“They told me they had connections,” Malcolm said. “They told me Flemming House loved my book and thought it would be a best-seller all over the world.”
“They lied to you,” I said. “Now, where is Fiona? She isn’t dead, is she?”
He sadly shook his head.
“Where is she?”
“John o’ Groat’s. With a girlfriend. I sent her there. That’s what he told me to do.”
“Who told you to send her there?”
Malcolm looked to where George and Mort still restrained Constable McKay.
“Constable McKay?” I asked.
Malcolm shook his head. “No. Him.”
He pointed across the room to Evan Lochbuie, who stood apart from the crowd.
“Mr. Lochbuie?” I said.
“He’s the one. Told me Constable McKay got the word from the investors to get her away from Wick. He gave me money and sent a car to drive her.”
“And told you to leave her dress and shoes here so animal blood could be smeared on them to make it seem another murder had taken place.”
“That’s right. They told me to do everything, Mrs. Fletcher. But I never wanted no one killed. Not Daisy, for sure. Not anyone.”
I turned to say something to Lochbuie, but he was gone. George saw the dismay on my face and said, “Don’t worry, Jessica. I’ll see that he’s picked up, along with everyone else involved in this vile scheme.”
“Count on me, too, George,” Mort said. “Hey, we make a good team.”
Chapter Twenty-one
“I believe I’ll try one of these Sheep Dips,” Mort Metzger said, pointing to it on the menu of single-malt scotches in the Athenaeum’s Whisky Bar.
“Sheep Dip?” Seth Hazlitt said, his face mirroring his disgust. “You know what that is.”
“It’s also a very fine whiskey,” the waiter said. “A vatted malt.” He looked to me next. “And you, ma’am?”
“Club soda,” I said.
“Come on, Jess,” Charlene Sassi said. “You deserve a stiff drink after what you’ve been through.”
“Couldn’t possibly,” I said. “I’d fall on my nose, I’m afraid. But you enjoy yourself. We only have this last night in London.”
My other friends from Cabot Cove ordered drinks, and we settled in for an hour of celebratory conversation. The mysteries of Sutherland Castle had been revealed for what they were—a scam to persuade George Sutherland to sell the castle to the London investors. Constable McKay and his cabal admitted to Scotland Yard inspectors called in by George that they’d conspired to force George to sell. Even our gillie, Rufus Innes, had been involved, leading us to that spot in the river by the bridge, where the big man who’d tried to pick a fight with George in the pub waited to toss the log at me, not to try and kill me, he claimed, but only to instill additional fear. I tended to believe him.
If it had only ended up a clumsy scam, that would have been bad enough. But they went too far—much too far—when they decided that a
real
murder had to take place to push the townspeople over the edge. Daisy Wemyss was sacrificed to that end. No one admitted to having murdered her, but George was told that evidence pointed to Evan Lochbuie, the town “nut,” who turned out to not be so crazy after all. Evil? Yes. Warped? Absolutely. A murderer? That would be determined at trial.
The fate of Malcolm and Fiona was unclear. The girl obviously had been used, and shouldn’t face criminal charges, unless an overzealous prosecutor decided to include her in the conspiracy charge.
As for Malcolm, he’d gotten in a lot deeper, although murder wouldn’t be one of the charges against him. But he’d taken money to advance the plot, and that would be enough to indict him. Those who gave him the money to conspire in the plot, the London investors, were also facing criminal indictment.
Funny, how we can misread people. I’d thought all along that Forbes, the dour jack-of-all-trades in George’s employ, was involved. It turned out he’s only that, a sour, sullen individual who was absent when they handed out personality genes.
Everyone was served their single-malt scotches, and Seth proposed a toast “To one of the more interesting vacations of my life.”
“That’s appropriately noncommittal,” Jim Shevlin said. “But I’ll drink to it.”
Rims clinked all the way around.
“Jessica,” Seth said, “there’s still that large question looming.”
“Which one is that, Seth?”
