A Dream of Death Read online

  A Dream of Death

  A Kate Hamilton Mystery

  CONNIE BERRY

  For my parents

  They were right, my dear, all those voices were right

  And still are; this land is not the sweet home that it looks,

  Nor its peace the historical calm of a site

  Where something was settled once and for all… .

  —“In Praise of Limestone,” W. H. Auden

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank Inspector Lynda Allan at the Portree Police Station on the Isle of Skye and Detective Inspector Richard Baird of Police Scotland’s South Highland, Western Isles & Shetland Command, for answering my questions about policing in Scotland. This book could not have been written without the support and encouragement of many generous friends—from my awesome critique partners, Lynn Denley-Bussard, Charlene D’Avanzo, and Judy Copek, to all those who read and commented on my manuscript at various stages, especially Mary Graf, Charlene Ehrbar, Grace Topping, and Dorothy Leal. I’m deeply grateful for my fellow authors at Buckeye Crime Writers; for my agent, Paula Munier; for my editor, Faith Black Ross, and the crew at Crooked Lane books; for my sons, Dave and John; and most of all, for my husband, Bob, who deftly avoids encroaching hedgerows, rogue pheasants, and opposing vehicles while driving me down single-track roads all over the British Isles.

  Soli Deo gloria.

  Chapter One

  Friday, October 28

  I never wanted to return to Glenroth.

  Three years had passed since Bill’s death, and the veneer of coping I’d laid over my grief was as thin as eggshell porcelain and every bit as breakable. It didn’t take much—the smell of the sea, hearing a snatch of a Scots accent, finding one of Bill’s distinctive doodles on a scrap of paper—and there I was, back in the land of memories and regrets.

  That was the problem. On the Isle of Glenroth, memories and regrets lay as thick on the ground as yellow gorse in autumn.

  Still, a promise was a promise. Even one I’d never intended to keep.

  “Going somewhere fun?” my mother had asked.

  “Scotland. Glenroth, actually.”

  There’d been a moment of tactful silence. “Sure that’s a good idea, Kate?”

  Of course I wasn’t sure. Especially at the moment. Thick curtains of fog swirled across the deck of the car ferry, swallowing the landing ahead. I was the only passenger, and I’d been instructed to set my emergency brake and remain in the driver’s seat for the duration of the twenty-minute voyage. The boat lurched, and I gripped the wheel of the hatchback I’d hired at the train station in Fort William, grateful for the metal railing dividing the deck of the small craft from the icy depths of Cuillin Sound.

  With a long blast of the ship’s horn, the fog parted and the Isle of Glenroth rose before me like Brigadoon materializing in the Highland mist. Trees lined the banks, their bare limbs dark and lined with snow. An old movie in black and white.

  The bell sounded, and I started my engine.

  “Take care, lass,” the burly ferryman called through my partially open window. “Roads ’re slick.”

  My second warning. The man at the car-hire desk had made a point of telling me about the “wee airly storm” that had blown through the Inner Hebrides the previous night, surprising the islanders with a layer of wet snow. “Could I talk ye into waitin’ till mornin’?” he’d asked in a wheedling tone. When I explained that I’d learned to drive in snowy Wisconsin, he’d shrugged. “Whit’s fur ye will no go past ye.” In other words, What will be, will be.

  I closed the window, tasting the salty tang of the sea on my lips. Ahead to the north, I could just make out the rocky peaks of Skye. Behind me, although I couldn’t see them, were the islands of Rúm and Eigg. The car bumped over the ramp onto solid ground. Twenty-two hours after leaving Cleveland’s airport, I’d arrived—by plane, train, automobile, and ferryboat—on the small Hebridean island where my husband was born. And where he died.

  I tapped my brakes and coasted to a halt at the blinking stop sign. A splash of red caught my eye: Fàilte gu Eilean Glen Roth. Then, in English: WELCOME TO THE ISLE OF GLENROTH. POPULATION 238. Precisely the same as my first visit twenty-five years ago. However did they manage it?

