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

disappeared all day, showed up a few minutes before your group came back from their tour. They and the Symingtons have paired up for dinner in town.”
    “Strange combination,” I said.
    “My thought exactly. Jessica, thank you for rallying your friends to stay. I would have hated to see them go. More important, I would have hated to see you go.”
    “I can’t blame them for being concerned.”
    “Nor can I. Do you think your sheriff friend will actually concoct some sort of security plan, as he calls it?”
    “Probably. Mort rises to every occasion, not always the right way but meaning well.”
    “Rodden tree and reid threid.”
    I laughed. “And what does that mean?”
    “Put the witches to their speed, Jessica. Sheriff Metzger might include in his security plan some amber beads and horseshoes, place some of each outside your bedroom doors each night. Supposed to be an effective deterrent to witches and warlocks.”
    “Should I suggest it to him?”
    “No.”
    There were two hours before dinner, and everyone drifted to their bedrooms. George and I went to his office, where we’d met with Constable McKay earlier in the day. George offered me a glass of single-malt scotch, Old Pulteney, distilled and bottled in Wick. I declined.
    “A pleasant brew,” George said, pouring himself a small amount in a snifter bearing the Sutherland Clan crest. “After the events of the day, I rather think I’m entitled to it.”
    “You’re entitled to it no matter what the events of the day have been.”
    “Thank you for that vote of encouragement, Jessica.” He tasted the scotch, smacked his lips, and said, “Well, dear lady, what do you think now that you’ve had a day to ponder Daisy’s murder?”
    “What makes you think I’ve been pondering it?” I asked.
    “Haven’t you?”
    “Of course I have. I’m being facetious. I think that even though reason should prevail, there is something terribly strange going on in Wick. I mentioned that we’ve had murders in Cabot Cove. Not many, but a few. The difference is—and I decided not to make the point with the others—the difference is that those murders didn’t involve witchcraft, or allegations of it. No pitchforks in the chest. No crosses carved on throats. Just plain old run-of the-mill murders. Jealousy. Greed. Ambition. A shot from a gun. The thrust of a kitchen knife. Poison in the tea.”
    “Or in the scotch?”
    “Or in the scotch. The point is, there’s never been anything mystical about murders in Cabot Cove, Maine. But this is so different, George. And as much as I dismiss as folly and overactive imaginations the notion of ghosts and witches, I must admit I’ve felt a certain chill up my spine since arriving at Sutherland Castle.”
    “The lady in white.”
    “Yes. And now this. George, can I ask you a direct question, one that might put you on the spot?”
    “You know you can.”
    “Do you personally feel we’re in any danger by staying here?”
    He looked at me for what seemed a very long time, finished the scotch in his snifter, placed the empty glass on the desk, and sat up straight. “Jessica,” he said, “if I thought you, or any of your friends were in danger, I’d have you on a bus for Inverness within the hour, and I’d sell this castle to the first person with a check.”
    When I didn’t respond, he added, “Believe me?”
    “Of course I believe you, George. Thank you for being direct with me.”
    “I intend to be direct at all times, Jessica. For instance, I will not allow this week to pass without us having our day together—alone!”.
    “And let me be direct by saying that you can count on it. By the way, did you ever contact the gillie about a day on the trout stream for Ken and me?”
    “As a matter of fact, I did. Rufus Innes is a fishing legend in these parts. Old, craggy, crusty, and irascible. But the best guide in Scotland. He’ll take you out day after tomorrow, if that fits your schedule.”
    “I’m sure it