1 Off Kilter (19 page)

“What are you trying to get me to eat now?” I asked, surveying a plate between us on the bar. We’d decided to sit at the bar on stools rather than at a table. The boozer innkeeper wasn’t in his regular spot for a change, and the pub was quieter than usual, given the time of day, sandwiched between lunchtime and cocktail hour.

“Haggis,” announced the inspector, with what I suspected was his version of glee. Was this payback time for my earlier behavior? “A Scottish delicacy that it’s time ye tasted.”

I’m pretty sure I grimaced.

“A little heart.” He went on. “Lungs, liver, suet. Eat up, lass.”

Behind the bar, Dale was watching and listening to our exchange. “The inspector ordered ye the vegetarian haggis,” he called out. “He’s pullin’ yer leg.”

“Thanks fer spoilin’ my fun,” the inspector called to him.

“I don’t believe there is such a thing as vegetarian haggis,” I shot back to both of them, pretty confident that vegetarian haggis was a contradiction in terms.

“There most certainly is,” Dale insisted. “All ’tis is onions, carrots, lentils, beans, a few peanuts, rolled oats, and secret spices, and the lot served with a nice whisky sauce.”

“And what’s that?” I asked as Dale brought over another dish.

“Neeps and tatties,” he answered.

The inspector interpreted for me. “Turnips and potatoes.”

Dale went off to help another customer, calling over his shoulder: “Ye wouldn’t catch Rob Roy eating that wimpy version o’ haggis, that’s fer sure. Nor William Wallace.”

I inspected the plates cautiously while the inspector placed a little of everything on a smaller plate for me.

Regardless of what those Scottish ancestors would think, I found the vegetarian haggis delicious. The haggis owed most of its flavor to a whisky sauce, which was wonderful. And the neeps and tatties reminded me of home, of days long gone when my mother would prepare a boiled wintertime dinner with ham, potatoes, and turnips. Comfort food.

While we ate, Inspector Jamieson and I talked of simple things, of the beautiful hillsides and the weather, which had been every bit as unpredictable as I’d heard it would be.

“Aye,” he commented. “It’s fickle.”

When we were through eating, he said, “I’m not the monster ye envision.”

“It’s been a rough few days for all of us. Please accept my sincere apology. I’m just so frustrated.”

“Yer apology is accepted and already forgotten. I appreciate yer point of view, I really do. But I have a question fer ye: Why would our killer go tae all the trouble and risk to kill Gavin Mitchell simply tae frame Vicki MacBride? Why not take her out first thing and be done with it?”

Which, I realized, was exactly what had been bothering me, too.

The inspector continued. “Now, I have tae suspect a stronger motive fer murdering the man.”

“To keep him quiet?”

“Aye, most likely.”

“He was with James MacBride at his deathbed.”

“I know yer thinking about that will, but if the father had drafted an updated one, none o’ the other family members would have had a motive. They certainly would have benefited. Leaving . . .”

“Yes, the most likely suspect in that case: Vicki.”

That was the reason I hated the idea of an updated will. “We’re missing something, a key piece of information. What about the box on the floor of the cottage?”

“It might have been knocked off the telly when the killer was bringing in the body, fer all we know.”

Granted, the room was small, the television not far from Gavin’s body.

I decided to change topics, since we were at an impasse.

“How are things working out with Sean?”

“He’s still a heather goose,” the inspector said, then clarified when he saw my confused expression. “A ninny,” he explained. “But I’ve learned how tae handle the nuisance.”

I smiled. “By sending him off with busywork?”

“Shrewd as ever, ye are.”

We sat in comfortable silence for a short while. Most people dread a lull in conversation and will fill it with any noise just to be making sound. But the inspector was perfectly fine with it, and so was I.

A few minutes later, I brought up Alec MacBride by saying, “He’s an interesting man, and successful it appears. His business must be thriving, since he has time to golf on weekdays.”

The inspector paused in thought before saying, “The man seems tae set his own hours and throw his money around plenty. He’s known tae be somewhat of a lady’s man, so be aware o’ his smooth talk.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” I said, remembering only too well my last conversation with Alec and the note it had ended on. If I wanted his help in stalling his sister, I’d have to make amends first.

“So ye think Vicki MacBride was run off the road?” the inspector asked, his intense eyes watching me again.

