Friday
Ginny sank back into her seat, trying to digest the idea that Angus Mackenzie had brought Jim back from Virginia to prepare him for the role of Laird. Without telling anyone. He had that right, of course. It was his grandson. In the usual course of events it would have been his son. So it shouldn’t surprise her. Not really.
Slowly, she became aware of a disturbance near the ladies’ powder room. She looked up to see Fiona Campbell in furious argument with another woman.
“Ye’ll no get awa’ wi’ it, I tell ye.” The speaker was a white-haired great-grandmother who looked on the verge of a stroke. Ginny rose to see if she could mediate.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Doris, but I already have.”
“Ye’ve ruined his chances. He’ll no get th’ scholarship noo.”
“Your grandson did not deserve that scholarship. He is a lazy, shiftless, ignorant–”
Her words were cut off as the old woman raised her cane and swung it at Mrs. Campbell’s head. Fiona Campbell threw her hands up to protect her face with the result that the cane came down on her arm, knocking her purse to the floor and spilling its contents across the room.
Others had noticed the ruckus by now and come to help separate the women. Ginny and the granddaughter of the outraged Mrs. Blair drew her away and settled her on a nearby chair. Ginny ran to get some water, but by the time she had returned, the old woman’s lips were blue and she was struggling to breathe.
Ginny swore to herself, left the water with the granddaughter, and ran for her purse. She was powering up her phone to dial 9-1-1 as she ran back, but found Jim there before her.
Several things kicked into play at that moment. In any public emergency an MD outranked an RN, no matter what the MD’s training or experience. He could be a retired dermatologist and he would still outrank an ICU nurse, which wasn’t always for the best. Ginny had learned to step back, but hang around on the fringes, to make sure the MD didn’t actually injure the patient.
That wouldn’t be necessary this time. Jim was an Emergency Medicine physician and could presumably be trusted to care for an old woman having a stroke (or whatever) and it would be up to him to decide when or whether to call for transport to the hospital.
He had help, in the form of the granddaughter and two other women who had appeared at his side and were listening to instructions, nodding and moving off to do his bidding. That left her free to focus on the other combatant.
Ginny slipped her phone into her pocket and looked around. Several people were on their knees, picking up the items that had fallen from Mrs. Campbell’s purse.
Ginny looked down. There were a few things not very far from her feet; some cough drops, a lipstick, an emery board, and a tiny screwdriver, the kind you use to tighten the screws on a pair of glasses. Ginny gathered these up and started to hand them back, then stopped. The screwdriver had a rust-colored stain on its tip.
She stood looking at the screwdriver, her mind clicking methodically through the columns on her Suspects list. Opportunity. Hal had said Mrs. Campbell was in the library on Wednesday afternoon. Witnesses would have to be found, and the security tape reviewed. Means. The tip of the tiny screwdriver could easily make a hole in the skin that could be mistaken for an insect bite and the rust-colored material might be blood. It would have to be analyzed. Motive. Revenge for the humiliation, and there must have been a hundred witnesses to attest to that. What about the virus? She looked up to find Fiona Campbell’s eyes on her, wide with shock.
“Ginny.” She felt a hand on her arm and turned to find Jim standing beside her.
“Can I get your help here?”
She nodded. “Give me a minute.”
She pulled a tissue from her pocket and wrapped the screwdriver in it, being careful not to touch the tip, then looked around. Yes, Himself was here. She stepped over to him.
“Mackenzie. A word, please, and it might be wise if you asked someone to hang onto Fiona Campbell.”
The Laird nodded to a pair of young men standing nearby, then gestured toward a nearby corner.
“Wha’ is it, lass?”
“Has Jim told you about the investigation into Professor Craig’s death?”
“Aye.”
“One of the possible suspects is Fiona Campbell.”
The Laird’s eyebrows rose at that, but he said nothing.
Ginny showed him what she had found. “It might be blood. It might not. Perhaps you’d be good enough to ask her about it?”
“Aye. I’ll see to it.”
Ginny handed the screwdriver over to the Laird and hurried back to the medical emergency, her eyes averted from the sight of Mrs. Campbell being escorted into a back room and the door closing behind her.
“What was that about?” Jim asked.
“I’ll tell you later. What can I do here?”
“Stay with her while I go meet the ambulance. She’s had two sublingual nitroglycerine tablets. Here’s the bottle. Keep an eye on her blood pressure for me.”
“Right.” They had moved her off the chair and onto the floor. A first aid kit lay open beside her and someone had started taking vital signs. Ginny did a quick assessment and added her data to the notes on the cocktail napkin.
The old woman had not improved much. Her skin was gray, cool, and damp. Her level of consciousness was also a good deal less bright than it had been. Ginny removed the bunched up jacket underneath her head, bringing the old woman’s trachea into alignment and making it easier for blood to flow to her head.
She had her hand on Mrs. Blair’s pulse when the ambulance crew arrived. They moved swiftly to get the cardiac monitor on and an intravenous line in.
Two minutes later, one of them handed Jim an EKG strip. Jim looked at it then handed it on to Ginny. Massive heart attack in progress. At Mrs. Blair’s age, it was unlikely she would survive the night. The looks on the two attendants’ faces confirmed they, too, knew how to read that strip.
