bad,” he said, polishing a glass. “The Met says not a hurricane, precisely, but force-eight winds, at the least, and rain enough to swamp the small boats at anchor.”

“Do they say how long it will last?”

“The worst may be over by tomorrow.”

He seemed calm enough, but then, as he implied, there was no point in worrying about a situation over which we had no control. He and Hester had done what they could to prepare for the storm; now we would all just have to sit it out.

Teresa spoke the question we were all thinking. “Will this house be safe?”

“Well, now, that’s in the hands of God, isn’t it? It’s survived for two hundred years, now. Likely it’ll see this storm through, as well.”

I shivered. “Well, I don’t mind admitting I’m scared. We don’t have hurricanes in Indiana. And I worry about the search for Bob’s body, too. They won’t be able to get back to it until the wind and waves go down, and who knows if they’ll ever find it by that time.”

Andrew shook his head. “Aye, it’s worrisome. I’m hoping they won’t need to climb about in Fingal’s Cave. The basalt is dangerous when it’s wet, very slippery.”

Oh, dear heaven! Now they all knew! I looked around quickly, to check reactions, but everyone was tense; I could see nothing on any face that seemed to indicate guilt. I shivered again as Hester came into the room.

“Dinner is ready, if you’d like to come through.”

H
ESTER, OR PROBABLY
Andrew, had pulled the small dining room tables together, forming one long table. It was sound psychology, I thought, meant to foster the communal warmth that was beginning to establish itself. People like to huddle together in the face of danger.

Only Janet seemed unhappy with the arrangement, seating herself at one end and establishing an invisible, but obvious, barrier. I sat next to her, but I didn’t try to talk. Whatever chip she was carrying on her shoulder, she wouldn’t be any more cordial if I tried to knock it off.

No, I was perfectly happy when Chris, who sat on my other side, made polite conversation.

“How is the music in your English church, Mrs. Martin?”

“Dorothy, please. And it’s wonderful. My church is a cathedral, you know; Sherebury is a very old cathedral town. The church dates from shortly after the Conqueror, and a bit of the original building is still there, although most of it is late fifteenth, early sixteenth century, perpendicular style. The acoustics are incredible, and while the choir isn’t in the very top rank—I mean, it isn’t King’s College—it’s very, very good. The organist/choirmaster is Jeremy Sayers. I don’t suppose you happen to know him?”

Chris raised his eyebrows. “I know of him, and I’ve heard some of his recordings. But he’s marvelous! You’re lucky.”

I agreed. “Have you had a chance to hear any good music on this trip? I know you were traveling in Scotland for a while before you came to Iona.”

He scowled. “Just Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Inverness. And they had us so tightly scheduled there was no time for side trips. We went to a couple of church services, Presbyterian mostly, but the music was mediocre. I had great hopes for Iona, because it’s so old—plainsong, maybe, perhaps even some ancient Celtic music, but . . .” He spread his hands and I laughed.

“No, music doesn’t seem to be a principal interest here, does it? I don’t suppose you got a chance to play any of the organs, either, did you?” I asked innocently.

“No.” He looked at me curiously. “Am I imagining things, or have you got something up your sleeve?”

“Oh, dear, and I thought I was being so subtle! No, I just had an idea, that’s all. The storm is so loud and scary, I thought maybe you would agree to play the piano for us after dinner. And maybe— well, maybe Hattie Mae could sing? She’s really good.”

“I know. But have you talked to her about this?”

“No, I told you I just thought of it.” I ate a forkful of
boeuf bourguignon
and waited, a little anxiously, for his answer.

“Oh, well, I don’t mind. I’d rather enjoy it, to tell the truth. Gospel is quite a change from the sort of thing I usually do. But you’d better check with her. She can’t stand me, you know. She can’t stand any of ‘my kind.’”

He sounded bitter, and I couldn’t leave it alone.

“Chris, shut me up if I get too personal, but do you get much of that kind of prejudice? I mean, in a profession where so many men
are
gay, I’d have thought . . .”

“You’d be surprised,” he said with a brittle laugh. “Not among musicians, usually, but there are a lot of rednecks in the Midwest. And they tend to show up in churches, good Christians thinking they have a mandate from God to hate me.”

“Well, to tell the truth, I’m not too sure how I feel about homosexuality myself, but one thing I am sure about is that God never meant us to hate anybody. People’s actions, maybe—but on the other hand, we were told not to judge. And I assume if you want my opinion, you’ll ask. Does an ambivalent attitude offend you?”

“No. You’re honest, anyway, and that’s rather refreshing. It’s people who are trying to save my soul, or the opposite, the ones who try to make a hero out of me because I
am
gay . . .” He cast a dark look at Teresa, across the table. “And by the way, I’m celibate. By choice.”

“I didn’t ask,” I said hastily. “Okay, I’ll sound Hattie Mae out about a concert. I think she’s mellowing a little; maybe it’s the storm. And surely even she, in the wake of Bob’s death—”

“Are you saying that this is a memorial for Bob, this concert of yours?”

“Well, no, I didn’t particularly—”

“Because if it is, count me out! I couldn’t stand the guy while he was alive, and I don’t intend to make pretty music for him now that he’s dead!”