Free 08 - The Highland Fling Murders by Jessica Fletcher, Donald Bain

Devil-worship fashion, can’t do the town no good. No good at all. Unless you do—I can’t promise your safety, or anybody else’s safety up here.”
    Constable McKay stood and went to the door. “No need to show me out, George. But you think about what I just said. Just announcing to the people that you plan to sell Sutherland Castle will do wonders for this town’s spirits. Do wonders. Good-bye, miss.”

Chapter Nine
    I spent the afternoon in my room reading Mickey Spillane’s new novel, Black Alley. I know Mickey, and am always amazed how anyone with such a sweet disposition can write best-selling tough-guy books with such authority. I’ve been his fan ever since his controversial first book, I, The Jury, was published many years ago.
    At four, those who went on the tour with Forbes arrived back at the castle, and I went downstairs to greet them. They were in a jubilant mood, gushing about the natural beauty they’d seen and the lunch they’d enjoyed at an inn on the outskirts of Wick.
    George had arranged for Mrs. Gower to put out a spread of salmon, caviar, and pâté to go with drinks poured by Forbes, who’d quickly traded in his bus driver’s cap for a bartender’s apron. Once we were gathered in the drawing room, George asked for our attention.
    “I’m afraid I have some rather bad news to report,” he said. “Daisy Wemyss, the young lady who worked here and served dinner last night, has been murdered.”
    There were the expected questions and comments.
    “Jessica discovered her body this morning while walking in Wick,” George said. “A tragedy, to be sure.”
    Now all the questions were directed at me. Where did I find her? How was she killed? Who killed her?
    “Please,” I said, “I really don’t know any more than George has told you.” I didn’t want to have to go into the grisly details.
    But they pressed, especially Mort Metzger, his law enforcement training coming to the fore.
    “She was killed in the same fashion as the witch George wrote about in his letter to me, Isabell Gowdie. Someone rammed a pitchfork into her chest, and cut a cross on her neck.”
    I immediately looked to Alicia Richardson, who went pale and sat on a nearby chair. Jed stood over her, a comforting hand on her shoulder.
    “Obviously, the local authorities are investigating,” said George. “As dampening as this might be, we mustn’t let it ruin your short stay at Sutherland Castle. I’ll do everything I can to isolate you from this unpleasant and unfortunate situation. There’s no reason for it to directly impact upon your vacation.”
    “Easy for you to say,” Seth Hazlitt said. “Wick is a small village. Could have been anyone killed the poor girl—includin’ somebody workin’ right here for you, Inspector Sutherland.”
    We all turned to the bar; Forbes was gone.
    “I rather doubt that,” George said. “The citizens of Wick are good and decent people, hard-working and honorable. This is the perverted work of a madman, a single individual. Don’t judge all of Wick by this incident.”
    “Hard not to,” Jim Shevlin said. “What kind of town is this? Women branded as witches, pitchforks in their chests, crosses carved in their throats. How many now? Three? That alleged witch, Isabell. Then what? Twenty years ago another woman dies that way because she’s related to Isabell? And now that pretty young woman who served us dinner last night.”
    Shevlin addressed us: “What do all of you think? We come from Cabot Cove, a good and decent place. We bring up our kids there in peace. I ran for mayor because I wanted to keep Cabot Cove a safe place for all of us. I don’t know, folks, but there’s something in the air here. Something sinister. I say we pack up and leave.”
    I looked to George, who’d retreated to a far corner during the debate. I felt sorry for him. Obviously, none of this was his fault. He’d opened up his family home to me and my friends, and didn’t deserve to be viewed as