Death and Daisies Page 5

  Almost immediately, Presha appeared at Craig’s side. Instead of handing him the cup of water, she dipped her fingers in the paper cup and flicked water on Kipling’s pasty face.

  The volunteer police officer groaned and rolled his head back and forth. His eyes moved up and down behind his eyelids.

  Craig snorted. “Come on, Kip. Stop faking and open your eyes.”

  I couldn’t help but feel that Craig was right and Kipling was much more awake than he was letting on because he was enjoying being the center of attention.

  Presha leaned over and smacked Kipling on the cheek. “Wake up already!”

  Kipling’s eyes popped open and he rubbed his cheek. “What did you have to go and do that for?”

  “Someone had to knock some sense into you,” Presha said. “What are you doing coming into Fiona’s opening and yelling about murder? Is that any way to treat a newcomer to the village?”

  Kipling blinked at her a few times, as if he was trying to remember something important. “Murder? Who said anything about murder?”

  “That’s what you said.” Presha stood over him with her arms folded.

  I glanced at Craig to see if he was going to stop Presha from taking the lead in the questioning, but he seemed perfectly happy to let her do it. The chief inspector watched Kipling closely, as if looking for clues as to how reliable a witness the man was.

  A light dawned on Kipling’s face. “Oh! Yes, there was a murder! I have discovered a murder.” He held out his arm, and Craig helped him to his feet. Kipling wobbled for a moment.

  Craig dropped the other man’s arm. “What are you talking about?”

  I scrambled to my feet as well.

  Kipling’s eyes went wide. “A body. I found a body, and with my expert eye I could tell right away that the sorry man died at the hands of foul play.”

  The villagers who were still in the shop created a circle around Craig and Kipling. If it wouldn’t have been too obvious, I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if they had leaned in and cupped their ears.

  Craig held his arms out and said in his official cop voice, “Please, everyone, step back. Kipling just had quite a shock and he needs space. Let the man breathe.”

  Kipling put a hand to his throat. “I am feeling rather parched from the experience. I don’t think that I can go on with my story until I have something to drink. Ale would the most helpful, I daresay. I know I’m on duty and all, but these are strange times we live in.”

  Presha returned a moment later with a fresh cup of water.

  Kipling took a sip and wrinkled his nose. Clearly he had truly been hoping for the ale he had requested. He should have been happy with the water. Presha could have given him some of her extra-strong chai. That would have woken him right up.

  Craig folded his arms. “You found a body? Where?”

  Kipling pressed his paper cup to his forehead. “On the beach, just south of the harbor. I was doing my daily rounds.” He puffed out his chest. “You know I keep a close watch on everything that goes on in the village, a very close watch, indeed. There is a reason that we have a very low crime rate here. My diligence has paid off.”

  The reason there was a low crime rate in Bellewick was actually because it was a tiny Scottish village that few outsiders visited; and if he was responsible for the crime rate, he wasn’t doing a super job. In the two months I had been in Scotland, this would be the second murder, if what Kipling was saying was in fact true. I wasn’t completely certain it was, or if he was just enjoying having a captive audience listen to one of his adventures.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t a harbor seal that washed up on the shore?” Presha asked. “It would be terrible if it was, but those can look suspiciously like a man at a distance.”

  Kipling shook his head like a defiant toddler. “No, no, it was a dead body.” He paused. “It was a human dead body. I am sure of it. When I saw the form off in the distance, I walked right up to it to investigate. I was only two feet from him. There is no doubt it was a man.”

  “Who?” Craig asked. His patience was growing thin. “Whose body was it?”

  Kipling took a deep breath and looked around the room. He seemed to take time to stare into the faces of each villager in turn. “It was the minister.” He paused as that sunk into the group. “The body of Minister Quaid MacCullen has washed up ashore. He’s dead.”

