At 6 a.m., when Beattie’s alarm went off for some ungodly reason, I woke with a start, and all the events from the previous few days came rushing back. The break last night had been amazing, but now I had to contend with reality. I was just glad that reality was going to include deep lochs, mountains, and a castle or two.
Breakfast was, as usual, quite filling, and we ate until we were stuffed and then headed south. As promised, Inspector Scott had made arrangements at his friends’ B&B, and so as soon as we reached the area around Loch Ness, we greeted the charming couple who was hosting us, dropped off our bags, and headed immediately to the water to see if we could catch a glimpse of the old girl herself.
Unfortunately, Nessie decided to stay in the depths, but we did enjoy studying all the purported photos of her at the local museum in Drumnadrochit. I even climbed up on a giant sculpture of Nessie and had Beattie take my picture giving her a kiss. We then spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the back roads and taking short hikes with BB around the loch. The landscape was gorgeous, with rocky hills and vistas everywhere, and by the time we headed back to our room, we were both filled up with natural bliss.
Our hosts recommended a little pub just down in Fort Augustus at the south end of the lake, so we headed down and found, to our delight, a sprawling castle-like fort with a waterfront restaurant called The Boathouse. I had the Scottish version of macaroni and cheese, which was rich and hearty, and Beattie tried the prawns in cream sauce. Both of us were stuffed by the end of the meal and loved that the staff invited us to stay as long as we’d like and then to try dessert.
The evening was chilly but perfect, and I tucked my sweater around me as I sipped my tea while looking out over the water. I would have been content to sit there well past dark, but then I caught a glimpse of someone who looked familiar down on the docks below the restaurant.
I jabbed Beattie in the arm with my finger and said, “Isn’t that Seamus Stovall?” The man was stepping out of a sailboat in a full-on sailing outfit with a blue blazer, white cap, and khakis. If he hadn’t carried himself with such seriousness, he would have looked absurd. Instead, he looked arrogant beyond measure.
“Well, I’ll be,” Beattie said. “What is he doing here, do you think?”
I shook my head. “No idea, but maybe we should let Inspector Scott know?”
“Good idea.” Beattie took out her phone and typed in a quick text.
His reply was almost instantaneous, and she read it to me. Oh good, he took the bait.
“The bait? What bait? What’s going on?” I heard a shrill edge sneaking into my voice and tried to calm myself, but I could sense something was building. And I didn’t like it. Not a bit, and especially not on my vacation.
Beattie was already typing, and a moment later, her phone rang. Since we were the only people on this part of the deck, she answered the call at the table. “Inspector. Thank you for calling. Please tell us what’s going on.” She held the phone away from her ear so I could lean over and hear him too.
“I should have told you my plan, lasses. I am sorry. But I’ve set up a bit of a meeting with Stovall, Ms. MacDonald, and me there in Drumnadrochit, just up the road from where you are, I believe,” the inspector said.
“A meeting?” I asked, “About Davis?”
“Well, ostensibly about his estate. I’ve told both of them that there are some questions about his book collection, and I could use their help sorting through things.” The inspector took a deep breath. “I was actually going to call on you in the morning to see if the two of you might act as appraisers of a sort.”
I looked over at Beattie, and she scowled. “Act as appraisers, or actually be appraisers?”
“That’s a good question. Both, maybe. I’ve told them I have experts coming in to value the book collection, and I’d actually like you all to do that. But I’d also like you to help me suss out how this book you’re seeking to buy might play into the situation.” He cleared his throat. “It seems this curse had more validity than I had first understood.”
I grinned. “So are you saying you believe in the curse now, Inspector?”
He laughed. “No, no, I am not, Ms. Andrews. I am saying that other people do, namely Davis, Stovall, and Ms. MacDonald, and I’d like your observations about the book and their reactions to it to see if they shed any light on Davis’s death.”
I nodded before I registered that he couldn’t see me. “We can do that,” I said without looking at Beattie, who was violently shaking her head. “When do you need us, and where?”
“Thank you, lasses,” he said. “Does 2 p.m. at the Fiddlers Highland suit you? I’ll be buying everyone lunch.”
“You’d better,” Beattie said under her breath.
“Suits us fine, Inspector. See you then.” She started to press the button to hang up, but then she thought of something. “Did you ask Stovall to bring the book?”
