1 Off Kilter (9 page)

“I was at your father’s gravesite,” I said, “and then a little later at the pub. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” he said, but he barely paused before continuing to confide in me that his father’s death had surprised him but not half as much as the contents of the will, which he didn’t elaborate on, other than to mention that his sister was challenging it. But he had mixed feelings about her decision. As hurtful as his father’s decision had been, why put his own selfish interests above his father’s last wishes?

I didn’t quite know what to make of Alec. He oozed overconfidence and self-absorption, never once directing a single personal question my way, yet I found myself relaxing and enjoying his company. He might have had an ego too large to contain, but he wasn’t boring by any means. I suspected I was breathing easier around him
because
he wasn’t
putting me on the spot with questions I didn’t care to answer. My role was easy: simply listening.

“Do you golf?” Alec asked, finally showing some interest in me.

“No, I’ve never tried it.”

“We’ll have to get you out on the golf course and give you a lesson. I learned at a very young age. From my father. Tell me, you said you were at the funeral—did you know my da?”

“No, I had just checked into my room at the inn, and I followed the crowds. It’s my first visit to Glenkillen. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have shown up.” I’d been a funeral crasher. How inappropriate was that?

But Alec, like Leith when he’d first extended the invitation, thought nothing of it. “All were invited. Including a visitor to Glenkillen.”

“I was there when your sister had the very public showdown with the new heiress,” I said, hoping to broach the subject of his brother-in-law and the man’s temper. “Thankfully, I saw you intervene and end it before it went spinning out of control.”

“That was no place for such behavior,” he said, shaking his head. “My stepsister should have known better.”

“I met Vicki on my flight coming in and then again at the funeral,” I told him, deciding it was better to get that information out in the open. “She doesn’t strike me as the aggressive sort.” That was my way of saying I thought the fault lay with Kirstine. “And your brother-in-law seemed to enjoy the spectacle.”

“John might be gifted with the sheep and working dogs,” Alec said with obvious distaste, “but he shouldn’t be allowed out in public. He’s like them, an animal.”

Like a wolf
, was my impression.

His opinion of John didn’t make me feel one bit better regarding my safety or Vicki’s. I’d have to warn her to be careful.

From now on, I’d be on guard and steer clear of John Derry.

After Alec MacBride finished his pint, he took his leave, saying he had a tee time at the golf course. Once he’d gone, I pulled my laptop out of my bag and moved to a spot at a secluded table in the farthest reaches of the pub. The steady murmur of voices up front were white noise to me, which didn’t interfere with my writing as long as it stayed in the background and didn’t demand my attention by invading my personal space. It often even improved my concentration.

While Vicki might be filled with warmth and kindness, her lively personality was sure to intrude if I tried to write at her house. All I wanted and needed right now was some relative peace and quiet and room to do some work.

But first, I checked my e-mail. Nothing from Ami, but I shot one off into cyberspace to her. “I’ve found a perfect copy of my hero in the human form of Leith Cameron. And he wears a kilt well!”

There! That should keep her guessing.

The hands on the clock spun by and the pub activity around me ground to a halt as I entered the world I’d created, slipping into the elusive place every writer hopes to find when she sits down to write. It’s completely indefinable, but once I get there, it reshapes my reality, taking me off this plane and depositing me onto a different one.

While I’m there, I’m not even aware of it. The keys on the computer seem to fly of their own accord and the story unfolds as though I’m just a bystander looking on. It’s exhilarating and exhausting and oh-so-important to the writing process, much the same as the experience of a reader escaping into the pages of a great novel.

My subconscious took over while I was writing today’s pivotal scene. I continued to share Gillian’s current situation, which certainly wasn’t a fulfilling one. She was about to meet “him”—Jack Ross, the man of her dreams. Her love interest had refused to materialize as a fully formed person until I’d arrived in Scotland and met Leith. Now, in my mind’s eye I knew exactly how that would happen, how she would act, how he would respond. I worked on Gillian and Jack’s first conversation. It sprang to life, and inwardly I grinned at their dialogue even as I wrote it. Jack’s image came into sharp focus.

