Dressed to Kilt (3 page)

Jasper, our resident barn cat, had developed his winter coat and appeared to be twice as large as he really was. When the days and nights grew colder, I'd made a fuss about leaving him outside in the elements and even tried to bring him into the cottage. But he wanted nothing to do with what he apparently considered nothing short of incarceration and was very vocal with his opinion on the matter. He also expressed himself physically by shredding my kitchen curtains in protest. After that, I was forced to accept his decision, but I still didn't agree with it.

I spent a few minutes cuddling with him now that we were on speaking terms again, enjoying his purring machine. Then I eased the old Peugeot out through the large barn door. I was an old hand at working the clutch and maneuvering through the gears that were housed on the left side of the driver's seat instead of the right. When I drove again in the States, I'd have to relearn what had come naturally to me in the past.

I focused on sustaining my continuing good health after
sliding out onto the main road from the lane, quickly realizing that the roads might be clear, but the surface was still snow covered and treacherous.

After white-knuckling the steering wheel for what seemed like forever, I turned off the main road onto the one leading to the distillery, which was located just above Glenkillen, directly before the descent to the harbor and the village. The distillery appeared and I followed Henrietta McCloud's directions, heading for the east end of the distillery, driving along the expanse of its nondescript brown stonework. A few moments later, what I first thought must be a royal castle appeared before me.

The stonework structure didn't have a moat, drawbridge, or battlements. And I would bet there wasn't a dungeon below a circular staircase. But the granite building was stately with Gothic gables and soaring turrets. Altogether fitting for what I imagined was the residence of the chieftain of Clan Dougal.

I drove the car into a circular driveway, got out, gazed around me at the carpet of snow, and then rang the bell, hearing it resounding within.

And resisted the urge to hum “Hail to the Chief.”

The estate had presence, but the individual who opened the door had character.

I expected a servant (manservant, wearing white gloves, carriage erect, formal air about him). Instead, the head of the household greeted me through the partially opened door. Or so I assumed. I'd been told that Bridie Dougal had turned ninety recently, and I didn't need to be a detective to know this woman was advanced in years.

“You must be Eden. I'm Bridie,” she said with a strong and commanding voice that belied her size and age. She was small and delicate with a lived-in face, and she had trouble fully opening the massive door until I stepped up and gently assisted her.

Bridie Dougal wore a furry Cossack-style hat, better suited for outdoor activity, and a plum-colored dressing gown. She leaned heavily on a walking cane. Once she recovered from the ordeal of managing the door, she took a step
back at the same time that I took one forward. As I entered the hallway, I saw an expression of wonder cross her face. She raised a liver-spotted, blue-veined hand and placed it over her heart.

“I would have recognized you anywhere!” she exclaimed.

Behind her, I heard thick-heeled footsteps approaching from down a long hallway.

“Ye're impossible,” the arriving woman said. I guessed her to be around the same age as my mother would have been if she were still alive, midsixties. She was tall but very thin, with a raspy voice and coarse complexion. She wore a black housedress with a large white collar and a dour expression. I assumed she must be Henrietta McCloud, although she didn't introduce herself. Ignoring me, she closed the door and took Bridie's free arm without giving me so much as a sideways glance. “I coulda seen her in,” she said to her charge.

“I couldn't wait,” Bridie replied. “But now that you have taken charge, Henrietta, perhaps you can assist us to the sitting room. This old coffin dodger could use a helping hand.” We walked slowly through the great hall with its elaborate stone fireplace, and past a well-stocked library into a brightly lit sitting room where tea service had already been prepared at a table set near a roaring fire. “I must say that it was great fun luring you away from your writing obligations and all the going-ons at the MacBride farm,” Bridie said to me. “I'll sit nearest to the fire, Henrietta, if you don't mind. I'm a bit chilled.”

“And right ye should be, opening the door, hardly dressed at all.” Henrietta scowled, then was seized with a cough
attack. Once she recovered, she settled her ward into an upholstered chair and went about serving tea after I chose an embroidered chair directly across from my hostess.

My attention was drawn to the chair next to Bridie where a most unusual cat slept on its back. White, long hair, a round face, and ears creased and lying flat to its head, it looked like an owl.

“That's Henrietta's feline companion,” Bridie said, noticing my fascination. “Snookie is a Scottish Fold. Folds originally came from Perthshire and are quite affectionate creatures.”

“She's beautiful,” I exclaimed.

Henrietta watched carefully as I complimented her cat. I had caught her studying me several times when she thought I wasn't looking. She was especially intrigued after the cat roused, stretched, and sauntered over to my chair. Snookie leapt up onto my lap, arranged herself in a comfortable position, and began to clean herself.