“Of course, Ms. Andrews. Of course, I did. See you tomorrow.”
She hung up, and she and I squared off over our newly filled cups of tea and the plate of shortbread the waitress had brought us. “I cannot believe you agreed to this,” she said.
To buy myself a moment, I shoved a whole piece of shortbread in my mouth and took my time chewing. Finally, I said, “Aren’t you the least bit curious about what happened?”
She shook her head. “Not curious enough to get myself involved in a murder investigation.”
“We’re already involved, Beattie,” I said gently. “We were involved even before we found MacDonald’s body. If that book is part of the story, then we are not just involved; we’re at the heart of things.”
She took a second to think about that and then nodded. “You’re right, but we don’t have to be even more involved.”
I tilted my head. “Not even if it means we get more information about the book and maybe another great story for its provenance?”
When a little glow came into her cheeks, I knew I had her. My best friend was a sucker for a story, especially if it added to the value of a book. But she didn’t grant me the satisfaction of saying I was right. Instead, she just picked up her own piece of shortbread, took a small bite, and smiled out at the loch.
The next day, we dedicated our morning to simple sightseeing. First, we visited the beautiful Falls of Divach and then returned to the loch to visit the sixteenth-century Urquhart Castle. We spent hours wandering the battlements and then sitting quietly, overlooking the loch. I had a very hard time imagining anything but a sort of Disney-esque version of castle life, but somehow, the life-size trebuchet wasn’t making me feel warm and cozy. It was pretty terrifying, actually.
But the waterfall and the castle had the wonderful effect of soothing my nerves, and even Beattie, who was still quite hesitant about our afternoon plans, seemed more lighthearted by the time we headed back into town and the Fiddlers Highland.
Still, when we walked up the street from where we’d parked our rental car, my heart started to pound at the sight of the inspector and Ms. MacDonald at an outdoor table. I usually wasn’t much of a beer drinker, but I was grateful to see a pitcher of something golden and bubbly on the table. A little alcohol might make the afternoon smoother for me, and I appreciated the European openness to daytime drinking a little more.
We took our seats after saying hello, and Beattie tried to make small talk with our companions while we waited for Stovall. Unfortunately, Ms. MacDonald seemed intent on scowling and huffing things under her breath the entire time, so the ten-minute wait for Stovall to arrive felt like it was more than an hour. I made it through half a beer in my nervousness and then almost chugged the rest of the glass when I saw Stovall walking up the street. What had I gotten us into?
Stovall took his seat and shook everyone’s hands. Then, he said, “So what is this all about, Inspector? It was quite an inconvenience to come up from the city.”
I thought of the sailboat and his fancy sailing outfit and highly doubted the veracity of his words, but I held my tongue and let the inspector take the lead.
“Well, as I said on the phone, Mr. Stovall, Davis MacDonald has died, and I have reason to believe that the book you now have in your possession may have been part of the motivation for his murder.” The inspector’s voice was even and steady, unlike my heartrate.
Stovall frowned. “Why would you suspect that? I’ve owned the book for several years now, and Davis and I made an agreeable exchange on both sides.”
I had to admit I was curious about how the inspector was going to answer this question without saying something like, “Well, Ms. MacDonald here seems suspiciously interested in the book,” which was the only thing I could think of.
But to his credit, the inspector only said, “I cannot reveal details about the investigation, but I can say that we have significant evidence to suggest that someone might have killed Mr. MacDonald to obtain that book.”
“But he didn’t even have the book,” Ms. MacDonald shrieked. “I looked and looked for it—” She abruptly stopped talking as she realized she had said far too much in just those few words.
“Why were you looking for the book?” This time, Beattie had stepped in to ask a question.
I looked over at the inspector, but he seemed completely unaffected by her intervention.
Ms. MacDonald, however, had turned a sort of greenish-pink and looked like she might have swallowed a bee. “Well, simply,” she sputtered, “I knew the book was valuable and wanted to be sure it was safe.”
“When did you look for the book?” the inspector asked.
This question made Ms. MacDonald visibly squirm in her seat, and I could almost see her brain trying to work out what answer would get her into the least trouble. After a few moments, her shoulders sagged, and she said, “Two nights ago, after he was killed.”