“The lady in white. You said you saw her. Twice. Now I understand about the voice, and the tape recorder. Meant to deceive. But you said you saw her. What did they do to create a visual of her in the hallway?”
“Nothing, except to use the power of suggestion. Tell me not to think of purple elephants and that’s all I’ll think of. George had told me, in detail, about the supposed lady in white who haunted the castle. I was primed to see her, especially because the light characteristics in northern Scotland are conducive to creating imaginary images at certain times. I
thought
I’d seen her the first night we were there. But I deliberately said I’d seen her the second time to prompt Malcolm to use the tape recorder. It worked. He did.”
“Well, all I can say is that you saved a castle,” Pete Walters said. “Your friend, George, must be grateful.”
“Yes, he is, although he isn’t sure he’ll keep the place. I hope he does. It means so much to him.”
“That Brock Peterman turned out okay,” pilot Jed Richardson said. “Doesn’t make me like him any better, but he did help you out.”
“For his own purposes,” I said. “He’s going ahead with his documentary, only now he has a real ending for it. Poor Malcolm. He was waiting for an ending, too. A shame he ended up part of it.”
“What about Dr. Symington?” Susan Shevlin asked. “A strange bird.”
“And helpful. When he told me ghosts never speak when sighted, it put the icing on the cake for me. That’s when I decided to attempt to set things up the way I did.”
The waiter returned and asked if we wanted another round of drinks. Everyone ordered different single-malt scotches from the menu, which boasted such names as Bunnahabhain, Royal Brackla, Miltonduff, and Tullibardine.
“Hate to leave in the mornin’,” Seth said, leading the second toast of the evening. “What time’s the bus departing for the airport?”
“Nine,” I said. “I won’t be on it. I’m meeting George for breakfast. He’ll drive me to Heathrow.”
There were raised eyebrows, and good-natured kidding.
I got up and straightened my skirt. “Have to run,” I said.
“Dinner with the dashing inspector?” Seth asked.
“No. Dinner with my publisher, Archie Semple. An interview with a magazine. Then to bed. This lady is very tired.”
“See you at the airport, Mrs. F.,” Mort said.
“Yes, you will. ”
“Hey, Mrs. F., what did you think of George putting me in for a special commendation from Scotland Yard?”
“I think it was a very nice thing to do, Mort. And much deserved.”
He beamed. “He’ll be sending me a plaque. Thought I’d hang it out front of the station house. You know, where people can see it when they come in.”
I was about to leave when the Athenaeum’s executive manager and my friend, Sally Bulloch, bounded into the room.
“Just leaving?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Catch you for breakfast before you leave?”
“I’d love to, Sally, but I have a breakfast—appointment.”
“Another time, then. I have to talk to you. I just had an incredible experience that would make a marvelous basis for your next book.”
“Oh?”
“One of our guests—a regular one, very rich and famous—just told me that when he was walking down the hall to his room last night, he saw—” She giggled. “He claims he saw a
ghost.”
We stared at her with mouths slightly open.
“Was she wearing white?” I asked.
“Wearing white?
She?
I don’t think he indicated a gender.”
“Probably just the lighting conditions,” I offered. “If he’d been thinking of purple elephants, it wouldn’t have happened.”
“What?”
“He’d have seen purple elephants instead. Have to run. You and your hotel are always a delight.” We hugged. “Take care of my friends tonight. I have a feeling they’re going for the free bottle.”
“I hate to see you go,” George said as we drove to the airport the following morning.
“And I hate to go,” I said.
“I’ve decided to keep Sutherland Castle.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s a lovely place. I’m sure with the right people running it as a hotel, it will do very nicely.”
“And I should be able to find the right people, now that everyone in Wick isn’t afraid to work there. I’ve put Mrs. Gower in charge. She’s rising to the occasion; told me it was about time I recognized her talents beyond the kitchen. And Forbes will stay. Maybe I’ll pay for him to take a Dale Carnegie course.”
“Sounds like everything’s falling in place,” I said.
“Not everything.”