I squirmed, regretting that accusation. I had absolutely no basis for it. “It was only one theory, and not a very good one, spoken in a moment of extreme frustration. I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

“There’s no evidence tae support such a claim. Vicki is the only one who can answer that question, and she hasn’t remembered anythin’ at all regarding the accident in the few short times she’s been awake fer questioning. And when I try tae solicit an answer regarding her exchange with Gavin Mitchell, all she’ll say is that she doesn’t remember.” He paused. “Her doctor says that’s common after psychological trauma, and she certainly had plenty o’ that. I’m anxious tae question her further, but those nurses are a difficult lot tae get past.”

“Did you know Kirstine MacBride and that husband of hers have scheduled a court hearing for Friday to try to take over the farm? They’ll get it back if Vicki can’t manage it. Not only that: John ordered me off of their property.”

“He’s a hothead,” was all the inspector would say.

“So I’ve been told repeatedly. Doesn’t his temper trigger alarm bells for you? And that lawyer! He’s a piece of work.”

Jamieson didn’t respond right away, giving me time to feel bad about allowing more of my sarcasm and frustration to come between us.

What was wrong with me today?

“Sorry,” I said, deciding it was my day for apologies by the boatload.

“I’m following every lead,” he said calmly, “and eliminating most o’ them along the way. That’s my method, and it’s proven tae be effective fer me. In the end, it’s the pieces left in my hand, the ones that don’t fit intae the puzzle, that matter.”

A wise and true observation.

“Are you about to charge Vicki?” I asked.

“Would I bring charges against a woman recovering from a car accident while she’s still in hospital?”

“I’d hope not, and especially not without a motive.”

“Don’t ye have a story ye should be writing?” he replied instead. “Instead o’ worrying aboot my competence?”

“I have absolute faith in your ability to solve this case,” I said with a friendly smile.

After the inspector departed, I set up in a back corner, hoping to get something done on the story, no matter how small. But first, I had an e-mail from Ami.

“I could feel your attraction to this inspector coming through cyberspace! If your writing reflects the same for Gillian and Jack, you’re going to have a bestseller on your hands. By the way, where is that scene you are supposed to be sending?”

Oh, please. I’d simply described the man. It wasn’t like I’d told her he was a sexual magnet or anything. Granted, the inspector had many good qualities, but that didn’t have to mean I was interested. Ami should have been in theater. I didn’t bother responding.

I tried to write; I really did. I gave Gillian and Jack a few special gazes into each other’s eyes and some internal dialogue to go with the eye locks, but my thoughts kept going back to the conversation I’d had with Inspector Jamieson regarding Vicki.

I couldn’t help thinking that he had locked onto Vicki with jaws as tenacious and powerful as a pit bull’s.

After that, I returned to the farmhouse, gave Coco and Pepper a little exercise, then put my plan to make amends with Alec MacBride into play by phoning him with a request for a golf lesson the next morning. But first, I needed to apologize, even though I wasn’t sorry at all that I’d defended Vicki.

“You simply expressed your opinion,” Alec said graciously. “We don’t have to see eye-to-eye on the family drama. I was in a bit of a snit myself, I must admit, and said more than I should have. But that’s behind us.”

“So you’ll give me a golf lesson? Maybe tomorrow?”

“Come to the club now,” he said, expressing pleasure. “Or better yet, I’ll pick you up.”

“It’s almost eight o’clock,” I said, mulling over the best way to ask for his help regarding his sister’s latest plot. “Isn’t that too late?”

“Not at all. As long as we have a wee bit of daylight, I can show you a few swings. My club’s dress code is casual. No jeans, though, and certainly no collarless shirts. Oh, and a set of waterproofs if you have them.”

I resisted his offer to pick me up, got directions to the golf course, and dressed accordingly, aside from the waterproofs, which I was pretty sure meant a pair of rain boots. It hadn’t started raining yet, but the overhead clouds were threatening to unleash a torrent. There was a certain eeriness to the atmosphere, the sort that descends right before a storm. I wished it a speedy arrival and a quick exit from the greens.

*   *   *

I headed out, deciding I could get used to these long summer days, except they were balanced out by short winter hours of daylight, which would depress me for certain. I couldn’t imagine surviving on less than seven hours of sunlight. But summer, with its extended daylight and twilight following slowly behind, suited me just fine.