  I felt like Kipling had donkey-kicked me in the chest, and I stumbled backward. Presha pressed a warm and calming hand to my back, but it did nothing to soothe my nerves. The minister was dead? He had been in this very shop just last evening.

  A rush of cold dread filled me. No, there had been no love lost between the minister and me, but he was someone I had known. Someone the villagers loved and relied upon. He was a man of God. And I knew, in his own way, he’d only tried to ostracize me because he truly cared about his parishioners and wanted to ensure their spiritual well-being. I felt terrible. That he should die—that any person should—before their due time …

  Another thought hit me. Was I the last person to have seen him alive? I shook my head. That couldn’t be possible because of the note on the front door that the minister had left. I knew it had not been there when Isla and I had locked up for the night yesterday. He must have come to the shop at some point, and then what? Gone to the harbor and drowned in the storm? That didn’t make any sense at all. And if Kipling was right, why would anyone kill him? Who had a motive to do that other than … other than me? My heart pounded in my chest. The minister had been harassing me since the moment I set foot in the village, and it was widely known among the villagers. If anyone was going to look for someone with a motive, I would be at the top of the list. If it was indeed murder.

  Craig removed his cell phone from his tweed sport coat pocket. I knew that he was calling the station in Aberdeen for reinforcements. The county’s capital city was a half hour away. It would take Craig’s team some time to gather up what they needed and drive to the Bellewick harbor.

  Craig walked to the corner of the room to a place where he was less likely to be overheard.

  I remained standing next to Kipling with Presha’s hand on my back, and villagers crowded around us. Many of them asking questions like a Greek chorus ringing inside my head.

  “How did he die?”

  “The poor man.”

  “What will the church do now?”

  “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “Was there much blood?”

  “Was his head smashed in?”

  “Do you think it was an accident and he just drowned in the storm? It was a terrible squall.”

  “Aye, maybe he lost his way. ’Twas an awful, awful storm, the worst we have had in two years, I’d say.”

  “Nay, I would say it was the worst we have had in four years, at least. The lightning was so bright, and the wind was so fierce. It shook me to my core.”

  “Aye.”

  My throat felt tight as the villagers moved closer in, and I had to escape their curious circle.

  Presha shooed the villagers away from Kipling and me. “Now, it’s after five and the flower shop is closed for the night. Why don’t you all take your talk next door to my brother’s pub? There you can gossip about this to your heart’s content.”

  “Aye,” a man said.

  “Kipling can tell us everything that happened from the beginning,” another man said.

  Craig lowered his mobile phone from his ear. “No, Kipling is coming with me.”

  Chapter Seven

  The volunteer police officer paled at Craig’s announcement. “I don’t know why I have to go with you, Chief Inspector Craig. I told you exactly where the body is located. What more do you want from me?”

  “A lot more, Kipling. A lot.” Craig put the phone back up to his ear. “Meet me at the harbor as quickly as you can,” Craig said and hung up.

  I pushed through the crowd, which was finally taking Presha’s advice and making their way out the front do
or in the direction of the Twisted Fox.

  “You’re going to the harbor?” I asked Craig when I was finally standing next to him.

  He looked down at me. “Yes. Kipling has done a lot of dumb things as a so-called police officer in his day, but he’s never made up a story about a dead body before. I have to check into it.”

  “I’m coming with you,” I said as the last villager left. Only Craig, Kipling, Presha, Isla, and I remained in the shop.

  Craig slid his mobile back into his coat pocket. “Fiona, stay here and mind your shop. This had nothing to do with you.”

  “If Kipling is right and it is Minister MacCullen who washed up on shore, it has a lot to do with me. I know you read that note.”

  His face reddened slightly. “I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s too late now.” I lowered my voice. “You can’t take back what you know.”

  He frowned. “It may not be the minister. When a body washes up on shore, it can be difficult to identify. I don’t doubt that Kipling saw a body, but it does not mean it was MacCullen. There’s no reason for you to see what surely promises to be a gruesome scene.”

