1 Off Kilter (22 page)

The night passed without incident. No dogs barking in warning, no electrical outages or mysterious scratching at the windows. In the early morning, a light misty rain fell outside and the sky was gray. When I let Pepper and Coco out, a chill crept through the open door into the house. It was a day made specifically for wearing comfortable jeans, long sleeves, and a light rain jacket.

Instead, I slipped into a pair of black dress slacks and a somber top for this morning’s courtroom appearance and the dramatic family dispute to be played out there.

What did the inside of a Scottish courtroom look like? Probably much like ours. I’d driven past Glenkillen’s courthouse, a nondescript, weatherworn square building, where I understood civil disputes and minor lawbreaking offenses were heard. As I hurried to the car under my umbrella, preparing myself for the fight ahead, I pictured a bewigged magistrate with spectacles presiding from behind a towering bench.

The Peugeot started right up, but when I put it into first gear and stepped on the gas, I heard and felt a
kerthunk
of some sort coming from the back end. On investigation, I found that the rear passenger tire was as flat as a two-pound coin.

Of all the times for something like this to happen!

I’d helped change a tire once, long ago. Okay, actually, I watched a tire get changed once. Big difference.

I didn’t even know if this car had a spare or where it was located. Besides, court would be in session before I figured out how to change it. Better to find a ride.

To show the tire how ticked off I was, I gave it a kick reminiscent of the one I’d delivered to my late, unlamented rental car. Then I headed to the house to use the landline.

Which was dead.

And that caused me to upbraid myself for not following through on getting a mobile phone. Now I was totally stuck.

After a few moments of fuming and fussing and blaming myself, it struck me that perhaps this might not be an accident after all. No phone service. A flat tire. How convenient for someone.

Somebody wanted me stranded. Whether to keep me from attending the hearing or for a more sinister purpose, I didn’t know. But I wasn’t going to stick around to find out about that second option. Although, weren’t all my murder suspects on their way to court? Kirstine and John Derry, and that pathetic excuse for an attorney. I was pretty sure Alec MacBride would be there as well. He might have a less rabid approach to the family concerns, but I expected he still might make an appearance to support his sister.

I calmed myself down. “Nobody is coming to get you,” I said out loud, determined to find the spare tire and change it myself.

Only I couldn’t find one anywhere.

Eventually I stopped to flip through the faded and torn owner’s manual, where I managed to find the information I needed. Turned out that the emergency “tyre” wasn’t in the “boot” as I’d expected, but rather
under
the vehicle, where it was suspended along with the jack. According to the manual, a bolt under the carpet inside the boot, when turned, would lower the spare to the ground for easy access.

Easy!

Ha!

By now I was more than a little damp.

The bolt was rusty and, when I peered under the car, there wasn’t a spare to be found. There was an empty space where it had once been lodged—yes, that was right where it should have been—but a jack and tire, no. I pictured the courtroom filling up with MacBrides and solicitors. Any minute now, court would convene. A big part of me wanted to find a hefty piece of iron and pulverize the vehicle. Instead I ran inside the barn—flying right past Jasper, who jumped back in astonishment before slinking up the steps to the loft and disappearing—and to my surprise I actually found a tire iron beside a can of spray that said it was for fixing flats. I grabbed both and ran back to the car.

Why hadn’t the can been in the car? It would have saved me critical time that had been spent searching and reading a stupid manual instead of heading for the Glenkillen courthouse.

The canned sealant worked like a charm. I was still tempted to give the car a whack with the tire iron, but instead I threw it into the passenger seat along with the empty can. Then I blew past Sheepish Expressions and headed for Glenkillen, windshield wipers flapping as it began to rain harder and harder.

The only one who cared about Vicki was me, and I was covered in grime and soaking wet. Worse, I wasn’t going to make it in time to put in an appeal. I’d even prepared a speech—a good one, I thought. If penning fiction didn’t work out, I could always go into preparing closing arguments, if there was such a vocation.

Or was it the personal aspect of this case that had made me teary earlier, while reading over what I had written?

Regardless, it was all wasted now, my opportunity gone. There was no doubt who had won.