“Well, I'll be,” Henrietta said. “Snookie doesn't take tae just anybody.”

I never considered myself a cat person, having been raised with the occasional rescued dog here and there. But I liked Jasper, enjoyed going out to the barn to spend time with him, even though I'd had to woo him shamelessly to gain his friendship. This one was warm and friendly.

When Henrietta finished pouring each of us a cup, Bridie said, “You may go now, Henrietta. We won't need anything more at the moment.”

“I'd prefer to stay in case ye—”

“That will do fer now. Thank you.” Bridie's voice had
taken on a commanding tone. Then more softly she said, “Go on. Put yer feet up, take a rest.”

Henrietta shot a glance my way from the corner of her eye, picked up Snookie from my lap, and reluctantly left the room. I watched her go before turning my attention back to Bridie, who was now staring openly at me. I thought I detected something akin to awe in her gaze. But that was impossible.

If my name were Ami Pederson, I would be able to understand her fascination. Ami's full-color photograph adorns the back cover of every one of her bestselling novels, and fans are always recognizing her and asking for autographs. But my first book hadn't been published yet. And chances were that my picture would be in black and white and located on one of the back pages. If it was even there at all. So she couldn't possibly be a fan of my work.

So why did she say she would recognize me anywhere? And why was she staring at me?

A random and uncomfortable thought crossed my mind, one I hoped wasn't anything more than a figment of my imagination. I set my cup down. Bridie confirmed my growing suspicion by saying, “You're the spitting image. Ye have his eyes.”

“What is this all about?” I demanded when I found my voice, already feeling my temper rising.

“Simple, ye see. I wanted tae meet ye,” Bridie said, leaning forward. “So I had Henrietta arrange for ye tae come tae the tasting. This private tête-à-tête is an unexpected gift ye dropped intae my lap without realizin' it. When ye phoned, I chose tae seize the opportunity. Don't look so perplexed,
my dear. Like I chust said, it's simple. I had tae meet Eden Elliott, Dennis Elliott's visitin' daughter, while I had the chance.”

It was a good thing I wasn't holding my teacup, or I might have dropped it. “I wouldn't have come,” I said, manners forgotten, “if I'd known that.”

“Then it's a good thing I didn't tell ye.” Bridie carefully lifted her teacup to her lips, managing to look innocent.

“You concocted this charade?”

Bridie slowly returned her cup to the table. “I see this foolish old woman has shocked ye,” she said. “That wasn't my intention. Rumors have been circulating since yer arrival in Glenkillen. They say Dennis abandoned yer mum and yerself when ye were just a bairn. I couldn't believe that possible. Is it true? I can see from yer expression that it is.”

Speechless, I listened as she continued.

“I wasn't sure if ye'd accept my invitation or turn it down, but I didn't want tae take the chance. I knew ye'd come if Leith Cameron invited ye. And the only way I'd get that rascal interested in a little hobnobbing is with an invitation from yerself. It almost worked, didn't it? Until the two o' ye compared notes. Am I right? Ye caught on tae my scheme?”

She didn't wait for a response. I caught the twinkle in her eye. Merriment at my expense? A little fun in an isolated life that must be dreadfully routine? I could just imagine her plotting. All good fun.

Except I wasn't having a good time. I felt manipulated and decided to extricate myself from this awkward encounter as quickly as possible.

“Thank goodness fer all the typical village gossip,” she went on. “Or I wouldn't have known about yer friendship
with Leith. Or is it more? Ah, humor an old woman. Do ye fancy the lad?”

“I'm not interested in discussing my personal life with you,” I blurted, “or hearing about my father. Or learning of your connection with him.”

“Why, dear girl, I don't know where he is or what he's been up tae since his father died all those years ago. Shamed by his actions, I suspect. It's yer grandfather who I cared very deeply about, taken too soon from this life. He would have been immensely disappointed in his only child.” She shook her head in wonder. “Ye resemble him so much. Roderick Elliott, or Roddy as I called him. We were lifelong friends, and seeing ye sitting here in front of me is like having a few more precious moments with him.”

Tears welled in her eyes. Great. She was going to cry.

Please don't cry!
It was going to be difficult to remain angry and indignant if this little old lady started to sob.

I sprang to my feet.

“Please,” she sniffed. “Don't go! I'm sorry if I offended ye. But I have a much more pressing reason fer wanting ye tae attend the tasting tonight. Ye see, I've been following news of ye ever since I discovered yer connection to Roddy. I'm fully aware of yer value tae Inspector Jamieson as his assistant. That ye've solved several crimes since yer arrival in Glenkillen . . .”