  I started to make my case again, but the chief inspector put his hand on my arm. “Fiona, I don’t have time to argue with you about this. I have to get to the scene before my constables do.”

  I took a step back. “Of course. I’m sorry. Good luck.”

  He dropped his hand from my arm. “Kipling, let’s go.”

  Kipling blinked at him. “Go where?”

  “To the beach. I already told you that you were coming with me.”

  “But I thought you said that to make the villagers leave. You really want to me to go back there?” the younger man asked in a shaky voice. “I don’t want to do that again.”

  Craig folded his arms. “You have to show me where you found the body. Time is of the essence.”

  Kipling appeared a little green but nodded and straightened his shoulders. “All right, let’s go.”

  Craig gave me one final nod and headed toward the door with Kipling on his heels.

  “Well, that was a complete buzzkill,” my sister said as she floated around the shop picking up empty plates and cups scattered around the room. “I mean, the only time you want to talk about death in a flower shop is when you are putting together arrangements for a funeral.”

  “Isla,” I cried. “Don’t be so crass. If Kipling is right, a man is dead, and he mostly likely came to a terrible end. We should not joke about that.”

  She snorted. “After the way the minister has been treating you, I don’t know why you are the least bit upset that he’s the one who might be dead.”

  “Isla!”

  Presha stepped between us. “Girls! This is not a time to argue. Let us clean up the shop so that it will be neat and tidy for tomorrow. Neil Craig will take care of whoever the poor soul is. Any loss of life is terrible, but I hate to think it was the minister. He is a harsh man, but in his heart, I know he does the things he does because he believes it is the right thing to do for his congregation. The church will be reeling from the loss.” Presha touched my arm. “And despite those last few minutes, you had a lovely opening, Fiona. You should be very proud of what you have accomplished in a short time.”

  “Thanks, Presha. I couldn’t have done it without you. Everyone loved your refreshments.” I bit my lip. “And you were a great help too, Isla.”

  My sister dropped her gaze to her feet. “Thanks, Sis.”

  Presha picked up her basket of dishes from the counter and set them onto the rolling cart she had used to transport everything from her tea shop to the Climbing Rose. She turned to head out. “It was my absolute pleasure. Now I should be getting back to my own shop. I doubt my staff was very busy, since everyone in the village was here for your opening. Do not worry, Fiona, if there are any unkind murmurings about you and the minister, Raj will put a stop to it.”

  My face flushed slightly. How did Presha know I was worried about that already? She didn’t know about my encounter with Minister MacCullen the day before or the unkind note I had found on my front door that morning. She wasn’t a member of St. Thomas’s, so I didn’t even know if she knew about the uncomfortable encounter I had had with the minister the week before. However, someone at the pub would know, and it wouldn’t be long before rumors began to fly around the village about the minister and me.

  She squeezed my arm. “Take heart that the opening was a great success. Don’t let this ugliness pollute your day. I’ll be in tomorrow to check on you girls.”

  After Presha had gone, I said to my sister, “We can clean up later. I want to head over to the harbor.”

  Isla blinked at me. “But that’s where they found the dead guy. Why would you want to go there?”

  “That’s why I have to go. I have to see for myself if it is Minister MacCullen.”

  “See, you are happy that it was him.”

  I shook my head. “No, Isla, no, I am not happy if it’s him. I’m not happy when anyone is killed.”

  “But the minister—”

  I squeezed her hand. “I know you are trying to defend me, but it doesn’t help to be relieved someone is dead, and there is another reason I’m worried.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It won’t be long before Chief Inspector Craig will be talking to me in an official capacity about the case …” I trailed off.

  She covered her mouth for a second. Then she whispered, “The note. Do you think that the police will think you killed the minister over that stupid note?”

  I picked up a daisy petal that had floated to the floor. “They might.”

  “Well, the police don’t know about it. Just burn the note. It was like it never happened.”

  “That’s the problem,” I said. “Craig found it in the workroom and took it with him.”