  Beside me on the passenger’s seat lay my canvas carry-on. At least I had the essentials—overnight stuff, toiletries in the regulation quart-size baggie. No clothes, though. In less than four hours I’d be expected to appear at the Tartan Ball in something formal and festive. Thanks to cruel fate, or an inattentive baggage handler in Cleveland, all I had were the jeans, white T-shirt, and quilted jacket I’d thrown on that morning.

  The narrow road rose steadily, leaving the mists below, but given a latitude roughly equivalent to Hudson Bay, the afternoon light was already slipping away. In Glenroth Village, ancient stone cottages, now island shops, huddled together along the High Street—Wee Dram, the island’s purveyor of spirits; the Tartan Gift Shop; the Bonnie Prince, the pub where Bill and I had hung out on my first visit years ago; Flora’s Café. A sign over the café door featured the pretty face of Flora MacDonald, the girl from Skye who had saved the Bonnie Prince by disguising him as her maid. If the Glenroth islanders were guilty of shamelessly exploiting their Jacobite heritage, I couldn’t blame them. The tourists ate it up.

  Today, signs of Halloween adorned every shop—jack-o’-lanterns, giant spiders, even a friendly ghost or two. Lights were on at Ferguson’s Sport Shop. I slowed the car. What if my suitcase didn’t arrive on the very next flight as the lost-luggage lady in Glasgow promised? Ferguson’s front window displayed a baffling mix of sea kayaks, fly-fishing gear, and sportswear. I pictured myself arriving at the ball in a Scotty Dog T-shirt and black sweatpants with I ♥ GLENROTH appliqued in fluorescent pink tartan down one leg. Seeing the look on Elenor’s face might be worth it.

  A mile or so past the village came the moment I’d been dreading, the first one anyway. The sign for the Harborview Hotel & Marina read CLOSED FOR THE SEASON. Drive past. Focus on the road. But my eyes moved of their own accord to the bathing huts strung like buoys along the rocky strand below. Gone were the gaily-colored umbrellas. The kiosk dispensing soda and ice cream was boarded up. Snow lay on the pier, as soft and cold as a grave blanket.

  The memory struck me like a rogue wave. Bill’s hair streaming water, the paramedics, Elenor’s shrieks. My vision blurred.

  The white car appeared out of nowhere. I slammed on the brakes, feeling them judder on the slick asphalt. Crap, crap, crap. I’m going to hit him.

  Wrenching the steering wheel to the left, I held on as my car slid off the road and plowed into the soft, snowy earth. I jammed the gearshift into park and pounded the steering wheel. If I’d believed in omens, which I didn’t, I’d have turned right around and—

  Someone tapped on the driver’s side window. The lunatic driving the other car. He bent down to peer at me and made a rolling motion with his hand. Tall, lean, dark hair flecked with silver. I lowered the window an inch or two. The wind whipped my hair.

  “Are you injured?” The voice was low, concerned, and unexpectedly English.

  “I’m fine, no thanks to you. Why did you pull out in front of me?”

  “Why didn’t you slow down? The speed limit’s twenty-five. You must have been doing at least fifty.”

  We glared at each other. He said, “Try backing out.”

  I turned the key and put the car in reverse, feeling the tires spin.

  “Not like that,” he said. “You’re digging yourself in further. Gently. Try to rock it.”

  I did, feeling absurdly pleased when it made no difference.

  “I’ll see if I can free the tires. Do you have a shovel?”

  I gave him my best
scornful look. “It’s a rental.”

  He crouched near the front of my car, clearing snow and mud with his bare hands. A few minutes later he straightened his back. His hands were lobster-red, the knees of his crisply pressed trousers wet and soiled. “Now put it in reverse and go gently. I’ll push.”

  Even with the man’s added muscle, the car refused to budge. This wasn’t getting me anywhere. “Look,” I said, sounding more confident than I felt. “I appreciate your help, but the rental company will send someone.”

  He dashed toward the road. For a moment I thought he’d bolted, but I glimpsed him in the rearview mirror, waving with both arms.

  I got out of the car and stood shivering in my quilted jacket. A pickup truck pulled next to me on the verge. The window rolled down and a familiar head appeared. Long face, lantern jaw. “Need help, miss?”

  My heart leapt. “Bo, it’s me, Kate.”

