Dressed to Kilt Page 7

  “As you know, we went to the whisky tasting together and left together. He wasn’t in the warehouse when I discovered the body, and from our brief conversation on the way home, he didn’t notice anything unusual or anyone acting strangely. Nor did I. But Charlotte Penn shared something this morning. Did you know that Henrietta had been diagnosed with lung cancer and was given six months to live?”

  “Aye, Bridie told me. But I don’t see a connection as o’ yet. Do you?”

  I shook my head. “No, but it’s still bothering me that Henrietta had wanted to see me after the tasting. Did you question Bridie further on whether she knew why?”

  “She claims tae be as much in the dark as we are, and I believe her.”

  That was disappointing, but expected. “I hoped Bridie might have some idea.”

  “Henrietta refused tae say other than she needed tae have a chat with ye. She was a stubborn woman when she set her mind tae something. Anything she gave away during yer earlier visit that might have bearing on her reason?”

  “None. But what if she had a particular concern over the note? Since she assumed it was intended for Bridie, she might have had suspicions to share with me. Maybe she thought she knew who sent it. Although wouldn’t she have said that earlier?”

  The inspector sighed. “We may never know what she had on her mind. Fer now, I’d appreciate it if you’d go intae toon and have a go at Patricia Martin. Sean took her statement and I had words with her, but she was in no shape tae answer questions o’ a more personal nature last night. Hopefully, she’s managed tae pull herself together. And if she hasn’t, we need answers anyhoo. We can’t wait any longer. The sister could have an idea or two as tae the reason fer the drowning.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “And while ye’re at it, ye better speak tae that space cadet from yer part o’ the world. I can’t imagine that she’ll be useful, but ye never know.”

  “Are you really referring to my countrywoman in that derogatory manner?”

  “Aye, Janet Dougal. From our exchange last night, I’m guessin’ she’s too high up on her throne tae have noticed anything at all. And I wouldn’t go acknowledgin’ that ye share a country with the likes o’ her if I were you.”

  And so, after he’d gone on his way, I bundled up against the cold and popped into Vicki’s house before heading to town, noting that Sean’s Renault was gone already. Neither Vicki nor I are in the habit of knocking, although we don’t exactly barge right in. So I opened the door, poked my head in, and announced my presence.

  Vicki was hunkered over her laptop and looked startled at first. Then she reddened and slammed the computer closed as though I’d caught her surfing inappropriate sites.

  “You scared me,” she said, stumbling over her words, making me wonder what she’d been up to.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. Just looking up a recipe or two.”

  “Really?” I said, thinking that another treat like the recent one was on the horizon. “What are you going to make?”

  “You’re certainly nosy this morning,” she said, with a weak smile. “Save that for your suspects.” If not for that smile, however small, that accompanied her words, I would have felt hurt. Still, her reaction when I’d arrived was out of character for Vicki.

  What was going on?

  Not feeling particularly welcome, I went back outside. The world was a white blanket as far as I could see, my breath rode on the air, and I pulled up the collar of my coat.

  A few minutes later, I warmed up the Peugeot and headed for Glenkillen.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Whistling Inn, the village’s only lodging, is next to the Kilt & Thistle Pub, and I’d stayed here myself on my arrival in the Highlands. At this time of year, after high season, it has more vacancies than paying guests. Even Christmas sees few visitors, as sightseeing takes a back seat to family gatherings. Another three weeks, though, and it will be brimming with visitors celebrating Hogmanay, which is the Scottish version of New Year’s Eve. Even a small village like Glenkillen will indulge in all-night partying—singing, dancing, eating, and drinking.

  Or so I’ve been told. I won’t be around to join in the revelry. It’s back to Chicago for me.

  After parking, I entered the inn.

  A Scots pine, or Scotch pine as we call them in the States, stood in one corner of the reception area. The smell of fresh, woodsy evergreen assaulted my senses. The dark-green foliage was decorated with white lights and tartan ribbons fashioned into bows. On the banister leading to the guest rooms above, garlands of holly and berries wound up the stairs, and more garland graced the mantelpiece over a fireplace with a roaring log fire. The inn was warm, inviting, and cozy.

  I greeted Jeannie Morris, the reluctant proprietor. She has her own cross to bear in the form of an alcoholic father, who isn’t in any condition to help the young woman manage the inn. The inspector had referred to her father earlier when we’d had lunch together at the Kilt & Thistle. Bill spends his days and evenings inside the pub with one pint after another in front of him.

  My heart went out to Jeannie now that I knew the woman better. She acted out in her own way, with shocking red hair and the defiance of a nose ring. Recently she’s added a tattoo to the back of her neck—XX, which she claims is a Viking symbol meaning, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” In spite of her appearance, the inn is immaculate and well run, and it appears that she has reconciled herself to her circumstances. At least for the time being.

  When I gave Jeannie the names of the guests I wished to speak with, she rolled her eyeballs and said, “Janet Dougal is in the breakfast room. I haffn’t seen hide nor hair o’ Patricia Martin. She’s in her room, grievin’ I imagine. Ye’d think she’d need tae eat at some point. I can’t believe Henrietta McCloud is dead. And murdered at that. What a shock! But ye’ll sort it all out, won’t ye?”