Who was he underneath the sexy skin, though? And what was there about him that spoke to her heart above all others? What did he have that set him apart? It had to be more than witty conversation.

Those were the questions I still needed to answer.

Eventually, I blinked back to awareness and realized I’d been writing for hours without a pause.
Nicely done, Eden,
I congratulated myself.

Even without all the romantic elements nailed down, it had been a great session. Lots of buildup to upcoming tension and conflict.
Hello, Calliope, goddess of inspiration. Who knew you thrived in Scottish pubs?

What happened next might have been due to my imagination still being in high gear, but after I’d packed up and headed toward the door—calling good-bye to Dale, who was still behind the bar—I had the creepy feeling that every single head in the bar had turned my way and that the din had died while everybody’s eyes followed me out.

It was unsettling to say the least. While I had told myself that I didn’t care what anybody said about me, that if they wanted to believe vicious rumors spread by John Derry it wouldn’t faze me in the least, now—faced with the possibility that the locals actually believed him—I had a spontaneous urge to made a public denial.

Listen, everyone: I am innocent of all wrongdoing! And so is Vicki MacBride!

Shakespeare popped into my head.
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

Don’t do it
, I told myself.
Don’t feed the trolls.
I’d
learned that lesson well from Ami, if not from
Hamlet
. My famous friend was a bestselling author, but she still got the occasional one-star review or snarky online comment—sometimes things so absurd that anyone reading the review would know that that person hadn’t even read the book. But Ami never responded to negative criticism, allowing other readers to form their own opinions of the nasty review and the person behind it.

“People,” she’d told me, “have short memories.”

Besides, I had other immediate worries, more pressing and dangerous than mere rumors behind my back.

The borrowed car, for example.

Needing a few minutes to work up the nerve to once again take my life into my shaky hands and drive off in the Peugeot, I stalled by walking over to check on what was going on over at the Whistling Inn. I couldn’t impose on Vicki’s generosity indefinitely.

There was a Closed sign in the window, but when I tested the door I found it unlocked. Jeannie was tidying up in the reception area.

“Well if it isn’t herself!” she sneered, all traces of hospitality gone from her voice.

Taken aback, I said, “I just stopped in to see whether you might reopen soon.”

Jeannie snorted, causing her bull-like nose ring to quiver. “The other wing is ready fer guests today, once the fire marshal gives permission, which he promised would happen sharpish. But the other rooms will be vacant until next weekend, thanks tae yer carelessness.”

“I didn’t set the fire,” I protested.

“It started in yer room.” She had her hands on her hips now. “My da and I count on our livelihood from this inn. Ye’ve cost us a whole week o’ losses.”

“I’m very sorry about that, but like I said, I didn’t have anything to do with what happened. Are there any rooms available in the other wing?”

“You’re not thinking to move back in?” she said, frowning.

Here goes nothing. “Uh . . . well, as a matter of fact . . .”

“Well, don’t even think it! The last thing we need is fer the whole bloody place tae go up in smoke! Just because I want tae get out o’ toon, doesn’t mean I wish bad luck on my da!”

“I. Didn’t. Do. It.” God, I sounded like a guilty kid. “Not only that: I’ve prepaid for two weeks.”

“Are ye suggesting a refund? And after what ye did tae the inn?”

“I didn’t start the fire!”

Jeannie wasn’t buying it. “Off with ye,” she snarled at me.

I beat a hasty retreat.

I was relieved to hear that at least the damage hadn’t been severe enough to close the inn permanently, and that part of it would reopen shortly. I assumed Jeannie’s father carried insurance. But would it cover lost income as well as smoke damage? I sure hoped that was the case. If it were, I’d feel so much better.

