Hooked on Ewe (7 page)

I pulled into the lane leading past Sheepish Expressions before the gravel lane turned onto the road leading to Glenkillen. The refreshment tent still stood out in the field. Volunteers had meant to come today and tear it down and also to clean up after the spectators. Isla had been the one who had demanded that all the Saturday volunteers return on Sunday to pick up trash and dismantle the big tent, the obstacle gates, and the holding pens. Now, with the rain, those chores would have to wait a little longer.

Oliver’s van was nowhere in sight. Neither was the Lindseys’ camper van.

My drive into Glenkillen was mostly uneventful despite my windshield wipers flapping against a steady downpour of rain, except for one abrupt and harrowing moment when I rounded a blind curve to discover a shaggy red-coated, long-horned Highland cow calmly strolling across the narrow road. I slammed on the brakes, practically standing the car on end. The cow didn’t even acknowledge my presence.

After catching my breath and stilling my pounding heart, I drove slowly away, cautious of more than my own faulty
driving abilities. The cow had been an important reminder that four-legged creatures also traveled these roads.

Soon, though, my driving concerns gave way to wonder. I never grow tired of the view, even on a rainy day like this, when Glenkillen comes into sight below as I wind down from the towering Highlands to the village situated at sea level. Or the drive along the harbor with its stunning and sweeping panorama of the North Sea. Fishing boats and sailboats bob in the harbor, many in slips along the pier, others tied to moorings, and some traveling the waves on the way in to shore or out to sea. Watching the whitecaps kissing the surface of the water, I wondered if Leith’s boat was one of those going out, or if he and his charges were out of sight by now.

Next, I passed the beach, empty now due to the rain, but during the summer months it had been a popular gathering place for the community and visitors.

It’s always a joy, too, to turn away from the harbor and drive the few blocks on Castle Street to the town center, especially now that I’m more familiar with the businesses and the owners. I love Glenkillen’s cobblestone streets, red-tiled rooftops, and whitewashed buildings. Among other assorted establishments, the town has a charming bookstore whose shelves I hope my own books will one day grace, a whisky shop where the proprietor is generous with the samples, an inn for out-of-town visitors, the most amazing bakery with Scottish delectables, and my particular favorite, the Kilt & Thistle pub, where my writing muse has decided to take up residence.

After parking and entering the pub, I greeted the
owners, Dale and his wife, Marg, and put in a request for a pot of strong black tea. I also gave a passing hello to Bill Morris, owner of the Whistling Inn next door. His veiny bulbous nose and bloodshot eyes reminded me what alcohol has the potential to do, the destruction it has the power to wield in its wake.

Bill’s daughter, Jeannie, has operated the Whistling Inn ever since Bill took a dive into a bottle of Scottish rye and never crawled out. A sad story, but Bill is a regular at the pub, or rather a permanent fixture unless or until he passes out. In which case, a good-hearted soul or two helps him to his feet and sees him to his bed in one of the rooms next door. The old coot hears plenty from his perch at a dark table close to the bar, but his soggy memory tends to be unreliable. And he’s been known to tell the rest of us to “bugger off” when it suits him.

Today, he ignored my greeting, making me wonder for the umpteenth time why I bothered to make the effort.

“I’ll deliver the tea to yer usual spot?” Marg said, and I thought she looked tired. It was rare when either of the pub owners had time off. They seemed to live at the Kilt & Thistle. “Ye have a visitor waiting.”

So even before I could steel myself to power up my laptop and force myself to take a look at my in-box, I found Inspector Jamieson sipping tea in my favorite writing nook.

“I’m going tae need yer help after all,” he said in his thick Scottish brogue. “Ye best sit doon.”

In the brief time it took to set my laptop on the table and situate myself in a chair opposite Inspector Jamieson, my emotions vacillated between annoyance and elation.

Annoyance, because he hadn’t wanted my assistance last evening at the scene of the crime when he was taking statements from potential witnesses. Hadn’t I been the one to discover Isla’s body? Wasn’t Jamieson the one who’d suggested that I become a special constable? Shouldn’t I have had this choice from the very beginning?

But I also felt happy that the inspector, who wore his badge, job, and emotions so close to his chest, had chosen to put his trust in me. Better late than never, as they say.

“How could I possibly be of assistance?” I asked, wondering what had caused his change of heart.

“Tae be perfectly honest, I need somebody intelligent tae bounce ideas back and forth, and that’s where yerself comes in.”

I smiled, pleased in spite of myself. His flattery had worked. “What about Sean?” I quipped. “Isn’t he your right-hand man?”

“Aren’t ye the funny lass? As ye well know, Sean tries his best, and I’m not saying he won’t make a good police officer one day, but following all the leads that present themselves isn’t his strong suit. He isn’t much fer the sort o’ forward thinking required o’ detective work. And asking him to carry on with more than one task at a time is a recipe fer disaster.”

“I see your point.” And I did. Sean was a kind man with a keen sense of justice, but he wasn’t cut from the same cloth as the inspector. But was I? Hardly.

