Death of a Highland Heavyweight Read online

  I’m not big on gardening, but I do appreciate well-tended flower beds. Like my mom and my cousin, Mimi—both gardening fanatics—it seemed Carrie rearranged and expanded her plantings regularly. I could see where she’d been digging most recently. I thought she was moving daylilies. Or maybe they were oriental lilies.

  The phone rang three times and stopped. Caber and I went back inside. I sat at the kitchen table; he sat on my feet. The clock ticked, and Carrie slept on. To fill the time, and to keep my mind from murder, I read the paper.

  7

  My cousin, Mimi—owner of the Hubris Heron Seafood Café, and a fabulous cook—saved me from a boring editorial on the FBI’s failure to catch some jewel thief working the Atlantic seaboard. According to the paper, the guy’d escaped into Canada. Like we wanted him?

  Mimi’s an incredible woman. Last year, when Doc Campbell died, I accused her of murder in front of half the town. My cheeks still burn when I remember how badly I behaved. But Mimi forgave me. How amazing is that?

  She banged on the kitchen’s French door, a blue cooler sitting beside her feet.

  I helped her lift it inside.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said after her hug. “How could this happen to someone as strong as Wee Claude?” When she shook her head, her auburn curls bounced furiously. “I brought a few things for Carrie to have on hand when people call.” Mimi unloaded a meat tray, veggie tray, fruit tray, biscuits, jellied salad, casserole, pie, and two trays of assorted squares and oat cakes. I tried stacking them in the fridge—not an easy job in Carrie’s narrow side-by-side—and a few carrot sticks slid off the veggie tray. I poked them back into place.

  “Are you going to be all right?” she asked.

  “Me?” I slammed the fridge shut. “This whole business is tragic—freakishly tragic—and like everyone else I’m shocked. But it’s nothing compared to what Carrie must be feeling. We’re not close, Carrie and me, you know that.” I swallowed hard. “But ever since this morning I’ve had this burning lump in my throat.”

  She hunkered down and massaged Caber’s droopy ears. “All those years I worked with Carrie on the committee, she never invited me inside Hunter Hall. I thought maybe you and she had discovered more in common.”

  “Geoff gave her a sedative, and I said I’d keep watch while she sleeps. She needs a friend, someone she doesn’t mind crying in front of.”

  “Good luck with that. Carrie’s a loner. Claude, her parents, I don’t know anyone else she’s close to.”

  I had an enormous family, friends, Geoff. I couldn’t imagine being alone.

  “On a different matter”—Mimi grinned—”Your mom wants to arrange an evening for you and her to drop by the Heron and do a taste-test.”

  I sighed in exasperation. I wanted a small, unassuming wedding next May when the lilacs were in bloom. Mom had a different idea, at least about the quiet, unassuming part, and she was out of control with extravagant wedding preparations. I mean, taste-testing? Now? The wedding was still nine months, four days—I glanced at the clock—and seven hours away. What was the hurry?

  “Can’t we hold off until after Hum Harbour Daze?”

  She leaned back in her chair, stretching her feet under the table. “Keeping you busy, is it?”

  “I had no idea volunteering to be on the Steering Committee would turn into so much work.”

  “That’s why I stepped down. Steering means organizing, organizing means supervising, and supervising is a euphemism for doing.”

  “How Carrie finds time to run her businesses, take care of her mother, and head up Hum Harbour Daze every year is beyond me.”

  “She’s going to need help this year. The committee can’t expect her to carry her usual load, not after what’s just happened.”

  “I know. But I can’t imagine who’d have the courage to step into her shoes.”

  Mimi nodded knowingly. A member of the Hunter clan had always headed Hum Harbour Daze. Always. The idea that anyone else might be in charge was tantamount to treason or something.

  The kitchen phone rang. We both turned.

  “Shouldn’t you answer that?” Mimi asked. “It could be important.”

  “It goes to the machine after three rings. I figure Carrie can deal with them when she gets up.”

  “What if the call’s for you?”

  I hadn’t thought of that.

  “Check the call history.”

  I pushed a couple of buttons on the phone. “The calls came from the Inverness Arms.”

  “That’s where Carrie’s mother lives. How many times have they called?”