  “Of course,” I said, taking on the same positive attitude as the inspector. “I’ll be in the breakfast room with Janet. If Henrietta’s sister comes down, let her know that I need to speak with her.”

  “Haff fun with that one,” Jeannie said, which explained the reason for the eye roll. It seemed that my fellow American had a knack for creating that effect on people.

  Janet Dougal had shoveled on her makeup with a trowel again, rouged cheekbones and aqua eye shadow along with ruby-red lips. In the light of day, it gave her a harsh appearance. Last night, she’d worn it just as heavy, but I’d assumed that was her nighttime look. Apparently it was her daywear as well.

  “I’ve finished eating,” she told me when I asked to join her. “So if it suits you, go ahead and sit down. I was just lingering over another cup of coffee. These Scotch know how to make a hearty breakfast. I can give them that much credit at least.”

  Jeannie appeared with a coffeepot, refilled Janet’s cup, and poured a fresh cup for me. She caught my eye and did another eye roll before moving off, having arrived at the table in time to hear the reference to “Scotch.”

  “They’re called Scots,” I corrected her, taking a seat. “Not Scotch. I believe they find that term offensive. I’m going to hazard a guess. You’re not Scottish, are you?”

  I smiled to myself. That was hardly an educated guess. The inspector would have been amused if he were here.

  “My husband certainly was,” she said. “Otherwise he wouldn’t be of Clan Dougal. I have never been active with our clan, although I’d hate to admit it to this bunch of relatives. My late husband dabbled in genealogy and was proud of his heritage. He liked to hang around with the clansmen. He and I planned this trip a year ago, prior to his death. I decided to continue on without him after realizing that he hadn’t taken a travel insurance policy and the expense of the trip would be a total loss if I canceled.”

  “He was closely related to Bridie?”

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nbsp; “Not the way we think of connections at home, of course. By name, though, and I have to be accepted based on marriage to a Scotch.”

  So much for my effort a moment ago to socialize Janet. Let her find her own way.

  She took a slow sip of coffee before adding, “That was terrible what happened to the housemaid. Have they caught whoever did it?”

  “Henrietta was Bridie’s longtime companion, which is far more personal an association than if she’d been a maid. Bridie has lost a good friend. And, as to your question, not yet, we’re making progress on the case.”

  Not entirely true to my knowledge, but a reassurance Jamieson often used when questioned.

  “We?” Janet asked, taking more interest in me.

  “I’m part of the investigative team, and I would like to ask you a few questions.”

  A shadow crossed her face. “So this isn’t a social call.”

  “No.”

  Janet replaced her coffee cup in the saucer with a clank and raised a thickly penciled eyebrow. “I suppose you want to go over every detail regarding that silly disagreement I had with the woman.”

  I managed to keep my expression neutral, and I nodded as though that were exactly what I wanted to discuss. Which it was, now that I knew there was a point to be discussed.

  “It isn’t anything worth wasting taxpayers’ money over,” she continued. “Really nothing at all. Except now she’s dead, and I assume you have to follow up on every single little thing.”

  “Tell me your version,” I said, as though I’d heard another side of the story already.

  Janet scowled. “I fully expected to be welcomed into Bridie’s home,” she said. “I’d introduced myself as a Dougal by e-mailing the distillery’s contact number well in advance. I gave my arrival date and approximate time of day that I thought I’d be there. That hired woman wanted me to go through her instead of dealing directly with Bridie as was my right. I’m a Dougal, maybe not a blood relative, but my marriage should count for something.”

  She paused as Jeannie came by and refilled our cups. This time she skipped the eye roll on her way out.

  I added cream to my coffee and said, “How many Dougals would you estimate live in Scotland?”

  “I couldn’t say. Quite a few, I imagine.”

  “And in the States?”

  “Many, would be my guess. America has been a popular destination for my husband’s relatives since the first ship set sail, and goodness knows the Dougals like to multiply. Do you have a point?”

  “So every single Dougal, no matter how remote, how little the other Dougals might be aware of them, all should be treated as family, free to pop in on each other at will?”

  I’d meant it as a point of contention, but Janet chose to take my comment as affirmation of her position on the matter.

  She nodded enthusiastically. “We all should be treated like family, considering we are family. That’s the point I was trying to make. The least Bridie could have done was given me a place to stay. Instead that dead woman . . .”

  “Henrietta. Her name was Henrietta McCloud.”

  “Yes, her. She booked me into this inn, not that it isn’t nice, but well, not a single soul even offered to pay for my lodging. Then this Henrietta wouldn’t allow me to speak to Bridie to voice my complaint. It’s a miracle that I found out about the whisky tasting in advance.”

  Ah, yes, now I remembered. Janet had been a party crasher.

  “How exactly did you learn of the tasting?”

  “That relative of the dead woman’s was in here and I overheard him. He was her nephew, I believe.”

  “Gordon Martin?”