With a winter-chilled heart and not a spring of hope that I’d make it in time, I pressed on.

As I’d anticipated, both courtrooms were occupied by strangers. Not a MacBride to be found. That court session sure hadn’t taken long. Feeling defeated, I stepped into the restroom and freshened up as best I could. The only bright spot was that I was wearing dark colors as opposed to lighter shades, which would have shown the full extent of the damage.

I considered the few options still left to me.

I could go back to the farm, pack my things, and prepare for the eviction. But they might be lying in wait for me like a pack of wolves about to slaughter this particular sheep.

I could visit Vicki in the hospital, but then I’d have to explain why I was down in the dumps, and I wasn’t ready to face my friend knowing that I’d failed.

I could go to the pub, where I might possibly find the victorious conspirators celebrating their accomplishment and give them an opportunity to rub it in like salt in an open wound.

Of my options, the pub seemed the best. Before going inside, I checked out the cars parked on the street. None that I recognized. Not the inspector’s or Sean’s or any of the opposing sides’. So I felt safe slipping inside the Kilt & Thistle, where Dale was in his routine spot behind the bar with a bar rag tossed over one shoulder.

“Eden Elliott, the Scottish lass with a knack fer the written word,” he called out. “Looks like the weather got the best o’ ye. What can I get fer ye? Something warm?”

Was it too early to start drinking? Could I hide in the deep warrens of the pub and nurse myself back to health with a dram or two or three of whisky? But that wouldn’t solve my problems. And it certainly wouldn’t improve my outlook. Perhaps temporarily, but in the long run I’d still have to deal with reality.

“Can you direct me to Inverness?” I heard myself asking.

A moment earlier, I hadn’t had any idea which way to turn. Now I had found a direction, and even though I’d driven from Inverness that first day, I couldn’t remember how to get back. “I . . . uh . . . need to buy a phone.”
And look for a place to stay
, I thought, already missing the pub and Dale and all the other people I’d met in Glenkillen. Well, aside from those people I suspected of murder, of course. I wouldn’t miss those people at all.

“It’s not far,” Dale said, spreading out a map. “We’re here,” he pointed, then went off explaining about a multitude of roundabouts and which wheel spoke to take on each, before eventually noticing my complete frustration.

“I have the answer,” he told me. “Watch the till. I’ll be right back.”

And he walked out the front door. Watching the pub wasn’t much of a job, since it was virtually empty. Except for, back in a dim corner, the figure of Bill Morris, who chose that moment to speak to me.

“While yer in Inverness, don’t be attempting tae burn down the Hinterland B and B like ye almost did with my Whistling Inn.”

I peered into the darkness. “First of all, I didn’t have anything to do with the fire. And why would you think I was on my way to a B and B?”

“As if ye don’t know. Moira MacBride, a proper and caring mum to Kirstine and Alec, owns the Hinterland, and ye been nosing around that family like a bloodhound on a trail. I’m warning ye away. She’s a wonderful woman and doesn’t deserve the likes of ye.”

Thankfully, Dale came back with a GPS unit, which he programmed for me. “Ye can make the drive in about an hour’s time. Just follow the voice tae the city center. You can’t go wrong.”

And with that overly optimistic reassurance, I cast a frown into Bill’s corner and set off for Inverness.

It’s true that my driving had improved quite a bit since that first fateful day when I’d arrived on the outskirts of Glenkillen. Going to and from the farm and the village was now as close to routine as it could be, bearing in mind that left-side-of-the-road problem. I had figured out when to round and when to about. Driving to Inverness on what was basically unfamiliar terrain had me a little anxious. But I’d made it from Inverness to Glenkillen once. I could do it again.

I remembered too late the flat tire and the can of sealant I’d sprayed into it. I’d been so distraught when I realized I’d completely missed the court hearing that I had totally forgotten about the quick fix to the flat. Shouldn’t I have it more thoroughly examined by a mechanic before taking off?

How long would the sealant hold?

Well, it was too late now, and I had more important driving issues to worry about.