That sounded like the truth if I’d ever heard it, and if that was true, then it might have been motivation enough for Ms. MacDonald to kill him, especially if she thought he still had the book and didn’t think he’d give it to her if he were alive.
“Why did you want to find the book?” I asked, perfectly aware that she had already offered one reason for her search.
She glared at me. “As I said, I wanted to be sure the book was safe and secure.”
I sighed. So much for my hope that she’d slip up and give another reason. Still, despite her consistency, I didn’t quite believe her. That said, she might have just wanted the book out of greed after the fact but might not have had the gumption to commit murder to get it.
The inspector took control of the conversation again. “Stovall, tell us the details of your transaction with Davis MacDonald.” This time, he was more forceful and less placating, and I knew we were getting to the meat of the conversation now.
“I’d prefer not to talk about the money if you don’t mind,” Stovall said with a casualness that felt overly confident given that a man had been murdered. Plus, he’d already told us what he paid. It seemed odd to withhold that information from the police.
“I do mind,” the inspector said. “All the details, please.”
For a split second, I saw anger on Stovall’s face, but then he slid his mask of studied casualness back into place. “Very well then. I paid Davis MacDonald 25,000 pounds for the book.”
I sighed. At least he had been truthful, and Beattie and I didn’t have to correct him. Still, it was curious he hadn’t wanted to share that information.
“And was that fair market value?” the inspector asked.
Next to him, Ms. MacDonald was turning a very, very deep shade of red, but she was holding her tongue. I decided to follow her lead, although I wasn’t sure why.
Stovall took a deep breath and stared out beyond me into the street. His silence grew so long that I began to feel antsy, but eventually, he said, “Fair market value is whatever someone will pay or sell for. That’s how capitalism works.”
The inspector sighed and then looked at Beattie and then me. “Is that fair market value?”
Beattie didn’t hesitate. “No, the book is worth at least a third to two-thirds more than that.”
“Maybe twice that if more of the provenance can be proven,” I added and was pleased to see Beattie nod. I was getting the hang of this book-buying business, I supposed.
“I knew it,” Ms. MacDonald shouted. “I knew you swindled my uncle. I’d like my book back, please.” She actually held out her hand like Stovall was just going to place the book in it.
The inspector shook his head. “Mr. Stovall, I presume you have a formal bill of sale.”
“Of course,” Stovall said as he reached into his bag and pulled out a stapled set of papers that I presumed was identical to the one he had given us. He handed the papers to the inspector and then looked over at me. “Perhaps we should discuss your offer again over dinner?”
I gave him a brisk nod because, after all, my job here was to buy the book, but I knew Beattie and I would be making a plan before we spent any more time with that man.
“Excuse me,” Ms. MacDonald said. “That book is my property. I am my, um”—she glanced at Beattie and me—“my uncle’s sole heir.”
“Your uncle?” Beattie said with a feigned shock that even involved her hand flying to her mouth.
Ms. MacDonald shrugged. “Fathers are more dear, I figured.” Then she looked at the inspector. “That book belongs to me. This man tricked my uncle into selling it for far less than it was worth. That has to be a crime that nullifies the sale.”
Stovall didn’t even bat an eye, probably because he knew, as the rest of us did, that Ms. MacDonald was making a ridiculous claim.
“I’m afraid, Ms. MacDonald, that your uncle signed a legal bill of sale, and so the book rightfully belongs to Mr. Stovall.” He sighed. “Additionally, you are not your uncle’s heir.”
I thought, perhaps, Ms. MacDonald was going to pass out or burst a blood vessel from fury because she sputtered and spat as she tried to respond to the inspector. Finally, she blurted, “You’re full of nonsense, Inspector Scott. My attorney will be in touch.” Then she stood up, poured her beer on Stovall’s head, and stormed off.
I had to give her credit for a dramatic exit, and I couldn’t say I didn’t take a little pleasure from seeing Stovall drenched in ale. But her reasons for being upset were so ridiculous that I had to suppress a laugh at her ire.
Beattie, however, had no such desire for tact and broke into laughter as soon as Ms. MacDonald was a few feet away. The inspector gave her a big grin, and Stovall, even though he was soaked, seemed to take the moment in stride as he wiped himself down with a monogrammed handkerchief. “She does seem a wee bit upset,” he said as he patted his khakis dry.