  Her mouth fell open. “I think you might be in trouble, big sister.”

  “I know I’m in trouble, little sister,” I said. “There is no ‘think’ about it.”

  Chapter Eight

  The closer I came to the harbor, the more powerfully the scent of fish and salt water perfumed the air. Even though the heavy odor of dead fish was unpleasant, it reminded me of my childhood visits to Scotland and time spent by the sea with my family and my godfather, Uncle Ian.

  The masts of large fishing boats came into view first, and then the weathered harbor shacks that housed the two food stands, bait shops, and scuba gear rentals along with the dock revealed themselves. A group of old men sat on weathered oil barrels at the front of the dock, just like they always did. It was as if they were the gatekeepers of the boats.

  Thankfully, I didn’t have to face their scrutiny today. Instead, I turned north in the direction of the beach. If I hadn’t already known that was the place where Kipling had found the body, the large number of official-looking vehicles parked at the edge of the beach would have been a dead giveaway. Above, black cliffs that had once been in danger of development overlooked the harbor. That land dispute had resulted in the cliffs being named a national park, but that designation had come on the heels of the premature demise of a villager. It was a shame that Bellewick might be tainted by another untimely death so soon.

  No one stopped me as I wove through the emergency vehicles and county police cars to reach the beach. I took care when I stepped down from the wooden dock’s edge. On this part of the coast, the beach wasn’t made up of smooth sand but of rocks that ranged from pebbles the size of a pencil eraser to smooth stones the size of my fist. The rocks were slick, as they had been under water at high tide, made higher than normal because of the storm.

  The soles of my boots slipped on one of the stones. Not that I had known I would need rock-appropriate footwear when I dressed that morning. I almost took a tumble but righted myself before I fell. I froze in place with my arms out, like a gymnast on a balance beam trying to find her center. I was more concerned about drawing attention to myself than falli
ng on my backend on the stones. Although that would hurt, I had fallen in the same spot before when Isla and I had played on the beach as children.

  Once I’d gathered my footing, I started to walk down the beach. A cluster of emergency personnel was about thirty yards away from me.

  The fickle North Sea, which had been so violent the night before, lapped gently against the coastline as if it could do nothing more than rock a baby to sleep. I remembered the storm, and I knew the story of the storm that had spit Baird MacCallister from the sea to Duncreigan, a mile inland from the waves. I knew better than to trust the gentle caress of the waves on the rocks.

  The closer I came to the group of men and women, the more I could hear. Craig’s voice rang clear above the others. “Step back!”

  As the circle widened, I could finally see that everyone had been clustered around the body.

  “Keep moving!” Craig ordered again. “We need room to work.”

  An EMT stepped on my foot. “Sorry,” he muttered and then blinked. “Aren’t you the American?”

  I could see Craig now. He and two other men, one I thought I recognized as the county coroner, were leaning over the body. All I could make out was a dark pant leg and a bare foot.

  “You are the American,” the EMT said. “The one who is living at Duncreigan. I remember you.”

  Craig’s head snapped up when the EMT said that, and he stared at me. I gave him a half smile, and he narrowed his eyes before turning back to his work. I was grateful he didn’t kick me off the beach.

  “Do you know who died?” I asked the EMT quietly. I suspected he wouldn’t answer my question, but it was worth a shot.

  To my surprise, he said, “It’s Minister MacCullen from the village.”

  It was the answer I’d expected, but it was still unwelcome. I also knew I was now a murder suspect. How could it be that I had been in Scotland only two months and would already be a murder suspect twice? I guessed that had to be some kind of record, but certainly not one that I wanted. My first day in Scotland, I had discovered the body of my godfather’s attorney behind the menhir in Uncle Ian’s garden. Because of my unexpected inheritance and the location of the body on my newly acquired property, I had been an immediate suspect. Without knowing a soul in Scotland, I had been forced to clear my own name. Would I have to do that again?