  Bo Duff jumped out of the pickup, all six foot five of him, and caught me up in one of his massive bear hugs. “Mrs. Bill, you came back.” Bo was fifty-seven, exactly Bill’s age if he’d lived. His voice was deep, his Scots accent thick, but his eyes were as wide and innocent as a child’s.

  I almost melted. “I did come back, and seeing you is the best part.”

  A lopsided grin split his face. “Got the photos. Best present I ever got in my whole life.”

  I’d sent him an album filled with childhood photographs of the two of them, Bill and Bo, fishing, kayaking, wrestling on the lawn of the Adventure Centre.

  “Shoulda written.” Bo shoved his big hands in the pockets of his parka. He wore baggy cords and a pair of enormous rubber wellies. His long hair had thinned at the crown since I’d seen him last, but his face was unlined, his cheeks pink from the cold.

  “Doesn’t matter.” I took his arm.

  The mist had gathered into a fine drizzle, drenching the already melting snow.

  “I don’t mean to interfere,” the Englishman said, “but it’s starting to rain. Do you think you can pull her car out?”

  “Aye, that’s what I do.” Bo spooled out his winch cable and attached it to the rental car’s undercarriage.

  The Englishman slid into the driver’s seat.

  What—am I helpless? My annoyance flared and settled. The man had a moral duty to help me. The accident was his fault. Mostly.

  In less than five minutes, my car was free and parked safely on the side of the road. The Englishman pulled out his wallet. “What do I owe you?”

  “It’s a freebie.” Bo grinned. “Mrs. Bill’s my friend.” He bent to look in my eyes. “Are you sad still? Do you miss Bill a lot?”

  “I remember the good times, and that makes me happy.” A lie, but sometimes the truth isn’t helpful. “How are you? Still living on the croft?”

  “A’course I am.” His smile faded. “I’m grand.”

  “I’m here till Sunday. How about we grab a meal?” I made a note to find out more about that unconvincing I’m grand.

  Bo’s face lit up. “The pub? We went there with Bill. Remember?”

  How could I forget? Bo had single-handedly devoured two Highland game pies with neeps and tatties. We’d plugged the juke box with coins and danced like kids to the Isley Brothers. I smiled at him. “Call you tomorrow.”

  He climbed into his pickup. “See you later, alligator.” Bo adored rhymes.

  I answered as Bill always had. “In a while, crocodile.”

  He tooted his horn and drove off.

  The Englishman turned to me. “I ought to have introduced myself. My name is Tom Mallory.”

  “Thanks for your help, Mr. Mallory. I should go.” I slipped my hands in my pockets to keep them warm.

  “The name’s Tom, and before you do, let me check for damage.” He examined the rental car from all sides. “Brilliant. Nothing visible anyway.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his hands before extracting a card from a leather wallet and handing it over. “Contact me if you find something amiss later. My mobile number’s there, at the bottom. You keep the leading zero when you’re in—”

  “I know how to make a phone call,” I said. Prickly, I know.

  His card bore a crest over the words SUFFOLK CONSTABULARY, BURY ST. EDMUNDS. Beneath that was his name: DETECTIVE INSPECTOR THOMAS MALLORY, CID. What was an English detective doing in the Inner Hebrides in late October? Tourist season was over.

  “Your friend with the truck. Is he all right? I mean—” He stopped, unable or unwilling to put his question into words.

  “He’s fine.” I felt protective. Why should Bo’s condition have to be explained to a total stranger? “My husband was born on the island. He and Mr. Duff grew up together.”

  Confusion lingered on his face, and I relented. “Bo was born with a genetic syndrome, mild cognitive disability, some social deficits. He’s a mechanical genius, and the best friend my husband ever had.” I had to blink hard to clear my eyes.

  “The Bill he mentioned. Your husband?”

  “He died here three years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re certain you’re all right?”

  “It’s the island. I haven’t been back since … since it happened.” Terrific. Now I was explaining my own life to a stranger. I straightened my shoulders. “I’m Kate Hamilton. And you were right. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  He flashed me a disarming half smile. “And I apologize. I did pull in front of you. One of the hazards of driving in unfamiliar territory.”

  “You’re a visitor, then.”

  “As you are, I gather. Staying with family?”

