The Blue Hackle (18 page)

“No, we’re committed, to the wedding and the
investigation as well. Happy New Year!”

“A good one to you when it comes,” he
returned, “in spite of it all.”

Committed. Yeah, that was about it, no matter
which meaning you attached to the word.

With a groan, Jean regained her feet and
punched the number of Hugh Munro, musician extraordinaire and her
next door neighbor. Alasdair’s neighbor, too, now.

“Forward into Scotland’s past!” answered
Hugh’s voice, like a shot of single malt, brisk with a subtle
sweetness.

“Hi Hugh, it’s me. And yes,
The
Scotsman
is right, we’ve had another murder.”

“I hadn’t seen the paper this morning, Jean,
I’ve just now tuned up my fiddle and rosined my bow for Hogmanay. A
murder, you’re saying? Ah, bad luck.”

Again Jean delivered the abstract, this time
finishing, “You’ve toured Australia, haven’t you?”

“Oh aye, the lads and I played in Sydney,
Melbourne, Brisbane, and Perth. No Townsville, though I did meet a
grand fiddler with a group named Kilbeggan based there. We exchange
e-mails from time to time, bits of music and the like.”

“Could you ask him—her—a couple of questions
about Greg MacLeod and his gallery and everything?”

“Her,” said Hugh. “Trying to work round
Inspector Gilnockie, are you? I was thinking that was Alasdair’s
role.”

“No, I’m trying everything I can think of to
get this case settled, solved, whatever, before the wedding.”

“I’ll be doing what I can, then. Sorry this
had to happen.” Hugh went on, “You’re also phoning to ask about the
work at your flat, I reckon.”

“Well yes, except I bet no one’s working
today.”

“No one’s there the day, no, but last night
they punched through the wall between the two sitting rooms and
began clearing away the older kitchen. Loads of grease round the
cooker, the old lady must have been frying up every night.”

“She was. I could always smell it. Better
than eating it, I guess. Thanks, Hugh. I know your concert tonight
will bring in the new year properly.”

“I’ll be obliged to play the newer tune for
‘Auld Lang Syne,’ not Burns’s own, if I want a singsong. A good
year to you and Alasdair when it comes, and I’ll be there with my
clarsach to play you down the aisle on Sunday.”

“Happy New Year.” Jean plumped down on the
window seat. Okay, she’d set her partners in crime to asking
questions—and she hoped to heaven they and the official crew found
some answers by Sunday. If she’d thought about it, she could even
have had Michael contact his opposite number at the Scottish
Services Museum . . .

No. How could they identify the owner of the
missing dirk when they didn’t know his name? Just because a few
threads in this tapestry of an investigation were starting to form
warp and weft, if hardly pattern, she had no way of knowing if the
Royal Scot dirk-owner was one of them.

She’d been hearing voices for a minute or
two, she realized, and swiveled to look out the window. If she’d
been a painter like Fergie, she’d have reached for her brush and
colors.

The black peaks of the Cuillins pierced the
far horizon, the only sharp angles in the entire landscape.
Coppery, rust-gold-green hills, dozens of little waterfalls making
shining stripes down their flanks, rose behind the white-painted
houses of Kinlochroy. The village clustered between the hills, the
deep blue of the loch, and the stone wall marking the boundary of
Dunasheen Estate. A pitted asphalt driveway looped between the
garden wall and the grass sloping down to the loch, avoiding
several large if windblown trees.

Jean imagined a coach-and-four rolling up an
earlier incarnation of the drive and decanting Queen Victoria and
her tartan-swathed ghillie, or marching redcoats searching for
Bonnie Prince Charlie, a royal on the lam, or Vikings pulling boats
up onto the shore.

Today’s equivalent of Viking berserkers,
reporters with cameras and microphones, were still clustered
outside the front gate. Halfway along the drive, just past the
manager’s cottage, Fergie, Pritchard, and both the dogs herded the
Krums toward the house. As they drew closer, Jean could make out
their expressions, Fergie bewildered, Pritchard angry, Heather
resentful. Scott looked as though he’d been sucking on a pickle.
Dakota darted up to the main garden gate, pushed it open, and was
brought to heel by her father with the same gesture Pritchard used
with the dogs.

