“I wouldn’t forget an arse like ’ers.” The man went back to his beer.
Paranoia tickled Gorrie’s senses as he left the pub. The coincidence of the killer seeking out his wife was just too great — and yet, if someone had come to town so skilled as to make four related murders seem completely unrelated, wasn’t it just possible that he would seek out the one person trying to tie them together and prove they were murders, not accidents?
He, not she. A woman couldn’t have committed these crimes, or wouldn’t.
Why not? Held down Cardha Duff while she injected her? Duff was a wee lass, and if sleeping, might have been easily overwhelmed. The small chest bruise at her ribs might have come from a knee or an arm.
Losh, as Nan would say. You’ll be seeing pipers in the mist next, and soldiers manning castles that haven’t existed in five hundred years.
A schoolteacher in March. Two schoolteachers in Inverness.
Maybe the Yanks all had mid-winter holiday.
Gorrie saw the blue Ford in his driveway and kept going, continuing down the block to Peterson’s house. He put the car in their driveway, then got out and walked back, feeling foolish. A small lorry approached from the opposite direction; he tensed as it slowed, then saw it was only the local gas service.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the driver, leaning out the window. “We’ve had some phone calls of gas smell in the neighborhood this afternoon and evening. Have you smelled anything?”
“No,” said Gorrie.
The man nodded solemnly. “Probably a disturbed person but we’re required to check it out. Missed my dinner over this.”
The man drove on. Gorrie crossed the street and stopped in the front yard next to his house, trying to see past the curtains into the sitting room. He could just make out Nan on the couch. Her visitor sat in the armchair at the corner, back to him.
Nan rose and went to the kitchen. The visitor got up as well, took a look after her, then went to the window. She had short, curly hair and a thin, attractive face.
Why would she look out the window?
Any of a million reasons, Gorrie thought.
Nan returned to the room with a fresh pot of tea. The visitor turned back, gesturing out at the window. They began laughing.
What a fool I’m being, Gorrie told himself. He went back to Peterson’s, got his car, and went around the block as if just coming in.
“Hello there,” he said, stomping his feet at the front door. “Good evening, miss.”
“Hello,” said the Yank, rising as Nan came and took his coat. The visitor held out her hand. “Stephanie Plower.”
“A pleasure,” he said, shaking her hand and looking into her face. She was of the right height to match the lass Sallie and the others had described; her hair was right as well. But she seemed heavier than their description, a bulky, loose-knit sweater camouflaging what he imagined was a fullish top.
A sweater that hid a bullet-proof vest?
He wasn’t merely paranoid but delusional, he thought to himself.
“You’re a schoolteacher?” said Gorrie, taking a cup from his wife.
“Oh yes. In the States. I was just telling your wife, we’re on vacation. Holiday, I think you would say.”
“You’ve seen Loch Ness, I expect.”
“Of course — but no monster, I’m sorry to say.” Miss Plower rattled off a full itinerary. She had been to the ruins of Fortrose Cathedral, Chanory Point, Fair Glen (though the cherry trees were dormant), and two dozen other local highlights.
A lot of time in Inverness, Gorrie thought. And a lot of visiting in the area where Cameron was found.
“Have you tried our pubs?” he asked.
“Doesn’t drink,” said Nan, with a hint that perhaps others might take the example.
“A visit to Scotland without stopping in a pub?”
“I expect I’ll visit one soon,” answered Miss Plower. “Your wife said you were a detective.”
“An inspector, yes.”
“You must have interesting cases.”
“The odd sort, now and again.”
She smiled. Gorrie noticed that her bag wasn’t nearby — Nan would have put it in the closet straightaway.
If she had a gun, she’d have it there, he thought. And if she was a killer, she would have a gun.
A simple thing to make an excuse, get up, and check.
“Frank has been with the police twenty-five years,” said Nan. “Tell her the story of the boat rescue. That’s a favorite.”
“Wasn’t much.”
“A boat rescue on land,” Nan told Miss Powers. “Some wee lads were havin’ a bit of fun—”
“I saw some police up on the highway near Rosmarkie yesterday afternoon,” said Miss Powers. “Must have been an accident.”
“Wouldn’t know,” said Gorrie. “Traffic constables, I expect.”
The American sipped her tea.
“She’s heard about that business on Eriskay,” said Nan.
“Terrible,” said the American.
“Oh, yes.”
“Jealous wife? That’s what the paper said.”
Gorrie got up. “I’ve forgotten to put out the garbage. Let me take care of that before it slips my mind again.”
“Frank,” hissed his wife. “The garbage now? Manners,” she added in a stage whisper.
He ignored her, walking quickly to the closet. He reached inside, past his jacket, looking toward the floor for the American’s bag.
“Now, Inspector, do you think I would be so foolish as to leave my weapon in the bag?” said the American behind him. “Back out now, with the pocketbook please, and keep your hands high. Stay where you are, Nan.”
Gorrie thought of taking the umbrella near the corner of the closet and smashing her with it, but he couldn’t tell how far she was away from him. There was also Nan to consider. So he complied slowly.
“What sort of accident will you dress this up as?” he asked, still facing away from her.
“Something will occur to me, I’m sure,” she said. “Slide the bag on the floor.”
“And if I don’t?”
Instead of answering, she reached forward and grabbed it from his hand.
His chance — he’d missed it.
“There have been reports of gas in the neighborhood,” she said, sliding something from the bag and placing it on the floor. “I don’t suppose they’ve found the leak yet.”
“They’ve already checked here,” said Nan.
“Incompetence is rife,” said the American.
“I wouldn’t think even my detective constable would accept the coincidence of six accidents so close together,” said Gorrie. He turned halfway toward her, about six feet away in the small room.
Not quite enough for a lunge.
“Into the kitchen now, both of you.”
Gorrie glanced toward his wife. The teapot was near her; if she could just pick it up, it might catch the American off guard.
Surely the woman’s reflexes were quick enough to kill both of them before the water even scalded her.
She’d kill them soon anyway.
But she wouldn’t shoot them if she didn’t have to. She wanted this to look like an accident, and the bullets might be found.
“The kitchen, Inspector,” said the American, sidling past him toward the door.
She wanted to lock it. She could just barely reach it and still cover them.