  “With my husband’s sister.” Why was I telling him all this? And why was he asking? I looked at him properly now. Midforties. About my own age. Aquiline nose, high cheekbones. He wore a brown waxed cotton field jacket with a corduroy collar, the pricey, English-country-set kind. I could picture him with a monk’s cowl draped over his forehead, but his face was saved from asceticism by that disarming half smile and hazel eyes that crinkled at the corners.

  “I really should be going.” I felt myself on the brink of a blush.

  “Please call if you find damage. Anything at all.”

  I got back in the driver’s seat and spent several minutes retrieving the contents of my handbag from the floor of the car. I’d been in Scotland less than half a day, and I’d already lost my suitcase and nearly wrecked the rental car. And that wasn’t the worst bit.

  Now I had to face Elenor.

  Chapter Two

  Twenty minutes later I made the sharp left turn at the south end of the island. Stone columns flanked the drive. A brass plaque on the left read GLENROTH HOUSE HOTEL. ELENOR SPURGEON, PROPRIETOR. An identical plaque on the right advised visitors to KILL YOUR SPEED.

  The drive curved to the right and entered a manicured forest of pine, beech, and alder with an underlayer of rhododendrons, their leathery leaves scrolled and frosted with snow. A stocky man stood in one of the planting beds stringing tiny lights, his shoulders and flat cap beaded with rain. He stared as I drove past, acknowledging my wave with a barely perceptible nod.

  I rounded the final curve and caught my breath. The ancient seat of the Glenroth MacDonalds still had the power to enchant. Scots Baronial. Four stories of local stone coated with harling, the traditional lime-based rough cast, rendering it impervious to the wet Highland climate. The house sat in a wooded glen, so perfectly situated the structure might have emerged, full-blown like Venus, from the native bedrock. Three flags flew from the gabled rooftop—the Union Jack on the left; St. Andrew’s Cross, the Scottish national flag, on the right; and in the middle, highest of all in case anyone questioned where their loyalties lay, the banner of the Jacobite Rebellion, a white rose on a red field.

  Several panel vans bearing the imprint of Posh Nosh Catering hunkered near the wide entrance. Otherwise the gravel lot was empty. I pulled into a spot facing the front garden.

  I sat for a moment without moving. Retreat was still an
option, but not one I’d be proud of later. And I’d come so far.

  Grabbing my carry-on and slinging my handbag over my shoulder, I dodged the raindrops and dashed up the steps to the entrance. Pushing open the door, I caught a hint of lemon wax and something else, something warm and savory. Pastry? Cheese?

  The reception hall was as lovely as I remembered. Marble blocks in a black-and-white checkerboard paved the floor. A wide staircase rose from the center of the room toward a broad landing, where it turned and climbed to the guest rooms on the upper floors. An enormous painting of Charles Edward Stuart in full Highland dress hung on the wall to my left. His head was bare, revealing his famous red curls. Glenroth House fiercely promoted the local legend that Bonnie Prince Charlie had spent his final night in Scotland, the nineteenth of September, 1746, in one of the house’s many bedrooms. The fact that not a single historian endorsed this theory had done nothing to dampen the fervor of the island’s faith.

  A young, dark-haired woman sat behind a French ladies’ desk to the left of the staircase. She rose and held out her hand. “Welcome to Glenroth House. You must be Elenor’s sister-in-law. Kate, isn’t it? I’m Becca Wallace, the receptionist.” Her accent bore a trace of Irish, more Galloway than Highlands.

  “Kate Hamilton.” I set the carry-on down and took her hand.

  “Elenor said to expect you. She told me about your husband’s death. How awful for you.”

  I hate the obligatory expressions of sympathy. You’re too young to be a widow or, worse, I know how you feel. One woman had actually said, “Things happen when they’re supposed to, I guess.” I’d felt like slapping her. People aren’t supposed to become widows at the age of forty-three.

  I smiled and changed the subject. “How long have you worked at the hotel?”

  “Near eighteen months now. We’re all fairly new, except Agnes MacLeod, of course. She’s been around since the hotel opened. But then you know that.” Becca Wallace tucked her black-coffee hair behind her left ear. On the right it fell in a glossy curtain, almost concealing a thin white scar that tugged at the corner of her mouth.