No rest for the curious.
Jean grabbed
coat, scarf, gloves, and phone, made her apologies to Dougie, and
charged out of the room.

Down the stairs she went, passing the
tripping stane with neither physical stumble or psychic ripple, and
emerged onto the porch just as the motley crew arrived.

“Why can’t I walk in the garden?” asked
Dakota, her high-pitched voice less whiny than simply weary.

No one replied.

“Mrs. Krum,” Fergie said, his bewilderment
puckering into hurt, “I really don’t think it’s necessary to . .
.”

“What? You have something against freedom of
speech? You’ve got that here, too, don’t you? Don’t you think
honesty is a virtue?” Heather shot a glance at Scott that was
obviously intended to be the equivalent of a dirk between the ribs.
“I mean, we’re setting an example for the kid here.”

Yes,
thought Jean, trying to hover
invisibly beside the protuberance of the porch,
you’re setting
an example for the kid.
And right now the kid was looking from
face to face but finding nothing for her there.

“You have to consider,” Pritchard explained,
“whether your honesty is going to have a detrimental effect on
others. Telling the reporters that Dunasheen serves poor food,
which is, after all, your opinion—”

“That steak pie thing last night, the meat
was overcooked and the dough was heavy, that’s all I said. And the
house is cold and the bed lumpy. I’m just saying.”

“Heather,” said Scott, “Lionel here’s got a
point. What if the reporters go off and repeat—”

“People need frank and open criticism so they
can learn to do better. That’s what I teach in my getting ahead in
business classes, that’s what I practice in real life.”

“Oh yeah,” Scott said beneath his breath,
“that’s what you practice in real life.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded
Heather.

Fergie made a double down-boy gesture, and
not to the dogs, who were sitting quietly, tongues lolling, tails
beating. “Mr. Krum, Mrs. Krum, we’re getting on for elevenses. I’ll
have Nancy make us up a pot of tea and some biscuits—something to
warm ourselves with, eh?” His expression reminded Jean of medieval
jesters who would slice open the corners of their mouths, carving a
permanent smile.

“Fine, fine,” said Heather, and swept past
Jean into the house.

Fergie turned his ghastly smile on Jean.
“Elevenses?”

“No, thanks, I’m going for a walk through the
garden and out to the old church.” She turned toward Scott,
intending to make one more attempt to separate child from
parents—if this didn’t work, she’d have to give it up before they
took her for a pedophile.

Scott spoke first. “If you’re going to the
garden, well, last night you said you’d keep an eye on Dakota . .
.”

The child looked up, even her fuzzy earmuffs
perking.

“I’d be glad to take her with me.” Jean
suited action to word by giving Dakota’s slight shoulder a gentle
shove. Set in motion, the girl scampered toward the gate, her
striped muffler flying behind her.

“See you at lunch, then,” called Fergie, and
disappeared inside, presumably not to tell Nancy about Heather’s
criticisms lest Nancy spike Heather’s tea with arsenic.

Jean started after Dakota. Behind her, Scott
hissed sarcastically, “Thanks, pal.”

“I didn’t know you hadn’t told the old
trouble and strife,” replied Pritchard, “you know, the wife, that
you were here in September, did I now?”

Whoa
. Dakota was already out of
earshot. Jean stopped and pretended to tie her shoe.

“No,” conceded Scott. “It’s my own damn fault
for thinking Heather and the kid would enjoy the place while I did
some business. No good deed, and all that bull. Neither of the
MacDonalds was even here in September, but now Heather’s convinced
I’ve been getting it on with Diana. Not that I’d have a problem
getting it on with Diana. Once those icy ones melt, it’s the ride
of your life.”

Well, yes, Jean thought, Alasdair being a
case in point. Still, when Pritchard replied with a suggestive
snigger, she looked indignantly around and made her worst Medusa
face at both men. They were facing the other way, which was just as
well.

So Pritchard was up to something behind his
employers’ backs. Had he sold Scott the dirk in September? Probably
not—a dealer would have wanted the sheath, too. Scott could have
stolen just the knife, but then, he would have had to either take
it home with him and bring it back, or leave it somewhere in the
U.K., both options arguing that he had planned in September to
murder a man in December.