Like cattle on the road, an occasional lamb, narrow byways, and undulating hills and valleys, all the while contending with the nonstop rain. Eventually I arrived at my destination, white-knuckled and with what I was sure was record high blood pressure.

Inverness is the capital of the Highlands, the most northern city, and it lies between great glens, the North Sea, and several lochs, including the infamous Loch Ness. It’s a central location for booking tours. Many of the buses that arrived in Glenkillen and stopped off at Sheepish Expressions originated in Inverness.

The GPS had safely delivered me to the city center. Now I had to locate a store that carried mobile phones. How hard could that be?

The rain had stopped for the moment, but I tucked an umbrella into a tote for the next downpour. I abandoned the car and found the city center to be compact and easy to walk. I passed a rail station and beyond came to an area with street performers, and a little farther on discovered a covered market with all kinds of specialty shops.

I was standing in front of a kilt maker’s shop admiring a window display filled with tartan patterns and wondering if I might find Elliott colors inside, when a man came out of the shop. It took me a moment to place him as the man who had attempted to speak with Alec MacBride at the private club after our golf game.

His name popped into my head from when Alec had brushed him off. “Warren!” I called out, and he turned and stared at me. I felt foolish. How would I explain our connection, since Alec had basically blown him off in a rude manner? But I needn’t have worried.

“I know you,” he said. “From the club. Doing a spot o’ shopping, are ye?”

“Yes. What brings you to Inverness?”

“A business transaction.” He frowned then, and said grimly, “I should warn ye away from Alec MacBride. He’s a bad egg.”

“He’s an acquaintance only, nothing more serious,” I said, a little startled by his animosity. “But why do you feel the need to warn me?”

“He acts a high roller, but it’s actually his mum foots his bills.”

“I’m sure that isn’t true,” I said in Alec’s defense. “He seems an independent man with his own career and resources.”

Warren snorted. “He’s good at deception. His dues are in arrears as well as his rent. I came to Inverness to pay a call on his mum, since her name is on the lease agreement. She refused to renew it, though. Not a bit happy about him and his ways.”

I considered this new information. Alec and Kirstine’s mother was James MacBride’s second wife. Her children should have inherited at least two-thirds of their father’s estate. Only they hadn’t. What if she knew the reason why? It was worth exploring.

“Would you mind giving me her address?” I asked Warren.

“In the state she’s in after my visit,” he said, “she should be in a fine mood to set ye straight on the likes of her son. Coming into money, he says, as though I haven’t heard
that
before.”

He wrote out a name and address—Moira MacBride, Hinterland B and B, Hill Street—on one of his business cards, which identified Warren as the golf club manager.

“She owns and operates the bed-and-breakfast at that address,” he said. “Do ye have navigation in yer auto?”

I nodded.

“Then plug in Hill Street. It’s a short street, it is. Ye can’t miss the B and B once ye get to Hill.”

After thanking him, I hurried back to my car, fumbled through setting the address, waited for the self-assured voice to begin navigating, and started out following directions. Soon I turned onto Hill Street and slowly crept along until I found a small sign for Hinterland Bed-and-Breakfast. I pulled over and did a little planning.

I’d learned from the club manager that Alec MacBride was pretending to live the good life, but that it was all appearances—the clothes, the society, the expensive car—and that his mother had been footing his bills. His nonchalant attitude toward whether or not he inherited the family money must have been a ruse.

But so what? Alec wasn’t the first person to pretend he was something other than what and who he really was. The world was filled with pretenders. And a fair share of them were probably just like Alec—eligible bachelors who were casting about for some promising catches.

The real issue was: How could I possibly broach such personal family questions to his mother? And more important, get honest answers? I was still pondering the issue as I went up the flower-edged walkway and rang the bell.

The attractive middle-aged woman who answered the door had the same pale Scottish complexion as her daughter Kirstine.

“Moira MacBride?”

“Aye.”

“May I come in?”

“I’m full up for the evening,” she told me.

Another area of concern cropped up. I probably needed a better introduction than “I’m a friend of your family’s enemy. You remember her from her summers at the farm, the offspring of the first Mrs. MacBride? The one who inherited over your own children?”

That would send me packing for sure.