I walked back into the pub and down to the other end of the bar, where the owner was washing glasses. “Dale,” I said. “Who owns the Whistling Inn next door?”

“Bill Morris,” he said, adding steins to sudsy water. “But his daughter, Jeannie, mostly takes care o’ the place on her own.”

That I knew already. “Do you suppose they have insurance to cover the smoke damage?”

He shrugged. “I suppose they might.”

“I’d like to speak with Mr. Morris. Do you know where I might find him?”

“Ye can speak to him, but it won’t do ye much good, not today or tomorrow or any other day, I imagine.”

“Why not?” Then I remembered Jeannie saying he was physically challenged. “Is he too incapacitated to even speak?”

Dale smiled. “I suppose ye could call it that, if ye were being kind aboot his affliction. See fer yerself. That’s Bill himself over there in the corner.”

I followed Dale’s gaze and made out a still form in a darkened corner of the pub. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed something else. He was facedown on the table, snoring away.

Bill Morris was dead drunk.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t rouse the man. He was out cold.

Leaving Bill Morris to his drunken stupor, I climbed back into the Peugeot and drove back to the MacBride farm with only one near-fatal incident, which occurred when I entered a roundabout to the right instead of to the left. But Scottish drivers were a forgiving lot—not one single horn blast or obscenity was flung out an open window at me. Their reflexes were top-notch, too, the cars scattering like sheep running from a herding dog.

After that harrowing event, I’d pulled off for a few moments to recover at an overlook with enough space for a few cars to park.

The view was stunning, with a cloud forming like an umbrella over rugged peaks before me. I got out and stepped close to a sturdy railing near a craggy rock formation. Foothills below led to a deep, lush glen. A lone golden eagle soared above, and for that brief interlude, I felt at peace and at home in this beautiful land.

Then, reluctantly, I got back into the Peugeot and continued my terrifying drive.

Back at the farm, Vicki’s terriers were playing on the grass, chasing each other in circles. My rental car was nowhere in sight, gone for good thanks to Vicki. I would’ve been happier if my current loaner hadn’t had all the same unnecessary equipment, and was testing my ability to live just as its predecessor had. Vicki was sitting in one of two outdoor chairs next to the main door leading into the house, knitting needles flying and tears streaming down her face. Between her crying jags and those lungs, which could really belt out some terrifying screams, I was beginning to realize that my new friend was a bundle of powerful emotions, and she wore them close to her skin.

“What happened?” I asked, sitting down beside her.

She sniffed, reached into a bag at her feet, and withdrew a stack of brightly colored . . . um . . . I didn’t know what they were.

“Potholders,” she informed me. “I worked fer days on them, using various tartan colors, with the thought to sell them at Sheepish Expressions. Not that they’d make much money, but that wasn’t the idea. Sort of a peace offering, ye might call it.”

“And?” I encouraged, pretty sure of the outcome, considering the potholders were in the bag at her feet rather than on display in the shop. And Vicki’s Scottish accent had become more pronounced, which only seemed to happen when she was upset.

“The queen bee told me to take my beginner’s knitting efforts elsewhere and practically ran me out the door. And in front o’ customers besides.”

“Your potholders are beautiful,” I said, meaning it. I love Scottish plaids, the combinations and patterns. “It was Kirstine’s behavior that was terrible.”

Wait until Vicki found out what else the woman was up to.

Vicki went on. “I have a mind to visit Da’s solicitor and have her removed from the property. He works fer me now, not them, so he’d have to carry through with my request.”

Having her half sister removed
was
certainly within Vicki’s rights, at least until the will was finally settled once and for all. It was a very bad call on Kirstine’s part to tick off her half sister with an insult like that. What nerve!

I’d had every intention of telling Vicki about the conversation I’d overheard, but this wasn’t the right time. My friend was beside herself already. I couldn’t add to her misery, at least just yet.

Before Vicki moved forward with her threat to remove Kirstine, I thought I’d better mention consequences of that action. “But if you went that route, then John would leave, too, and who would run the shop and tend the sheep?”