  “According to the call history, four.”

  Mimi frowned. “Maybe something’s wrong. You’d better answer the next time.”

  “And say what?”

  “That Carrie can’t come to the phone right now, but you will let her know as soon as possible.”

  I supposed I could handle that much.

  Vi Murray was next to appear at the French door. The second ex-wife of local entrepreneur Ross Murray, Vi was our church secretary and privy to all the latest news. I ushered her into the kitchen and set her pie on the counter before accepting her embrace. It seemed I’d become the stand-in recipient of Carrie Hunter’s sympathy hugs.

  “Can you believe it?” she asked as she patted my back sympathetically. “A reporter’s already called the church wanting background information for Claude’s obituary.

  “And I saw someone driving past Hunter Hall. Going slow, staring at the house, probably hoping to see something. This is going to bring the weird ones out of the woodwork.”

  I made a new pot of tea and listened to their speculations until the phone interrupted. The caller ID said Inverness Arms. With Mimi’s nod, I picked up the receiver. I expected someone official. I got Carrie’s mother.

  “Where’s my daughter?” asked Phyllis Hunter. I’d always been intimidated by the woman, and her strident voice had the same effect on me as fingernails on chalkboard. “And who are you?”

  “Gailynn MacDonald, Mrs. Hunter. I’m sorry Carrie can’t come to the phone right now.” Mimi nodded encouragingly.

  Mrs. Hunter sniffed. “That black MacDonald girl?” I assumed she referred to my hair color. “Anne MacDonald’s daughter?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Hunter. If you’d like to leave a message?”

  Mimi cringed at my weak voice.

  “No I don’t want to leave a message. I want to talk to my daughter. Didn’t your mother teach you any manners? Where’s my daughter?”

  “She can’t come to the phone right now, Mrs. Hunter, but if you’d like to leave a message—”

  “Don’t Mrs. Hunter me, young lady. I should know better than to expect a straight answer from a MacDonald—”

  “I’ll make sure Carrie gets your message as soon as she’s here.”

  “As soon as she’s here? If she’s not there, where is she? And why are you in my house?”

  I glanced at Mimi for inspiration. “I’m on the Hum Harbour Daze Steering Committee with your daughter, Mrs. Hunter. She’s upstairs right now. I can get her to call you as soon as she comes down.” All true, though technically it didn’t answer her questions. But it wasn’t my place to tell this woman her house had been robbed, her son-in-law was dead, and her daughter was sleeping in a drugged stupor.

  I held my breath.

  “Well.” Mrs. Hunter hmphed. “See that you do.” And she hung up.

  I poured myself a mug of strong tea and sank into the nearest chair.

  “Sounds like Phyllis was in her usual form,” Vi said.

  I closed my eyes and swallowed scalding tea. Not that I was being a very good host, drinking in front of them. “Would either of you like some?”

  Mimi declined. “I’ve been away from the café long enough.” She hugged us both good-bye.

  Vi, in no hurry to leave, accepted a frog mug full of tea, adding milk and sugar. “I can’t get my mind around this. Just yesterday Claude told me he’d gotten his vi
sa for Ghana. Not that you’d catch me running off to Africa.”

  “It’s a gift, I think, to be able to leave everything you know and go someplace so different. Shows how much Carrie loved him.”

  “Oh, she wasn’t going with him.”

  I sipped my tea and waited, knowing Vi would explain further.

  “At least that’s what Wee Claude told Reverend Innes. She couldn’t go away and leave her mother alone.”

  “Which makes Claude’s family estrangement so much sadder.”

  “I don’t know anything about that, except I once overheard him telling the Reverend he’d had a terrible falling out with his father. He’s never talked to anyone in his family since.”

  I wondered if Geoff knew more. It would be nice for Carrie if there was someone among Claude’s family who could stay with her.

  Vi was gone by the time Carrie padded into the kitchen. It was a quarter past noon. She’d twisted her hair back into a severe bun which, with her sedative-darkened eyes and pale complexion, only made her look more distant than ever. She seemed a little unsteady on her feet, so I held her arm and guided her into the closest chair.