“I haven't been responsible for closing those cases,” I insisted, shaken that this woman knew so much about me. “I only assisted in small ways.”

Bridie smiled. “Ye also have yer grandfather's humility and grace.”

I started for the door. I'd heard enough about the wonders
of my grandfather. He was buried and gone. And in my opinion, so was his son. My so-called father might really be dead. If not, he was dead figuratively, at least to me. I was bitter and planned on staying that way. And some conniving dinosaur of a family acquaintance wasn't going to change that.

“Please. Ye can't walk out on me,” she pleaded, and I heard desperation in her voice.

Just watch me
, I thought.

She raised her voice. “I asked ye here because of a serious threat tae my person.”

I could tell she was good at getting her way. Very good. Well, at ninety years old she'd had a lot of practice.

I paused and considered. It was one thing for me to take offense over a personal matter that wasn't any of her business. It was quite another to ignore a plea for police protection, having taken a pledge to uphold the peace. Although I was pretty sure she wasn't above conveniently embellishing her situation, judging by her recent deception.

But when I turned around, she was holding out a piece of paper; her hand that had been so steady only a few moments ago was shaking. I took it from her and read the crudely fashioned block letters.
You are skating on thin ice. Cancel plan for Saturday night. You only get one warning.

“I never ice-skated a day in my life,” she said, as I sat back down. “But o' course that isn't what the person who wrote this meant. Henrietta found it several days ago, mixed in with the regular mail. So ye see, Constable Elliott, someone really is threatening my life.”

Inspector Jamieson sat across the table from me inside the Kilt & Thistle Pub. We'd greeted the pub owners, Dale Barrett and his wife, Marg, and put in our order. From my position, I could see the local drunk, Bill Morris, slouched at a table close enough to the bar to eavesdrop, yet tucked in a corner far enough away to remain out of sight. I always wondered how much information managed to seep into his sodden brain.

“Blutered again,” the inspector observed when he followed my gaze over to Bill.

The Scots have a bottomless pit of synonyms for drunkenness. I've heard “hammered” here, which is used stateside, and “guttered.” I'd also heard it referred to as “legless,” and now “blutered.”

“Bridie wants to keep the investigation unofficial, at least for the moment,” I told him while we lunched on brown bread and cock-a-leekie soup, a combination of chicken, leeks, carrots, and rice that warmed up my insides
on this nippy winter day. “In fact, Bridie was adamant. She doesn't want you involved, didn't want you to know. She tried to swear me to secrecy.”

The inspector humphed as I continued, “I refused. If anything were to actually happen to her, and I'd kept information from you . . . well, you see that I couldn't in good conscience. I told her in no uncertain terms that the only way I'd agree to attend is with your full approval. She argued, but finally acquiesced when she realized I wasn't going to change my mind.”

“Ye did the proper thing,” he assured me, finishing his soup and leaning back to study me with sharp eyes, a habit of his that still makes me uncomfortable. “Does she have any idea who might be behind this threatening message?”

“After the stunt she pulled to get me to come to her event, she could be making the entire thing up, might have created the note herself. The woman seems to be trying to get close to me.”

“And that would be a horrible thing because . . . ?”

I busied myself with buttering a thick slice of brown bread since I didn't have an easy answer to his question. It had to do with my privacy, with this person knowing more about me than she should. And with my resolve to ignore the Elliott side of the family. It would feel like a betrayal after all the grief my mother went through because of my father. I'd intentionally left Bridie's connection with one of my relatives out of the conversation we were having at the moment.

The inspector went on. “Bridie's reason fer the game she played with ye was most likely just as she admitted. Tae have ye nearby in case o' trouble. She's a tough old girl,
loyal tae her friends and always one tae stay two steps ahead o' everybody else. I can't imagine why she didn't come directly tae me, though, if she was in real danger. What else did ye chat aboot?”

I went on to relate the story. “According to Bridie, she's been dropping hints to her son, Archie, about selling the distillery. Bridie says she's tried to groom her son to take over, but he doesn't seem to have the ambition or the passion, and she's worried that he'll run it into the ground once she's gone. She told him she'd rather sell to an outsider now than have it lying in ruins later . . .”

“. . . without a pound tae show fer years o' hard work,” the inspector finished for me. “Archie's in his fifties. You'd think he'd have his nose tae the grindstone tae put aside a tidy nest egg. It's a shame in family businesses when the children don't care aboot what their parents have built.”

“Well, Bridie made up the entire thing as a ruse to spark a flame under him,” I said. “She reasoned that if he thought he could lose the family business, he might shape up and take his position as head of the distillery more seriously. She believes that the warning was in regard to an announcement she said she was going to make in private with the family after the tasting.”