I was worried about the man and his temper, but the consequences of him leaving without a backup plan could be disastrous for the farm. Besides, the inspector had a suspect in Gavin Mitchell’s murder in his sights. Maybe once the real killer was caught, John and Kirstine would back off.

Vicki paused to wipe her eyes with a tissue she withdrew from a pocket. “The two o’ us? We could run it all, right?” she said in a weak voice, then gave me a small grin, and said in a lighter tone, “Which o’ the jobs do ye want? Tending the shop, or working the dogs and moving the sheep from pasture to pasture?”

Romantic visions of spending my days in fields of heather with sheep and border collies, wearing a polka-dot dress with pockets deep enough to carry a notepad and pen for my writing, danced briefly through my head. “Uh, well,” I began, “if I had to choose . . .”

But Vicki interrupted. “I can’t stand waiting around, and fer what? A judge tae decide what should have been already decided by the will?”

“What does your attorney say about the other side’s chances of invalidating it?”

“That it’s a distinct possibility and I should prepare myself.” Vicki’s knitting needles were flying again as she spoke. “The will was made long ago, and no updated one was ever drafted that specifically excluded the others by name. That’s the problem.”

“You mean the will was drafted before they were born?”

“Aye. And Kirstine’s claim also has strong merit, according to the solicitor, considering her efforts here on the farm,” Vicki said.

Maybe I’m overly generous with other people’s money (an easy place to be when you don’t have anything of value to lose), but I wanted to suggest to Vicki that she consider sharing her inheritance with her stepbrother and sister. An offer like that would mend a lot of fences, wouldn’t it? Did that sort of selfless generosity ever happen? Had I ever heard of a case where an heir had willingly given up a piece of the pie? Not that I recalled, though it must have happened.

But it wasn’t my place or my business. The farm belonged to Vicki fair and square, and it would be presumptuous of me to make a recommendation like that. On the other hand, there was one person who could present it as an option—a trusted counselor, an advisor who had all the facts and was familiar with the situation.

“This solicitor, have you met him?” I asked. “Or just spoken on the phone?”

“On the phone.”

“If you met him in person, he might feel more of a connection to you and work harder on your behalf.” It was worth a shot. Also, his name had come up in the conversation I’d overheard. What had Kirstine said to her husband while I was hiding on the other side of the wall? Something like, the solicitor should have warned her before it was too late. She had most likely been alluding to the old will and the lost opportunity to update it. Vicki glanced up. “You’re right, Eden. I’ll call and make an appointment on Monday. Will you come along?”

“Me?”

“Please?” she begged. “I’m an emotional mess and I’m no good with lawyers. I need your common sense to guide me.”

“I don’t have any experience with inheritances or wills.”

“It’s a friend I’ll be needing, not an expert.”

“Of course, if that’s the case, I’d be happy to go with you,” I reassured her, my interest piqued.

With our trip to the attorney’s office assured, Vicki changed the subject, and I heard her accent receding. “I see Leith got the car running for you.”

“It’s a sweet little car,” I told her, meaning about half of what I said. It was little and it was a car. “I didn’t expect him to show up in a kilt, but it suited him. What’s not to like about a kilt?”

Vicki’s eyes slid to meet mine, and they had a twinkle, and not from tears either. “I think you’d suit him yourself. You’d make an attractive couple,” she said.

I snorted. What was going on? First Ami, now Vicki seemed intent on setting me up. “He has a girlfriend. I thought you’d know that.”

Vicki’s needles paused in mid-click as she processed that information, then she shrugged, and said, “There are a lot more fish in the pond, don’t you worry. I’ll give it some stick.”

She saw my confusion and laughed. “That means I’ll put some energy into it.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I told her. “I’d prefer to have my love affair with Scotland.”

