Chapter Fourteen

Millport Village, The Spotted Dog

The body was laid across the bar and draped with a sheet. Tasha uncovered the face. It was Coira, the blonde from the Hermes. She was almost a caricature now, with her face twisted into a hideous grin, her eyes unnaturally wide open. Mother did not recognise her. In all fairness, she was rather pre-occupied the one time she saw this woman, and the blonde was simply another face in a large crowd. Mother liked to give the impression that absolutely nothing escaped her notice, for she did see far more than most, but she wasn’t infallible. “Who was she, Inspector?”

She was speaking to Inspector Ian Taggert. He was in his mid-thirties, ruggedly handsome, dressed for the outdoors (with American-style cowboy boots), standing behind her and referring to his official notebook. Also present was bulky Constable Blake, the local officer.

They were in the Spotted Dog, Millport Village’s sole pub, a long, simple establishment. Unadorned wooden tables and chairs took up most of the room. A short bar was at one end and a stone fireplace was across from it. The place was empty (not surprising as it was prohibited hours), except for the potman, who was closing the shutters, ending the show for the crowd at the window.

Ian answered her. His accent was not western Scotland, but Western America. “No one ’round here knows her. A fisherman found her in the firth. The local sawbones said death by drowning.” He flipped shut the notebook.

Tasha liked Americans. She was a great admirer of America despite the occasional flippant remark she might make. Mark Twain was among her favourite authors. “An American. How charming,” she said, noting his hands. “And one that rides horses and tosses a lariat. A cowboy! Aren’t you a little far from your watering hole, Inspector …” Her voice trailed off, giving him an opening.

“Taggert. Ian Taggert. An’ I reckon you can call me Ian, ma’am. There’s no getting ’round that I was reared in Montana, but I was born here on this island. My folks emigrated to the States when I was a young ’un.”

“And you couldn’t resist the tug of the old sod. Delightful. Now, when you get this young woman’s autopsy report …”

“I don’t reckon there’s a need for an autopsy, ma’am.” He was being polite.

“What compelling curiosity.” Mother was not being polite. She sensed resistance and was determined to cut through it rapidly. She flashed her most endearing smile and moved some hair away from the girl’s neck revealing a tiny, discoloured, puncture wound. Tasha noted, with satisfaction, Ian’s amazement. “I ‘reckon’ you realise that those facial contortions did not result from drowning and that the state of rigor mortis is too advanced for the cold water of the firth. Eh, ‘partner’?” She jabbed the girl with her finger—the skin was like wood.

Ian strained to keep himself under control. “Don’t let the drawl flim-flam you. I know my job.”

“How reassuring,” said Mother engagingly, “I needn’t add, in that case, that she has been poisoned by some powerful vegetable alkaloid administered by…. well, why go on? You tell me.”

He stared at her, near eruption. Mother, ignoring his mood, held up the dart to his face. “By this!” she said in quiet triumph.

Ian took a deep breath. “I’ll just take that, ma’am.”

She withdrew her hand. She’d made her point, now was the time to make peace. “Look, ‘sheriff’ …” She couldn’t resist that one. “Why don’t we arrange a little ‘horse-trade’? Your full co-operation for mine.” Mother was hoping he’d accept her offer; it would make things easier. Also, while Mother’s intellect told her heart not to be influenced by rugged good looks, her heart often told her intellect to “stuff it.”

He glared at her silently. He not only didn’t like her, but didn’t even want to like her.

“No, then.” She started to leave. “Then get your posse together and happy trails to you!” Mother had read enough American dime-novel Westerns to know the lingo.

Ian, just as Tasha was certain he would, barked, “Hold on!” His tone softened, “All right … I know who you are and what folks say you can do, but I’m trail-boss here, ma’am. Know that!”

Tasha nodded and handed him the dart. “Boss … please have this analysed and see if you can identify the girl. I’ll pursue my own little errands and meet you here this afternoon.” Ian was about to explode, but Mother warmly shook his hand. “I’m sure we’ll get on famously, Ian.”

He scowled at her. She patted the face of the grotesquely grinning corpse. “Keep smiling,” she said cheerfully and then, collecting her unopened parasol from a nearby table, strode out of the bar.

Ian gritted his teeth then frowned at the dart. He handed it to Blake. “Well … take it! See if the local doctor can find out what it is.”

“Just like the lady said, sir?”

Ian growled and nodded.