And yet, what if Scott had had an appointment
with Greg, a fellow traveler in the art and antiquities trade,
yesterday afternoon? Or with Diana, all protestations to the
contrary? But he’d been with Heather in Kinlochroy then. Hadn’t
he?

And then there was Pritchard—he could have
been dealing with Greg MacLeod . . .

“Mrs. Fairbairn?” Dakota was holding the gate
open.

Jean smiled. “Coming. Sorry. And call me
Jean.” Technically she was Ms. or Miss Fairbairn—and this time
around she was sticking with that name, considering how she’d spent
the last year reclaiming it. No way, though, did that imply this
marriage would break down, too.

“Thanks for letting me come with you,” Dakota
said. “They keep having the same argument over and over, it’s just
the names that are different. So Diana’s pretty. That doesn’t mean,
you know.”

Jean stepped into the garden, devoutly hoping
that a ten-year-old didn’t know, except in broad outline. And as
the gate clanged shut behind her, she thought, speaking of Diana,
that made two incidents on the chatelaine’s front doorstep this
morning that she’d missed. Had she really gone shopping, searching
for, say, a potato with just the right number of eyes? Or had she
lied to Fergie—again—and gone somewhere else entirely?

The sunshine held little heat, although the
light itself was warm. Soaking in the tentative rays, Jean let
Dakota lead the way along the labyrinthine paths. The child pointed
out the sculptures hidden in the shrubbery—a faun here, eyes
downcast demurely, a Virgin Mary there, eyes cutting upward
coquettishly. The vivid colors of a totem pole leaped out of a
clearing. Some of the larger trees sported little gnome doors at
their bases or eyes, noses, and lips on their trunks.

She should volunteer to do a guidebook for
Fergie. He must have interesting stories about where these things
were obtained or why he created them. With that thought, Jean
straightened, shifting the metaphorical monkey on her back, and
enjoyed the scene.

Even in winter, the garden had a derelict
beauty. The beds were mostly empty, sleeping beneath a layer of
wood chippings, but berries and bits of foliage clung to some of
the shrubs and small trees, and the bare twigs of others traced
delicate patterns. The shadows of the larger, leafless trees lay
across the gravel walks, so that the sun seemed to wink in and out
as woman and child strolled along.

The air didn’t seem nearly so cold here, and
was scented by leaf and loam with an elusive promise of spring.
Beyond their own footsteps and Dakota’s voice, Jean heard birds
squawking and singing, the rustle of branches and—was that another
set of footsteps?

She looked back, thinking perhaps Scott had
ducked his confrontation with Heather and followed them. But she
saw no one.
Paranoid, moi?
You’d think she’d been involved
in several murder investigations or something.

Dakota darted past the tree-lined alley
leading to the new church and Jean didn’t divert her. She wanted to
have her second look at the place with Alasdair, so she could voice
her thoughts about Seonaid, and Tormod, and the events of 1822.
None of them might have relevance beyond Greg’s genealogical quest,
but still, no story should be left unturned.

After fifteen minutes of Jean strolling and
Dakota zigzagging from sight to sight, the main garden gate rose
before them once again. They’d missed the path leading to the old
church. What Fergie needed to sculpt next was a Minotaur.

Now, though . . . “Is this where you saw the
ghost?” Jean asked, as casually as she could.

Dakota scuffed through the sodden leaves.
“You heard that, huh?”

“It was a little hard not to hear it. But
that’s okay, I like ghost stories.”

“It’s no story. We were driving up the
driveway and my mom was bawling out my dad for leaving her alone in
the pub—”

“Leaving her alone?”

“Yeah, he was like, doing some deal at the
office back home but couldn’t get cell phone reception. So he went
outside and walked down to the harbor, took him forever, she said.
Not so long, he said. If she’d just sat tight in the pub he
wouldn’t have had to wander around town looking for her.”

“He had to look for her? You mean, she left
you in the pub and went looking for him?”

“Yeah, he was mad she left me alone, but she
said it was his own fault and I wasn’t alone anyway, that
nice-looking policeman was talking to the bartender. Though she
didn’t say ‘nice-looking’ to Dad, just to me.”

She did, did she?
Jean thought.

“There were a lot of people there, like the
guy with the beard, you know, who was bringing out the breakfast
stuff . . .”