the time I stole a bag of marbles from the novelty shop when I was six?”
“I hope you didn’t confess,” Gemma said, grinning.
“But I know what you mean. He’s rather terrifying.”
Heather’s answering smile was fleeting. “You went to Aviemore—what about Hazel? Did you see her?”
“Ross is still detaining her, and no, I wasn’t able to see her, I’m afraid. She should have a solicitor. Is there someone you could call?”
“There’s Giles Glover, the firm’s legal adviser. But I’ve rung him already. He’s out of town for the weekend, won’t be back until tomorrow morning. About Hazel—I hope—you don’t think Ross took her in because of something I said?” Heather twisted her hair into a careless knot.
“What did you tell him?” asked Gemma, making an effort to keep her voice even, friendly.
“Only that Donald and Hazel had had a relationship, but years ago. I didn’t say—you’d think he’d have taken in that Alison woman. I mean, she was the one screaming at him like a fishwife last night—”
“Her name is Alison? I had the impression you knew her,” Gemma added, with some satisfaction.
“Alison Grant.” Heather made a grimace of distaste.
“She lives in Aviemore, works at the gift shop there. It was nothing serious between her and Donald, at least on his part.”
“So do you think someone told her Donald had another . . . um . . . romantic agenda for the weekend?”
“Someone must have, but I’ve no idea who.” With a return of her former prickliness, Heather added, “It wasn’t
“No, no, I didn’t think it was. Where’s Pascal?”
Gemma asked, hoping to diffuse the tension. “I thought he was coming with you.”
“He did. He’s in the stillroom with Peter McNulty, the stillman. Peter showed up here this afternoon already half pissed, and is now proceeding to drink his way through an eighteen-year-old bottle of Benvulin. It seemed the least I could offer,” Heather said bitterly. “He was devoted to Donald. Everyone was devoted to Donald.”
“Including you.”
Heather’s eyes filled, and she swiped angrily at the tears. “Yes. Including me. God, what a bloody mess.”
“What will happen to the distillery? Will you stay on?”
“It will depend on the disposition of Donald’s shares. And on the board of directors. I’ve rung them with the news.”
“And the house?”
“It belongs to the distillery, not Donald personally.
Donald’s father mortgaged it when the distillery had a cash shortage back in the eighties. Donald’s mother has no claim. She remarried shortly after she and Bruce divorced, and lives in California now. I’ve rung her as well.”
“What was he like, Donald’s father?” asked Gemma.
“Bruce Brodie was . . . difficult. He bullied Donald, as hard as that is to imagine.” Heather’s smile was fleeting.
“When he was killed—that was not long after I came to work here—I’d almost say Donald was . . . relieved.”
Gemma sat up a bit, her interest quickening. “He was killed?”
“Did Hazel never tell you? It was a climbing accident, on Cairngorm. Almost ten years ago, now. Donald’s sister, Lizzie, died, too.”
“How dreadful!” exclaimed Gemma. “How did it happen?”
“An early snowstorm. It was four days before Mountain Rescue found their bodies. The weather forecast had been a bit dicey, but Bruce ignored it. He was always reckless. And Lizzie . . . Lizzie would have followed her father to the end of the earth. I suppose you could say she did.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Gemma, wishing she had more comfort to offer. “It must have been very hard for you, especially if you and Donald were close.”
“Do you mean if we were lovers?” said Heather, hostility back in full force. “At least you had a little more tact than Chief Inspector Ross. Why does everyone find it so hard to believe that men and women can be friends?”
“I’m sorry. You’re right, it was stupid of me.” Even as she cursed herself for her clumsiness, Gemma noticed that Heather had not answered the question directly.
Heather stood abruptly and went to the window, where she stood with her back to Gemma, looking out.
Taking advantage of the opportunity, Gemma got up and examined the photos on the wall behind Heather’s desk. There were many of Heather, or Heather and Donald, in the distillery with various members of the staff.
Another picture caught Gemma’s eye, Heather and Donald in evening dress at a banquet. It must have been an affair honoring whisky, as bottles marched down the center of the table. Heather looked happy in a way Gemma had not seen before.
Among the business shots, Gemma spied a framed photo of a slightly younger Heather with an older couple Gemma took to be her mum and dad. And then she noticed an unframed snap, stuck into the corner of a corkboard, half covered by papers. She peered at it, trying to make out the details. It was a distillery, but not Benvulin.
The buildings were spare and white-harled, and looked bleak against a snowy ground and barren moors.
There were two girls, off to one side, in the shadow.
One was surely Heather, the long, dark hair distinctive even then, and the other, half-hidden by the corkboard’s edge—was it Hazel?
“It’s Carnmore.” Heather had turned round and was watching her. “My family’s distillery.”
“Your family? But I thought Hazel’s father—”
“My father was the younger brother. It should have come to him, but he wasn’t in a financial position to take on the business when Uncle Robert decided to sell,” explained Heather, her tone once again bitter.
“Did you and Hazel spend much time together?” asked Gemma, still studying the photo.
“We were inseparable. I never imagined things would turn out the way they did.” Heather moved to the cork-
board and touched the snapshot with a fingertip. “Losing Carnmore was bad enough, but I thought Hazel would write, that she’d come back for the summers. I never dreamed she would just disappear.”
Was this the source of Heather’s ambition? wondered Gemma. A longing for a childhood idyll, rather than a passion for the whisky itself? “It might have been hard for her to come back,” suggested Gemma. “To be reminded of what she’d lost.”
“I know that now. But I didn’t at twelve. Look . . .”
Heather turned to face her. “What I said this morning, about what’s happened being Hazel’s fault. I don’t really believe that. But why—after all this time—would someone choose this particular weekend to shoot Donald?”
First, Kincaid tried determined cheerfulness, but as the afternoon wore on and Kit’s attitude did not improve, he called the boy into the study, a cozy room that held not only Kincaid’s desk but also a squashy sofa and the television.
“Kit, what’s the problem, here? I thought you got on with Wes—”
“It’s nothing to do with him.” Kit stood before the desk, hands shoved in his pockets, spots of color high on his cheekbones. “I just don’t see why we need anyone—”
“I thought we’d already had this argument. I don’t know how long I’ll be away, and I’m not leaving you and Toby alone without an adult in the house. That’s just not an option.” Leaving Kit alone really would give Kit’s grandmother ammunition to accuse him of improper
care, Kincaid thought with a shudder, but he wasn’t going to remind Kit of that. He tried to curb his exasperation.
“Now, why don’t we take the dogs for a run before—”
“Then let me go with you. Toby can stay here with Wesley.”
“Kit—”