“You’re in for a treat,” Alec explained with obvious pride after meeting me in the parking lot. “Golf originated here in Scotland during the Middle Ages, then it spread to the rest of the United Kingdom and on to the US, so visiting golfers are keen as mustard to play the greens here.”

Yeah, right. I sure hoped it would be a once-in-a-lifetime event, though I meant it in a different context than Alec would have. The absolutely only reason I was going to suffer through a game of golf was for Vicki’s sake.

This coastal golf course wasn’t like any I’d seen in the States. It was what Alec called a links course. There were no trees to circumvent, little water other than the deep blue sea far across the course, and all the sand dunes were covered with fragrant heather (and its wicked companion, gorse, which I identified immediately and planned to stay far away from).

We teed off. And teed off again. And again.

Even without rain, at this rate we wouldn’t see another hole before night closed in on us and forced us to quit. In spite of the sweet refreshing smell of salt air and the light breeze stirring my hair, I was annoyed with myself and majorly frustrated.

Alec was charming, though, and if he was frustrated with me, it didn’t show. As the inspector had warned me, Alec was quite the lady’s man. He was intensely focused on me and my every need, and I allowed myself to be pampered and appreciated, in spite of the game I knew he was playing. A little attention never hurt a girl’s ego. And these Scottish men really knew how to flirt. It was harmless and fun.

But surprisingly, I didn’t feel any attraction to him. Maybe it was his charm. He had a lot of it. So had my ex-husband.

“Like this,” Alec said, coming up behind me, wrapping his arms around my arms and putting his hands on top of my hands, which were tense as I white-knuckled a golf club. He guided me through the various parts of the swing once again.

“Keep your eyes on the ball. Don’t let them drift. Swing”—our arms went up into the air together—“and follow through.” His arms lingered around me for a few seconds longer than necessary. Then he broke away. “Now, you try.”

There were too many instructions to remember all at once—keep your feet planted this way, knees slightly bent, arms stiff, shoulders relaxed; tilt a wee bit to the right, elbows locked, head down, eyes on the ball. My head was spinning with information overload.

Alec stepped clear. I held my breath, forced my eyeballs to stare at the ground, and swung through, connecting with the ball for the first time. I peered into the distance to follow its trajectory over the fairway, really praying that it traveled straight and true like an arrow, like a bird, like a . . .

Where had it gone?

Alec moved quickly, lunging forward. He reached up over my head, catching the ball as it shot down from directly above. It would have bopped me right on the top of my head. I gave him an embarrassed but grateful smile of thanks.

“My hand and eye coordination is awful,” I murmured unnecessarily after he’d saved me from my next almost self-inflicted injury.

“No one is perfect when they start out,” he said at one point, with white teeth contrasting against his tan skin. “But a woman with a few flaws is much sexier anyway.” He winked.

“It’s going to rain any minute,” Alec finally announced at the second hole to my great relief. “Why don’t we wrap it up for now and have a whisky in the clubhouse.”

I agreed quickly.

Once inside the club, a bald man with an angry expression on his thin, pinched face approached Alec.

“I need a word,” he said, addressing Alec.

“Not now, Warren,” Alec replied with hostility in his voice. “As you can see, I have a guest.”

The man backed away, his face flushed, and we continued into the bar area.

The members of the club wore blatant symbols of wealth—in the style of their haircuts, in the fine jewelry they had on display, in their casual yet pricey golf attire. Even the walls of the clubhouse dripped with elegance.

I felt less than comfortable in this place, immensely preferring my humble table in the back of the Kilt & Thistle surrounded by my writing tools. But I was here on a mission, and that was more important than my comfort level.

Alec’s eyes didn’t wander to the other women in the clubhouse. I was sure of that because I watched him carefully. He might be a player, wooing many women without ever making any kind of commitment, but he was a considerate one. And obviously well-heeled.

While we sipped a locally produced whisky, I made my appeal, not claiming it on Vicki’s behalf, but rather on my own, where I felt I had a better chance of success. First, I went into how his sister and brother-in-law were going after control of the farm in court on Friday, including my assessment of the solicitor’s lack of concern for his client’s best interests. I suspected that Alec probably already knew most of this, but he didn’t let on if he did.