  I poured her tea. “Can I make you some lunch? Mimi and Vi dropped off a few things. You have a choice.” I opened the fridge door and stood back so she could see.

  “They brought all of that?”

  “Mostly Mimi. Vi’s pie is on the counter. And your mother phoned.” I didn’t tell her how many times.

  She cupped her mug between her hands as though she craved its warmth. “I’m not hungry, but I suppose I should eat something. Why don’t you make lunch for both of us?”

  “Both of us? I thought you might want to be alone.”

  Her lips started to quiver. “I’m going to be alone the rest of my life.”

  Afraid the tremor signaled another shrieking episode, I agreed without thinking. “Whatever you need—you just have to ask.”

  Which is how I ended up spending the night at Hunter Hall.

  8

  By day Hunter Hall was creepy, by night it was downright spooky. And having a forlorn basset hound glued to your heels didn’t help. Caber was Claude’s dog. I deduced from the uncertain way he and Carrie eyed each other, that although they might tolerate each other, they hadn’t bonded. Which seemed odd, as I found Caber’s humble charms endearing.

  Until I tried sleeping with him, that is.

  I was exhausted after the way Carrie’d kept me hopping the rest of the day. Go here, go there. Do this, do that. The woman needed an executive assistant, and trust me, I had no intentions of applying for the job. At some point in her privileged upbringing, Carrie’s parents had apparently decided she didn’t need to learn the words, thank you. Or, if she knew them, she didn’t need to employ them. Apparently, thank you was what people said to them, not what they said to other people.

  Hopefully, that wasn’t how she’d treated Wee Claude.

  Bone weary, I was looking forward to a good sleep.

  Caber lay on my bed, his solid body pressed against the back of my legs. His wheeze rattled through the room, and I probably would have crammed the pillow over my head, except then I wouldn’t hear Carrie.

  Sometimes she cried in her sleep—not weeping, but she made these gasping sobs that sounded like weeping. At other times she wanted a sip of water. Or the simple assurance that she wasn’t alone.

  It didn’t help that the day’s heat culminated in a house-quaking thunderstorm. I don’t usually mind storms. At home I’d open the curtains and pull my chair up to the window, waiting to see the lightning hit the water. It sizzled when it struck the sea. I loved that sound.

  Unfortunately, my bedroom window at Hunter Hall faced the street. The street lights were out—as often happened during a storm—leaving nothing much to see. Or so I thought, until a flash illuminated the rain-slick pavement, and I spotted the man standing under the awning across the street. He had a tiny amber light that glowed intermittently—perhaps the tip of his cigarette when he inhaled? I half-hid behind my curtains, in case he could see me watching him watching Hunter Hall. He was still there when I gave up and crawled into bed.

  By dawn’s light Carrie had finally settled.

  Unable to sleep, I dragged back the bedroom’s heavy curtains and pushed open the windows to let in fresh morning air. I punched new life into my feather pillows and propped myself in bed to read. I’d scavenged the Bible from Claude’s office.

  I loved the story of Lazarus. I loved the way Jesus shared Mary and Martha’s grief, and the way He loved them. So I flipped to John’s Gospel, and sometime during my fourth read through the story, I conked out, too.

  Caber’s howling bark jarred me awake.

  “Gailynn,” Carrie shouted from across the hall, “I am in the bath. Can you see who’s at the front door?”

  Ash hadn’t packed a robe when she brought my overnight bag, so I wrapped the woven coverlet around my shoulders and raced down the stairs. In the echo-y old house my footfalls sounded like cannon fire.

  Dear sweet brother Andrew, in uniform, and accompanied by an RCMP officer presumably from the Serious Crime Unit, stood on the front step. Andrew’d cupped his hands against the narrow glass window that edged the door and peered inside.

  I unbolted the door and opened it a crack.

  “Don’t be a goof, Gai. Let us in. And if Carrie’s awake, tell her Inspector LeClerc wants to see her.” He reached out and patted down my hair, I guess to make me look more respectable.

  “Do you want to wait in the kitchen? Or the parlor?”

  Ignoring me, Andrew headed to the parlor, and the inspector, a vaguely attractive man of unassuming height, apologized for awakening me.