“A bit,” I said as I began to giggle, too. “Her sense of entitlement is quite profound,” I managed to say between laughs.
The inspector nodded. “Indeed. She has no claim to the book or her uncle’s estate, however. He left everything to a cat charity.”
This news broke Beattie and me out in laughter again, despite the scowl BB gave me from where he sat in his bag under the table. Butterball was not, obviously, a fan of cats.
Finally, Beattie and I managed to get ourselves under control, and the inspector returned to the purpose of our meeting. “Mr. Stovall, do you know of anyone else who was interested in acquiring this book?” He looked down at Stovall’s briefcase where, presumably, he had the book.
Stovall didn’t hesitate this time. “Besides the Library of Scotland, no.” He stated this fact simply and without any reproach. “They simply decided to pass on the sale, which took away any leverage Davis had in obtaining a better price. I presumed he needed the money, which was why he was selling in the first place. I did nothing untoward. It was simply business.”
In my experience, people often used the phrase “it was simply business” to alleviate some deeply ignored guilt they had about taking advantage of someone else, but he wasn’t wrong about the nature of the transaction. Davis had agreed, and so that was that.
I felt like we had gone as far as we could in this discussion and looked over to Beattie to see if she might be ready to leave. When I saw her face, though, I settled back into my seat. She was thinking about something, something worrying, and when her face was still and fixed like a statue, I knew better than to try to move her.
I also knew that she needed a moment to gather her thoughts, so I tried to keep the men talking. “So do you think Ms. MacDonald just assumed that her uncle had left everything to her, or might he have led her to believe he had?”
The inspector shook his head. “Davis would never have given her that impression.” He frowned. “But he might not have had the vim to dissuade her of it either.”
“Given her reaction today, I can see why,” I said as I looked over at Beattie again. This time, she was looking at me.
“I think we may need to invite someone to our little gathering here,” she said with a bit of sadness as she stared at me. “Adaire.”
I stared back at my friend and realized she was right just as my own pinch of sadness reached my chest. “Oh yeah, that would be good, I guess.” My voice wasn’t very convincing.
“Who’s Adaire?” the inspector asked.
“He’s the librarian that we’ve been working with,” Beattie spoke quietly. “He’s actually in Inverness right now.”
“Or at least he was when we left,” I said, hoping beyond hope that he had actually gone back to Edinburgh early the day after we had dinner. Our date wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow night, though, so I thought the chances that he was still in the area were pretty good. “I can text him,” I said reluctantly.
“Please do,” the inspector said. “We will all meet for lunch in Inverness tomorrow. Same time.” This wasn’t a request, and despite the hard look on Stovall’s face, I saw he didn’t object. I couldn’t say I expected Ms. MacDonald to do the same when she received her inviation.
It took some restraint on my part, after we left the pub, to not try to explain the whole situation to Adaire via text, but given that we hadn’t spoken since two days before, I decided that a long text with all the details of the past day’s events was a little bit of overload in general and probably unwise when it came to solving MacDonald’s murder. So I went with, “You still in Inverness by chance?”
His reply was quick. “Coming back tomorrow morning before our date. Why?”
I couldn’t help feeling the flush at his use of the word date. My excitement quickly faded, though, as I tried to figure out what to say about needing to meet him for lunch. I didn’t want him to get the wrong impression, but I couldn’t bring myself to type, “I need you to meet with a police officer about a murder.”
Instead, I typed, “I’d like you to meet some folks. Up for lunch with Beattie, some acquaintances, and me tomorrow at 2?”
“Sure. I’d love to meet your friends.” He even included a smiley emoji.
Again, I was stymied about how to clarify, so I just wrote, “Great,” and sent back my own smiley. Then I groaned.
Beattie looked over at me from the large cinnamon roll she’d just bought. Like me, she ate when she was on edge, and I had to admit that bun looked delicious, almost as good as one I’d once had in a bookstore café in a Maryland town. “Not good news?” she asked.
I shrugged. “He’s coming, but I’m not sure if that’s good news or not. I feel like I just set him up for an ambush.”
“If he’s the murderer, Poe, then he deserves to be ambushed.” Her words were true, but her eyes were soft.
“And if he’s not?”