Just then I heard the sound of a car approaching, and soon after Special Constable Sean Stevens pulled up and hopped out. His uniform was immaculate, his attitude businesslike. “I was hoping the inspector would be here,” he said, sounding disappointed.

“Lost him, did you?” Vicki said. She and I exchanged amused looks.

“The man’s a regular disappearing act. What’s a body tae do?”

“Any more leads on the Gavin Mitchell case?” I asked, remembering that Sean had pretty loose lips for a cop, a bad habit I planned to use to my advantage.

“I can’t be speaking o’ police business,” he protested, but I could tell he was dying to show us how important he was.

“The inspector and I just had a meeting at the pub,” I told him encouragingly. “He told me he’s looking for a man by the name of Samuel Kerr, a habitual offender, to question in Gavin Mitchell’s murder.”

“Aye,” Sean said. “An’ he calls me the blabbermouth.”

Vicki gave me a questioning stare, so I related the rest for her benefit—how the man might have had a vendetta against Gavin for testifying against him, and how Kerr had been seen in the pub prior to the sheep shearer’s murder.

“It would be a big relief to have this over with,” Vicki said. “I feel as though the inspector has been focusing a good share of his attention on me and my whereabouts.”

“He gives us all that impression,” I reassured her, then I turned to Sean. “You have pinpointed the time of death,” making it more of a statement than a question.

Sean nodded. “Aye, we have. The good man had been dead since the wee hours o’ Tuesday morn.”

“Heavens,” Vicki exclaimed. “I didn’t get the idea that he was stiff from . . . What is that? My mind has gone completely blank.”

“Rigor mortis?” I filled in for her.

“It was past that point,” Sean told us. “That’s how the coroner came tae his conclusion.”

“I don’t want any details.” Vicki had paled considerably. “It’s too gruesome.”

“Okay, then. Anyhow, our suspect is a slippery bird.” Then directly to me: “Don’t go mentioning that I called the inspector a blabbermouth. He must hold ye in high regard if he’s sharing our business.”

“And he’d want you to treat me the same,” I said, scheming without an ounce of remorse. “So where are we regarding the fire?”

“Ach, ye know as much as I do. Nothing new there.”

So that was a dead end for now. I tried a new tack. “Tell me a little about the owner of the Whistling Inn. The father.”

“Old Bill? He’s been on a bash as long as I can remember. His daughter takes care o’ the business.”

“Do they carry insurance on the inn?”

“Sure, and why wouldn’t they?”

At this point, Vicki picked up where she’d left off with her knitting, but I could tell she was listening intently.

“Jeannie is trapped by responsibility,” I mentioned. “She wants to go explore the world. Instead she’s stuck in Glenkillen with more than a young woman should have to handle.”

“That’s the truth, all right.”

“Perhaps she started the fire to escape from the village.”

Vicki looked up between stitches and added her two cents. “That’s a twist I hadn’t thought of. Or . . . her father could have done it for the money.”

Sean thought about those possibilities. “It’s certainly worth a look, but how would we ever know fer sure?”

“The first step,” I advised him, “is to find out how much insurance they have. The second is to find out where her father was before and during the period of time when the smoke was discovered.”

“And the whereaboots of Jeannie, too,” Sean said.

“That’s easy.” I offered up part of the puzzle. “She was inside the inn, making sure her guests vacated the building. I was there, remember? I saw her.”

“So,” Vicki said, “our Eden’s an eyewitness to that fact. Jeannie was there, which means she could easily have started the fire.”

Sean came to attention. “I’ll look intae it,” he said. “Don’t ye worry. If one o’ them was involved, I’ll arrest them faster than ye can say William Wallace.”

With a new mission, the special constable took off.

I should have felt guilty for using the poor man, since absolving myself from blame was my only reason for sticking my nose into the fire investigation. But my advice to Sean to pursue that line of inquiry gave him a sense of purpose. Plus, occupying him would give the inspector a little breathing space.

And that’s how to rationalize one’s actions when one has digressed from the most honorable path.