“Besides, he’s a changed man, less intense in his devotion tae extra duties, since I believe he’s set his sights on Vicki MacBride.” The inspector chuckled. “I just noo sent him out tae the farm, and have high hopes that I won’t see him again until the sun rises on another day.”

Marg arrived with my tea and more hot water for the inspector’s own pot. Her two redheaded twins ran through the pub, weaving around tables, making enough noises for a classroom of boys. “Shush, you wild loons,” she called after them. “Ye’re making enough clatter to raise the dead. Watch yerselves, or I’ll put ye to work scrubbin’ pots.” But her warning fell on empty space; they’d already disappeared out the door. She smiled as only a mother can and said, “Sundays are always making me wish fer Monday and a nice day o’ rest.”

“Today
is
the day of rest, Marg,” the inspector reminded her.

“Not the way I see it. Monday is my day. The boys are
in school and ’tis my day off from working here at the pub. Monday can’t arrive soon enough tae suit me. Well, I’ll leave ye tae yer business.”

“Have you brought my pepper spray?” I asked after Marg had gone off. “That was part of the deal we struck, if you remember.” I couldn’t wait to have that small canister of security.

“Ah, I knew I’d forgotten tae bring something,” the inspector said with an expression that suggested he wasn’t being completely honest with me after all and didn’t care if I knew it. “So, now that ye’ve had a night o’ rest to think on it, what do ye make of Isla Lindsey’s murder?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it a night of rest,” I groused, thinking of how much of the night I’d lain awake.

“I hope it was better than if I’d put the burden o’ stayin’ at the crime scene on ye. I was wanting tae spare ye that ugly task.”

That was a surprise. I’d just assumed the inspector was getting rid of me—yet all along he’d been trying to be considerate?

“Our Sean had words with the victim yesterday,” he went on.

I almost blurted out, “Oh, good, I was hoping he would tell you about that,” but caught myself just in time. Instead I said, “Oh?”

“Aye. He came clean about that early this morning, after feeling responsible fer her death the entire night, thinking she wouldn’t have gone off by herself if he hadn’t provoked her. I told him after all the meanness she’s directed at others, he can’t blame himself fer giving her a little o’ her own medicine. And I suspect she stomped off in a snit, but
forgot about it the minute he was out o’ her sight. She was a hard one, she was.”

“Isla was a piece of work, that’s for sure,” I agreed wholeheartedly. “She wasn’t usually one to walk away from a fight.” Thinking back, I realized that Sean hadn’t elaborated when he’d mentioned their altercation, and I hadn’t thought to ask. “What could Sean possibly have said to her to get that sort of reaction?”

The inspector surprised me with a hardy chuckle. “Ye sure ye want to know?”

“Of course.” I picked up my teacup and took a sip, leaving the cup between both of my hands, appreciating the warmth.

“She was bossing him around. ‘Put the van here.’ ‘Sit there.’ ‘Say this when they ask this.’ ‘Do that.’ Finally, in exasperation Special Constable Stevens replied . . . let’s see if I’ve got this right . . . his exact words if I’m not mistaken were”—and then the inspector did a perfect imitation of Sean—“‘Perhaps ye should accompany me tae the loo. Ye could hold me private parts so the aim is more tae yer liking.’”

I burst out laughing so hard that tea sloshed from my cup. Nothing about Isla’s murder was funny, but Sean’s comeback to her was priceless, and I could almost see the expression on her face when he made that off-colored suggestion.

I noticed that the inspector’s composure had a slight crack in it, too, for a change. “Never a dull moment with our Sean,” he added.

I wiped up the drops of tea I’d spilled on the table and
composed myself. “So we know that Isla was still alive sometime in the afternoon.”

The inspector nodded. “That’s been confirmed by witnesses.”

“I saw her myself. She was making rounds about noontime.” Then I remembered a detail that probably was insignificant, but thought I should mention it anyway. “She had a bag on her shoulder, one I hadn’t seen earlier. I noticed because it was plaid and her skirt was a tartan and I recall thinking the patterns didn’t go together. They clashed.”

“That woulda been the messenger bag used tae collect cash periodically throughout the day tae deter would-be thieves.”

“Is the bag missing?” Had it been stolen? That was a whole new possibility I hadn’t considered—had the motive been theft all along?

“No, no, it was tucked away safely in the Lindseys’ vehicle. Isla had picked up what was available and locked it up fer safekeeping. Bryan turned it over tae Harry Taggart fer an accounting after I made a record o’ the contents.”

“So we still don’t know when she was murdered.”

“Not precisely, but I have a witness who said tha’ she was in the queue fer the loo at aboot half past one. But ye know how many people were out and about. Those I’ve interviewed so far didn’t see anything unusual. And certainly not a one o’ them can account fer every minute of their time after that, so proper alibis have been scarce tae come by. It’s going tae be a tough nut tae crack.” He leaned back. “Ye found her body slightly after five o’clock, and that’s been confirmed by several o’ the others who were
still on the grounds. Meaning she was murdered in aboot a three-and-a-half-hour time frame.”

“Between one thirty and five.”

“That’s the best we can do fer the moment.”

“What about her husband, Bryan?” I asked. “How’s he coping?”

