There’s not much more awkward than greeting a police officer in your hotel room while only wearing a robe and a hot pink clay mask, but no one ever said my life wasn’t awkward. I tried to make the best of the situation and put out my hand to say, “Nice to see you again, Inspector.” The only problem was that my mask had begun to harden already, so what I said sounded more like, “Knife to ffuf ooh aga, Insector.”
I’m sure my face turned the same color as the mask, and for that reason alone, I was glad to be wearing it.
“Good to see you, too, Ms. Baxter. I was just telling Ms. Andrews here that I very much appreciated her call about your encounter with Ms. MacDonald.” The inspector pointed to the only chair in the room by the desk. “May I sit?”
Beattie, who had somehow removed her mask and put on her very presentable plaid pj’s, said, “Of course,” and perched on the edge of the bed.
I decided to follow suit but promptly toppled over on the bed, saving my dignity by grabbing my robe as I teetered on the edge before falling to the floor. The night was just getting better and better.
When I had righted myself on the bed and draped the spare blanket over my lap so I could sit cross-legged without flashing anyone, the inspector continued. “As I was saying, thank you for calling about your conversation with Ms. MacDonald. She has been, well, a bit intrusive about the investigation.”
Without thinking, I said, “Well, it is her dad.”
Beattie shot me a look that mirrored the ones my teachers used to give me when I used to dominate the conversation in class.
The inspector stared at me for a minute and then said, “Actually, Davis was not her father but her great-uncle. He had provided for her for years, but despite his best efforts to be discreet, it was apparent that his niece did not truly value his support.” He shook his head.
I studied the inspector in front of me. “You and Mr. MacDonald were friends?” It was the only way I figured he would know such personal information.
“Aye,” he said. “For over forty years, ever since grade school. That woman had no idea what her uncle gave up for her.” He hung his head.
This time, it was Beattie who got nosy. “What do you mean?”
The inspector looked up slowly. “Davis MacDonald was a man of some means, and he gladly shared his wealth with anyone in need. But he also needed a great deal of time alone, a luxury that he was careful to guard tightly.”
“Except where his niece was concerned,” I said quietly.
“Precisely, lass. Ms. MacDonald insisted on having weekly writing salons of some sort in his living room, and often these gatherings would last late into the night with some of the guests staying over. Sometimes for days at a time.” The inspector shook his head.
“She fancied herself some sort of Scottish Hemingway, it sounds like,” I said as I thought about the group of literary elites that Hemingway had known during the years he lived in Paris.
The inspector guffawed. “She did,” he said with a long chuckle.
“The question is, though, did they wear berets?” I don’t know quite why it felt appropriate to joke with this police officer, but it did. He laughed, the mood lightened, and I almost forgot I was in a robe and looking a bit like I’d gotten the world’s worst sunburn.
“But her uncle didn’t put a stop to the parties?” Beattie asked after she finished giggling. “He didn’t change the locks?”
“Oh no, never,” the inspector said. “He would never have done that. I suggested that he simply suggest to her that he rent her a larger apartment so she could have the salons at her own place, but when he brought up that idea, she dismissed it because she needed her own space to keep her ‘creative energy clear.’”
This time, I rolled my eyes. I didn’t discount that creativity required space and maybe even clear energy, but the fact that this woman couldn’t see the hypocrisy in her own words galled me. “Do you think she had something to do with his murder?” I asked.
The inspector rubbed a hand over his mustache. “If you hadn’t called to tell me about her conversation with you, I wouldn’t have even considered the possibility, but now, I must. From what you described, Ms. Andrews, I have to concur that she was trying to get information, perhaps about this book that you were seeking.”
I nodded. “Beattie told you that we didn’t give her much information.”
“That was wise,” he said. “But I wonder if I can get your help with a little something in that regard.”
Beattie and I looked at each other, exchanged a silent agreement, and then Beattie said, “Sure, Inspector. How can we help?”
“I need the name of the man to whom Davis sold this book of sea monster stories.” He looked from her to me and then back again.
“Seamus Stovall,” I said as the inspector’s eyes came back my way.
“Very good,” he said as he stood. “You leave for the Skye in the morning, you say? Might I take the liberty of booking you a room at a friend’s bed and breakfast on Skye for tomorrow night?”
“That would be wonderful,” I said and saw Beattie smiling too. “Thank you.”
“I’ll text you the address, and thank you for your cooperation.” The inspector gave a small wave and walked out the door.
I knew there was a lot we could talk about from the inspector’s visit, but I wasn’t up to it tonight. Instead, I took the bottle of purple nail polish and said, “May I give you a pedicure?”
“Of course,” Beattie said in a terrible English accent. “But only if I may return the favor?”
We spent the rest of the night watching Hamish Macbeth and trying out various polish colors on each other. By the time we drifted off in the middle of an episode, our toes were dry, and I had all but forgotten about Davis MacDonald.