“John Derry has ordered me to leave the farm,” I said next. “And Paul Turner is sure that they will win in court on Friday and have the authority to make that happen. I don’t have any place to go. If only Kirstine would give me a little more time.”

Alec’s expression had given nothing away while I presented my case. When I finished, he said, “Kirstine and I didn’t—and still don’t—see eye-to-eye on the best way to handle the situation after my father’s will spelled out those unfortunate terms. And John is an instigator through and through. His mouth opens before he knows what’s going to come out, but I’m sure he will give you time to find suitable accommodations.”

Not exactly what I’d hoped for. “Finding out about your father’s will must have been a horrible shock for all of you,” I said.

He shrugged as though it hadn’t been that bad, but I noticed that his voice was tight as he responded. “Life is full of surprises.”

“If only your father had thought to update his will before he passed. I’m sorry for all the complications your family has had to deal with.”

“Things have a way of righting themselves. The disposition of the family property and business, for example. A short while ago, we thought we’d lost all claim to our family’s estate. Now it looks like the problem will be solved for us. At great personal cost to a family friend, I must remind you. Gavin Mitchell shouldn’t have lost his life in the process. But in the end, justice will prevail.”

I’d expected him to take his family’s side to some extent, but I’d hoped he’d consider intervening for my sake if not for his stepsister’s, but his response dashed my hope.

Alec smiled as he raised his glass to his lips, took a sip, and said, “Vicki will pay for her crime.” He must have seen the distress on my face, because he quickly added, “But let’s not discuss that. Otherwise, we’ll be back where we were earlier, at a standoff. And I hate to see you upset.”

“I just wish Kirstine would wait a little longer,” I said, “and not try to take advantage of Vicki while she’s a hospital patient, at least give her a chance to defend herself. And I’m not sure where I would stay if John followed through with his threat.”

Alec still wasn’t picking up on my plea, or if he was, he wasn’t rushing in to offer his services. Besides, his sister and her husband seemed to be calling all the shots. Alec was way too busy sporting around.

Shortly after, I made my escape. The skies had opened up while we’d been inside, but I’d refused his offer to get my car for me. As much as I hated driving—and although driving on the left after dark was a new experience, one that scared me—I was glad to have my own transportation. I wasn’t about to get trapped in a confined space with an overly testosteroned male like Alec.

Back at the farmhouse, alone with the two Westies but safely inside with the doors securely locked, I watched the storm rage outside the bedroom window. At some point I must have dozed off. Then some sound startled me awake. I wasn’t sure what it was.

The sound came again, like nails scraping on a window. Or chalk screeching across a chalkboard. Pepper and Coco rose up on the bed, hearing the unfamiliar sound, too. They began barking, their little bodies trembling with fright.

Just a tree branch scraping against a windowpane
, I told myself.

“Shhhh,” I said to the dogs, petting them until they quieted.

Outside, the wind howled.

It was pitch-dark. I turned the switch on the lamp beside my bed. Nothing happened. The farm had lost electricity. The scratching sound came again, and I decided to investigate to reassure myself that there was nothing to worry about.

The canines didn’t follow, content to let me handle any monsters under the bed or in the other room.

After feeling my way along the wall, I paused outside the bedroom when a gush of outside air blew at me. Wind? What was going on? Something clanged to the floor. My eyes began to adjust to the darkness.

Vicki’s knitting needles had fallen from an end table. They’d make a decent weapon if it came to that, so I scooped them up as I rushed to an open window, where the curtains were billowing. I hadn’t left it open; I was sure of it.

A flash of lightning struck close by, framing me in the window, exposing my position to a would-be attacker. I wanted to duck and hide, but instead I held the knitting needles high, gripped like a knife, hoping I looked scary rather than just plain scared. Then I quickly slammed the window shut and locked it in place.

Holding out for a rational and harmless explanation, I roamed the house quietly in the dark, but didn’t find any tree branches close enough to any of the windows to produce the sound I’d heard. And it never came again. If someone had been trying to frighten me, they’d done a good job of it. But if they were trying to scare me away, they didn’t know me well. I was more determined than ever.

Eventually, after making sure all the windows were bolted, I attempted to go back to sleep.

But it was a long night.