“What’s missing?”
“You. I want you to return to Wick, Jessica. I want you to come back alone so we can spend truly productive time together. We barely had time to talk, with all that went on this past week.”
“But it ended up on a positive note. I loved the Highland Games, although I must admit I was a little worried when that giant of a man came running in our direction, carrying that huge tree trunk.”
“Carrying the
caber,
he was. Afraid he’d toss it at you?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“He threw it quite far. Throwing the caber is the highlight of the games.”
“An impressive display of strength and balance. George, about my coming back. You know I will. I have a book to write. After I’m done, we’ll plan to get together again. That’s the best I can offer.”
“Ay.
It will have to do. I’ll take what I can get of Jessica Fletcher.”
“I’ll come in and wait with you,” he said as we pulled up in front of the British Airways Terminal at Heathrow Airport.
“Please don’t,” I said. “It’s easier saying good-bye here. My friends will be waiting for me. Understand?”
“Of course.”
There was that awkward moment of silence when two people who like each other very much search for final words of parting. George finally said, “I won’t put you in an awkward position, Jessica. Go on. Get out. The porter there will take your bags. We’ll be in touch.”
He said it without looking at me.
“George.”
He faced me. “Yes?”
“Thank you for being you.”
My lips brushed his, and I squeezed his hand. “Until next time,” I said.
“Ay. I pray it comes fast. Safe home.”
“Yes. Safe home.”
“Will you be giving us a concert?” the pretty and pert British Airways flight attendant asked as she helped stow my bagpipes in a closet aboard the 747.
“Not unless you want to start a revolt by your other passengers,” I said.
Her laugh was like a bell. “No, we can’t have that, can we?” she said in a Scottish brogue.
The flight was smooth, the service caring, and we landed on time at New York’s Kennedy Airport. We took our connecting flight to Bangor, and a hired minibus to Cabot Cove.
“Good to be home,” Seth said, stretching as he climbed out of the bus.
“It always is,” I said.
“You don’t look too sure about that,” he said.
“Oh, I’m sure about it,” I said.
“Ready to start your next book?”
“No. I need some time for myself before getting involved with any new fictitious characters. I thought I’d take a few lessons.”
“In what?”
“In playing the pipes.”
“Nobody in Cabot Cove plays ‘em, let alone teach ’em,” he said.
“Then, I’ll just have to become self-taught.”
“Knowin’ you, Jessica, you’ll become the best bagpipes player in Maine.”
“The only bagpipes player in Maine.”
“You’ll be missing him, won’t you?”
“Who? George? Yes, of course.”
“See you for breakfast at Mara’s?”
“That sounds fine. See you then.”
I closed the door to my house, stood in the living room, and looked at my bagpipes. A swell of nostalgia swept over me, and my eyes misted. I thought of something George Sutherland had said to me when we last parted. It was in San Francisco, where I’d been promoting my latest novel, and he’d attended an international police conference. We’d ended up solving a murder and helping a falsely accused woman clear herself. He’d paraphrased the famed Scottish poet, Robert Burns:
“My Jessica’s asleep by the murmuring stream; Flow gently sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.”
Recalling his words made me smile.
I made a cup of tea, sat in my living room with the pipes on my lap, placed the blowpipe in my mouth, and blew hard.
It was music to my ears.
Join Jessica on the
QE2
!
Sail into another murder in
the next
Murder, She Wrote
mystery:
MURDER ON THE
QE2
by Jessica Fletcher
and Donald Bain
Available from Signet
The older I become, the harder it is to surprise me.
But when Matt Miller, my agent of many years, called late last winter from New York with a new and unusual project for me, I was surprised to the point of near shock.
“I can’t believe this,” I said. “Why me?”
“The fact that you’re the world’s most successful and best-known murder mystery writer is reason enough, Jess.” He laughed. “I’ve delivered lots of good news to you, but I’ve never heard you so excited before. As I said, it doesn’t pay that much, and it means having to drop the book you’re working on for a month, but—”