“So she thinks this warning was penned by her own son?”

“She refuses to accept that, saying there are others who are more likely suspects. Although she wouldn't mention names, only insisting that I shouldn't be prejudiced before forming my own opinion.”

“Has she been bandying her thoughts tae sell all aboot the place?”

“Only to her son and his wife, Florence. But she believes
they could have been overheard, or passed on to the wrong individual. I'm thinking any of the distillery workers could be worried about a potential sale and their own futures. Anyway, after the note appeared, she didn't know what to do, if anything. For a day or two, she ignored it. Then she thought of me.”

“Rather than coming tae me?”

I shrugged. “Unofficial, she said. And a perfect excuse to drag me into her net.”

“She's quite the plotter. Are ye sure the two o' ye aren't related?”

I smiled. “Positive,” I said.

“Ye could collaborate together,” the inspector suggested. “Co-author a novel.”

“You aren't taking her seriously, are you?”

“Bridie Dougal always enjoyed a wee bit o' drama in her life. She has some jinxter in her, and it must be gettin' dreary up there, since the snow started flying aboot. What's this big announcement o' hers fer tonight?”

“Actually, she claims her ploy worked. Archie has been much more focused on the business. She plans to announce that the distillery will remain in family hands. But of course, the implication was that she'd announce a sale.”

“So why doesn't she make the announcement right now and save herself all this grief?”

“I asked her that. She refuses to change her plan because of a threat.”

“More like she's enjoying the excitement. Archie and Florence have a son studying business and marketing. I expect he'll take over at some point in the future.”

“That's Bridie's most fervent wish.”

“Well, we can't be discounting the possibility that someone actually did threaten her.”

“So you think I should go?”

“It wouldn't hurt tae have ye there. Ye've a fine eye fer seeing things in a different light than others do. Go and decide fer yerself if there's truth tae her tale. But she wants unofficial and that's what she'll get. Fit in, as I'm sure ye will, have a fine time, and don't think ye have tae play the part o' her security team.”

“I shouldn't drink tonight.”

“Wha'? And how are ye tae pull that off at a whisky tasting without making yerself the center o' attention?”

“Good point.”

“Go and have a swell time. I could make ye redundant fer a day or two if that's what ye need tae feel better aboot sampling the whisky.”

“You'd fire me!”

The inspector chuckled.

My thoughts flashed to the dress I had chosen for tonight. And to Leith Cameron and the kilt he most certainly would wear. If nothing else, it would be a new experience for me, hobnobbing with a clan chieftain while sipping fine aged Scottish whisky.

I came back from my daydream, to the table and the inspector sitting across from me, watchful as ever but with an amused expression on his face when he said, “Fer all I know, ye concocted the whole thing yerself tae get out o' wearing yer uniform.”

“Don't worry,” I said with a grin. “I'll be prepared for anything. I'll have my trusty pepper spray along in case anyone acts up.”

“Heaven help the lot o' us,” was his parting shot.

After that, I dug my laptop out of my tote with the intention of writing for part of the afternoon before I went off to get ready for the tasting.
Hooked on You
was coming along well ever since the weather had turned cold, and I was certain to have the first draft finished by the end of the year, as I'd promised my publishing house editor. Hunkering down inside the pub, feeling the warmth of the fireplace, hearing the murmur of voices in the background, a cup of hot tea beside me—all these things are usually conducive to my creativity.

The setting for my Scottish Highlands Desire series is a small village called Rosehearty, a harbor town much like Glenkillen. Where the hero (Daniel Ross) is rugged, gorgeous, and sexy. And the heroine (Jessica Bailey) is beautiful and strong-willed and doesn't need a man complicating her life.

I really intended to write for at least a short while.

But how does that saying go?

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Because instead of creating a whole lot of conflict, setting those two characters at cross-purposes, and watching the sparks fly, I couldn't help it—my mind wandered here, there, and everywhere.

And as much as I tried to rein it in, it refused to cooperate.

Instead of taking an imaginary trip to Rosehearty where I could control every character's destiny, I found myself firmly entrenched in Glenkillen, where I was powerless to change the future.

Instead of writing about sweet promises, I sat at the pub table worrying about my own future, about my remaining
days here, and how I should be making the most of the time I had left.

Another saying came to mind, one that the inspector had used a few months back when reassuring an anxious woman whose baby was threatening to enter the world in the back of his police car.

It had applied then and it arrived now just in time to save me from a funk hovering over my head. A Scottish saying this time, one having nothing to do with pavement and hell.

Whit's fur ye'll no go past ye.

Later, Inspector Jamieson had translated it for me in two other languages.

In French:
Que sera sera.

And in English:
Whatever will be, will be.