  “Make yourself at home, and I’ll tell Carrie you’re here.” Which they did, and I did, and in time—it appeared Carrie was not one to be rushed—she joined them in the parlor. Dressed, hair combed, and face scrubbed, I served them tea and breakfast scones, compliments of another neighbor.

  Then I loitered in the next room and eavesdropped.

  The last time we’d had a murder in Hum Harbour, the RCMP had remained in the background, while Andrew—with my assistance—identified the killer within a few days. From the tone of their voices, it seemed Andrew and the inspector considered Claude’s death an accident. For form’s sake, they asked the usual “Did your husband have any enemies?” and questioned her about Claude’s competitive rivalries, like the one Claude shared with Danny-Boy Murdock.

  When Carrie presented the insurance documents outlining the value of her missing frogs, however, I heard them shuffle to attention in their wing-backed chairs.

  I’d pulled the files for Carrie the day before and almost fallen over myself when I read the price she’d paid for her folk art. I know people claim I charge an arm and a leg for my sea glass jewelry, but I, at least, use gold and silver. The frog figurines Carrie’d lost were molded porcelain. What’s unique about that?

  Inspector LeClerc cleared his throat. “Madame Oui,” he said in Quebecois-accented English, “I assure you, we will resolve the investigation of your husband’s death as soon as we can.”

  “Thank you,” said Carrie. Apparently, RCMP Inspectors merited thanks.

  They made rustling noises, as though preparing to leave.

  “Madame Oui, your husband was a great Canadian. A great athlete. I promise you, if there is anything suspicious about his death, we will find it. We will see that justice is done.”

  I slipped into the kitchen as Carrie led them to the door. Their voices faded into an indiscernible mumble. Then Andrew popped into the kitchen.

  “Gai, I almost forgot.”

  I pulled my head from the fridge, as though I’d just noticed him.

  “Ash wanted me to tell you, she’s closed Dunmaglass until you get back.”

  Dunmaglass was going to be famous one day. It wasn’t yet, of course. And it never would be if Ash closed the shop every time she had a whim. “What do you mean she’s closed it?”<
br />
  Andrew shrugged. “I dunno. She tried to explain but frankly, Gai, I’m a little preoccupied at the moment, so I didn’t register what she was going on about. Maybe a trophy? That ring any bells?”

  Carrie stood in the kitchen doorway. “The trophy? You mean the lobster boat trophy?” She’d commissioned a new trophy for Hum Harbour Daze’s lobster boat races, and I’d agreed to display it in the front window at Dunmaglass.

  She’d said the stained glass panels suspended in my front window, made by Helena Borgdenburger, were a perfect backdrop for the new trophy which was, coincidentally, created by Halbert Borgdenburger, her equally talented husband.

  “Gailynn, if there’s a problem with the trophy”—her voice cracked—”I can’t bear another crisis. Please, you must go. I need you to solve whatever’s wrong as soon as possible.”

  Andrew rejoined Inspector LeClerc at the front door and, having provided me with the reason to leave Hunter Hall, bid us good-bye.

  “Are you sure you can manage without me?” I asked Carrie. “Do you want someone else to come over while I’m gone?”

  “Don’t worry about me, Gailynn. You’re needed somewhere else. I understand completely.”

  “I’ll be back once I sort things out.”

  “Not necessary. Really.”

  Her sudden willingness to see me gone, after twenty-four hours of seemingly endless demands, puzzled me, but I didn’t argue. I dashed upstairs and crammed my stuff into my overnight bag while she watched me.

  “You shouldn’t be alone, Carrie. If you need me, call.” I didn’t linger over the offer, though. Instead, I exited Hunter Hall by the giant front door and booted it down the street to Dunmaglass and the disaster Ash considered worth closing my shop over.

  9

  Dunmaglass filled the main floor of the narrow one-hundred-fifty-year-old two-story stone building, which I owned. It was one of a string of similar buildings built hip to jowl along Hum Harbour’s narrow Main Street. Named after a local Scottish settlement that disappeared long ago, Dunmaglass specialized in my own one-of-a-kind sea glass jewelry, a local artist’s blown glass vases and sculptures, and his wife’s dramatically placed stained glass panels, also for sale, although no one had ever offered to buy one.