“He claims he can’t go on living without her, but I’m beginning tae think he’s going overboard with his grief. But as tae killing his wife . . . he would have had plenty of other opportunities to get rid of her that wouldnae involved the risk this killer took. Bryan stays on the list o’ suspects fer the time being, however. Nobody can be ruled out this early in the investigation. Though I really hope Isla didn’t die at his hand. He’s a respected member o’ the community, and it would be a blow tae us all.”

I agreed. I didn’t know the man, but Bryan Lindsey had just been through a nightmare, and I really hoped the community would rally around him rather than condemn him without any proof whatsoever. However, I had to ask: “Is there any possibility that another woman was involved? Someone on the side?”

The inspector sighed as he was busy preparing his tea, adding milk and sugar while keeping his features neutral as usual. Watching his smooth motions, I was again reminded of one characteristic the two of us shared: we’re both left-handed.

“According tae the gossipmongers, there’s always another person involved,” he said dully, as though he’d run into this sort of hearsay often. “Best to ignore that kind of idle talk, or at least tuck it away fer the time being unless we can prove it’s more than just indulging in poppycock.”

“Poppycock” reminded me of poppy socks and that in turn reminded me of Vicki’s bloodred yarn. The disturbing image of my encounter with the dead Isla flashed through my head as it had many times since that shocking moment when she fell at my feet. I tried willing those memories away, but they refused to scurry far, remaining lodged at the edges of my mind.

“Who else is suspect?”

“All those on the fund-raising committees who had tae deal with the victim’s sharp tongue. Isla was expert at putting people off. We also have tae include anyone who came in contact with those knitting kits, either the members themselves or anyone who mightae pinched one. Who knows besides that? Even my special constable had opportunity and as much motive as anybody else.”

“You don’t really suspect Sean!”

“O’ course not. It’s the least likely person I’m most interested in, the one careful tae remain out o’ sight and off the radar.”

For a short time we sipped tea in a comfortable silence while contemplating possibilities. A few minutes later I asked about Oliver Wallace. “Since Isla was murdered inside his van, what does he have to say about his own whereabouts?”

“The man is a basket case. Says that he never locks the van. The silly bloke even leaves the keys dangling in the ignition as though he’s begging fer thieves tae make off with it. And he says he hadn’t been out tae it since unloading the tent first thing. Sean says the keys were in the ignition when he moved the van tae the back of the parking lot and he left them there and the van unlocked just as he’d found things. I can’t fault him fer that.”

“Oliver claimed I could vouch for him,” I said, wanting to clear up any misunderstandings on that front, “but I hardly saw him until right before we found Isla’s body.”

“I imagine he was a bit shook up and frightened when he said that. Understandable, considering the murder occurred in his van. Unfortunate fer us, there are so many fingerprints inside the van and out, I don’t know where tae begin sorting through them. A needle in a haystack would be easy compared tae this.”

“What does Oliver do for a living?” I asked. “I’ve heard he’s very active on fund-raising boards, but that hardly pays a mortgage.”

The inspector considered briefly then said, “Wallace wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth even if he’d like ye tae think that. He married well enough, though.”

That surprised me. I hadn’t noticed a wedding ring or seen him with a woman who could be his wife. “Oliver is married?”

“Was. He got a bit o’ settlement out o’ the dissolution back a few years ago, seeing as how she came from money. Nothing tae brag aboot, I suspect, but enough tae get by. He isn’t flashy and his van is an example o’ that. Noo, what’s yer take on our killer?”

“I’ve gone over what happened, and it just doesn’t make sense to murder someone at such a public event. Unless the killer felt he had no choice.”

“Ye’re certain it’s a he?” he asked, stirring his tea.

“I think so,” I said, remembering that Isla was a solidly built woman. “Someone strong enough to hold the yarn tightly with a steady grip and plenty of pressure. I’m
confident that Isla would have fought back against her attacker. She wouldn’t just sit there while she was being choked to death without putting up a good fight.”

He seemed pleased, probably because my assessment matched his.

I went on, aware that we were going over ground he must have already considered on his own. But if he wanted a second opinion, I’d give it to him. “Perhaps Isla saw something she shouldn’t have, or discovered something damaging that triggered her death. But who knows what goes through the mind of a person capable of such violence?”

In the next moment, the inspector’s mobile phone rang. He checked the incoming number and rose as he answered it, moving away. Out of sight as well as earshot. Ten minutes or more must have elapsed before he returned and sat down at the table, long enough that I had begun to wonder if he was coming back at all.

“An important piece of information just came tae light,” he told me, “which I’m wanting tae share with ye. It’s in regards tae the autopsy performed on Isla Lindsey. The cause of death was as we would have expected. Ligature strangulation.”

That was hardly surprising. My expression must have said as much because he went on, “Aye, both o’ us made that assumption, but nothing is cast in stone until the coroner’s examination is concluded. Now we know it fer certain.”

I’m pretty sure I looked disappointed.

“But there’s more tae consider,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“Fortunately fer the investigation, Isla Lindsey had
undigested food materials in her stomach, which have been identified. Based on that information, I rang up the baker a few minutes ago.”