I’d also considered representing myself as part of the team investigating the murder of local sheep shearer Gavin Mitchell, but that might create a hostile environment, one not conducive to discussing family matters. Not to mention it might be illegal to impersonate a police officer, although I technically
was
assisting, wasn’t I? The entire situation was complicated.

Amazingly, my mouth opened and the right words spilled out on their own. “I’m Eden Elliott,” I told her. “I’m gathering information as assistant to the family solicitor.” True—sort of—if you overlooked which particular side of the family I represented. I felt bad about that, but only briefly.

The door swung open, and I was invited inside, where I couldn’t possibly refuse a nice cup of tea. That would be impolite. At one of several of the kitchen’s broad, cheerful tables, we began.

“This seems rather late in the process,” she said. “After all, isn’t the hearing later this afternoon?”

I almost spit a mouthful of tea across the table before regaining my composure. Later this afternoon? Exactly who had told me it was scheduled for first thing in the morning? Paul Turner, that was who. That snake of a solicitor had tricked me. No wonder there hadn’t been a MacBride to be found in the courthouse or surroundings. They hadn’t been there yet.

“Assistants in a case like this work right up to the last minute,” I sputtered, watching a black cat with silky long fur strut regally past us to a water bowl in the corner of the room. “Beautiful cat,” I said.

“I hope I can keep her,” Moira said wistfully, and in the next few minutes I learned her life story in a nutshell. She and her son had that much in common. I learned she couldn’t possibly survive without a feline companion, that she loved to read but only mysteries, and that she’d owned the B and B since her divorce from James MacBride. “And my little kitty is another reason why the children have to contest their father’s will and win.”

“You’ll lose your cat if they don’t?” How in the world did that make any difference?

Her face clouded over, and she said, “I refuse to give Alec any more money, not another pence. And his lease is up next month. If he moves here again, kitty will have to go.”

“He’s allergic?”

“I wish it were that simple. He hates cats. Thankfully James rescued Jasper, but at this time in my life, I couldn’t bear to lose another precious pet.”

Alec had been the source of Jasper’s wariness, of his dislike of men? Charlotte Penn had spoken of abuse, but she hadn’t identified the abuser. Perhaps she hadn’t known. Something else about my conversation with the young sheep shearer tugged at my mind, but I couldn’t place it.

Moira sipped her tea before saying, “Alec had scratches on his arm last time he came here, courtesy of Jasper. The man is my son, and I love him dearly, but he never seems to learn control.”

What had she said? If only this conversation were rewindable. Or pausable, to give me more time to think. Hadn’t Alec blamed his wounds under the bandages on thorny gorse that he’d encountered while searching for Vicki? Had he been out to the farm since, when I wasn’t there, and had a run-in with Jasper?

Possibly, but still . . . what would he have been doing in the barn?

My heart began pounding around in my chest.

Moira continued. “But you didn’t travel to Inverness from Glenkillen to listen to a mother bemoan the life choices of her son.”

Oh, yes, I did
, I wanted to say.
Tell me more
. Instead, I had to play the part. “Vicki remains hospitalized, and there is little doubt that Kirstine and Alec will walk out with a victory,” I told her, watching her lips curve in satisfaction. “But we need to eliminate even that small amount of doubt. One of the questions we feel we should be prepared to address is: Why hasn’t Alec taken a more active part in the family business?”

Moira sighed the way only a mother can. “Yes, the other side could use that against him. But why didn’t you ask Alec that question?”

“He claims his income is substantial enough that he never needed or wanted to be part of the farm business.”

She gave me a weak smile. “That sounds just like him.”

“If the other side finds out the truth . . .” I took a moment to pat myself on the back for my quick responses, and waited for her next one. It came just as quickly.

“The truth is that Alec and James never got along. James wouldn’t allow him to join the business. James is the reason my son has so many emotional issues, why I’ve tended to pamper the boy. I see my mistake more clearly now. If only James had made an effort to accept him. And to forgive me.” She paused there, as though she’d said too much. Flustered, she jumped up and made excuses for ending our tea.

But she’d already given away more than she realized.