They loaded her onto the gurney, gathered her possessions and family, and moved toward the door.
Jim’s eyes followed the crew out the door, then turned to Ginny.
“Well, that was fun.” He looked around. “Where is Mrs. Campbell?”
Ginny grabbed Jim’s elbow and steered him away from the tight little clumps of people who had been watching the emergency unfold. She could hear the musicians in the background, flipping through their music and discussing what would be appropriate for the sudden appearance of tragedy in their midst. They would find something. They had. The piper began a solo rendition of Amazing Grace. It wasn’t long before someone was singing, his voice deep and resonant.
Ginny kept her voice low. “She’s in the back, with Himself, being asked about Professor Craig’s death.”
“Oh?”
“Something fell out of her purse when it hit the floor. A screwdriver with a rust-colored stain on the tip.”
He looked down at her, his brow furrowing. “A screwdriver? That would be too big.”
“A tiny screwdriver. The kind you use on eyeglasses.”
“Oh! Rust-colored? Blood, maybe?”
“Maybe.”
“She’s not a very likely suspect.”
“Jim, you should have seen her face! She went white as a sheet when she saw what I had found.”
“Guilty conscience, you think?”
“I do.”
“Shall we go see if we can listen in?” He started toward the back of the building.
Ginny shook her head. “I can wait.”
He turned and looked at her then came back. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” In truth, she didn’t feel fine. She felt shaky. Too much excitement? Not enough sleep? Or maybe she was coming down with something.
He was frowning at her. “Let’s go sit and listen to the music.”
Ginny nodded agreement and let him guide her over to the nearest table.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
The musicians had moved on, still in this somber vein, the tunes and the sadness they evoked all too familiar. The Scots have lots of songs about suffering.
Jim returned with juice and cookies on a plate. “Here.” He put them down in front of her. “Eat.”
Ginny started to refuse, then realized he was eyeing her as he would a patient. She picked up the juice and took a sip. It was cold and felt good on the back of her throat. She worked her way slowly through the contents of the plate, listening to Jim’s comments with half an ear. By the time the Laird emerged, alone, and came over to them, she felt better.
Himself sat down across the table from them and set the screwdriver down in front of them.
“She says she keyed his car wi’ it.”
“Professor Craig’s?” Jim’s voice sounded amused.
“Aye, at th’ welcome dinner last Sunday nicht.”
Jim picked up the screwdriver and inspected it. “Hang on a minute. I want to try something.” He collected a glass of water and a white kitchen cloth and put them down on the table, then wetted the tip of the cloth, picked up the screwdriver, and applied the dampness to the stain. He inspected the cloth carefully, pushing at the flecks of color with his fingernail, then set it down.
“It’s not blood. It may be paint. I can’t be sure without a solvent, but it’s not blood.”
Ginny felt her whole body deflate. She hadn’t been aware of how tense she’d been until it was no longer necessary. “Does that mean we can scratch her off the Suspects list?”
Jim nodded. “I think so.”
“Thank God!”
The two men looked at her. She shrugged apologetically. “It narrows the field a bit.”
“Aye, it does that.”
Ginny reached for her glass, then pulled her hand back and hid it under the table. It was shaking.
She felt foolish and frightened and half-sick. What was she doing, meddling in something that was none of her business? Until this moment, the whole thing had been an intellectual exercise; a puzzle, a game. Even when Hal was telling her he was worried about her safety, it hadn’t been real. All of a sudden she saw where this had to end. Did she want to be responsible for sending someone to prison? Or worse?
“Does she say why she keyed his car?” Jim asked.
The Laird nodded. “She was sae angry when she left th’ building on Sunday nicht she could nae see straight. She dropped th’ keys and they fell inta her purse and when she fished them oot again’ this wee screwdriver came with them. It gave her th’ idea.”
“She knew which car was his?”
“Aye. By the’ license plate, and it was parked in th’ staff area. She had nae trouble tellin’ him what she thought o’ him at the moment.”
What she thought of him. Ginny had a sudden mental image of the car, deep scratches down the side, words maybe, etched into the rust-colored paint. Why had nobody mentioned that car before?
“Ginny? Ginny!” It was Jim again.
“What?”
“I asked you if you were all right.”
“Yes, I’m fine.” She rose abruptly, swaying just enough to make her put her hand down on the table for a moment. “I have some thinking to do. Goodnight.” She didn’t wait for their responses, just turned and fled.
She scooped up her mother, drove home, put the car in the garage, and retired to her room. There had been too many shocks today and there were too many unanswered questions still to consider.
Mrs. Campbell had taken her fury out on Professor Craig by damaging his car. A crime of passion. Did that make it less likely she had stalked him with a virus?
Professor Craig’s car belonged to Mark now. Ginny had seen a car, parked in front of the house when she was over there, and assumed that was it. She’d been wrong. Had the murderer made the same mistake?
Was the murderer the same person who had tried to break into Professor Craig’s house? If so, what was he looking for? Should Mark be warned or did he already know?
And what, if anything, was Ginny’s responsibility in the matter? She turned off the light, closed her eyes, and tried to ignore her aching head.
* * *