  “That’s the one. Did I mention that I’m rather a connoisseur of fine whisky? When my husband was alive, we toured distilleries from the New York Catskills to Bourbon County in Kentucky, from Tennessee to Montana and Washington. Anyway, I gave Henrietta McCloud a piece of my mind.”

  “Go on,” I said, sounding just like the inspector.

  “I phoned yesterday afternoon to request detailed directions to the distillery. When she gave them, she was extremely vague as though she hoped I’d lose my way. I told her exactly how thoughtless she’d been from the moment I arrived in this village.”

  “And?”

  “And then she called me an ugly American!”

  Janet Dougal was an ugly American. She gave the rest of us a bad name worldwide, with her superiority complex and her sense of entitlement. Janet hadn’t even bothered to learn the most basic social protocols before arriving in Scotland, and she certainly wasn’t learning by example as a normally conscientious person would.

  “Did you actually meet Henrietta, face to face?”

  She shook her head. “All of our communications were by telephone. I didn’t even meet Bridie until last night, and I can’t say she was any more welcoming, although she said she’d call on me for lunch soon. But that was only after I pressed. By the way, I’m holding her to that offer.”

  “When did you arrive in Glenkillen?”

  “Last Thursday, two days before the tasting. And I’m scheduled to leave this weekend. Now this! Who knows when I’ll be allowed to go.” She shuddered. “I find Scotland cold in all respects. The climate as well as the people.”

  As Janet complained about one thing after another Scotland-related, I realized I didn’t have any sort of timeline leading up to and culminating in Henrietta’s death. When had it taken place? She’d been murdered either in the afternoon (since I’d seen her in the late morning) or in the early evening before the tasting. The thought that it might have occurred during the tasting was unacceptable to me. No one could be that brash and bold, could they? No, the risk was way too high.

  “One last question for now,” I said. “Where were you yesterday afternoon?”

  “Ah, of course. If I’d known that the woman was going to get herself killed, I would have been more public with my movements, but I’m afraid I spent the entire afternoon before the tasting in my room.”

  “Can anyone vouch for that?”

  Janet found my question highly amusing. “If you want to know if I was finding out what’s under one of those man skirts, the sad truth of the matter is that I was completely alone.”

  And I didn’t need to wonder why! I pitied her poor deceased husband for all the years he’d had to tolerate her.

  Janet leaned back and cocked her head to one side. “Have you worked closely with Inspector Jamieson?”

  “Yes, as his special constable.” I wasn’t about to explain my volunteer status. “Special” conveyed a certain superior status to someone not familiar with the actual definition. And Janet fell into the clueless category. “I’ve worked with him on prior cases.”

  “He seems like a nice man.”

  I shrugged, eager to be on my way rather than indulge in small talk.

  “Is he single?” she asked, coyly.

  Ah. She was interested in him. “He’s a widower.”

  She smiled as though she were thrilled with his status.

  I wished her a good day and made my way back to the reception area, highly amused by Janet Dougal’s interest in the inspector. He, though, most certainly would not find anything humorous about it.

  Jeannie was on the telephone booking a reservation. When she hung up, I inquired about Patricia Martin.

  “No sign o’ her yet,” Jeannie told me. “But it’s early and she might not be one o’ those early birds tae catch the worm.”

  I jotted a message to Patricia along with my cell phone number and handed it to Jeannie. “Give this to her, please.”

  “Aye. And good luck with uncoverin’ the devil that did this. We’ll all rest easier then.”

  Outside, I raised my coat collar against the cold, crisp air. Janet Dougal had volunteered plenty of information, although determining if it was use
ful was another matter. Janet had had an altercation with the dead woman, however much she tried to downplay it, and she lacked witnesses to support her whereabouts.

  After interviewing the unpleasant woman, all I wanted to do was prove her innocent and send her back across the Atlantic Ocean. The less I had to deal with her, the better. She grated on my nerves. And I wasn’t the only one who disliked being around her. From Janet’s own account, Henrietta and Bridie had felt the same way.

  I decided there were only two ways to steer clear of her. One was to quickly eliminate her as a suspect. The other, if evidence against her strengthened, was to hand her over to the inspector. And I liked him too much to wish that on him.

  When I walked past the pub on the way to my car, Sean Stevens pulled up beside me and rolled down the window of his red Renault. “It’s monkeys outside,” he called to me. “What are ye doin’ strollin’ along like it’s summertime?”

  “Monkeys?” I paused in spite of the cold. This was a new expression.

  “It’s common enough here. It means it’s freezin’ cold!”

  “I thought you were assigned to watch over Bridie Dougal.”

  “Look who’s checkin’ up on me like she’s the big boss.” Sean had on an attitude today, not that unusual when he worked a case. Sean treated Vicki well and I respected him for that, but he was a completely different man during an investigation when he puffed up with self-importance. Then his testosterone kicked in. “If ye must know,” he went on, “I’m fact checkin’ with the hairdresser down the street a ways. Bridie claims she was having her hair done in the late afternoon, and her whereabouts needs tae be verified. And it’s a fine time since she’s visitin’ with her son.”

  “Bridie definitely had her hair done,” I told him, remembering that her hair had been styled professionally for the tasting.