The Corpse Wore Tartan (10 page)

MacMillan did not apologize for his behavior during his last interview, but he seemed inclined to be polite, almost pleasant, this morning. He went so far as to pull out Sherri's chair for her before seating himself.

“I'd like to get a few questions out of the way before we discuss whether or not you are in danger,” Sherri said. She turned her little recorder on. “Can you tell me when and where you last saw your brother?”

“It was in the lobby,” he said. ‘Shortly after the power went out.”

“Did you see him leave the lobby?”

“No,” Phineas said. “I was more interested in peace and quiet than warmth. I retreated to my own room and went to bed.”

“And you didn't encounter your brother elsewhere in the hotel?”

“I didn't encounter anyone. I went straight up to the second floor. I did not pass Go. I did not collect two hundred dollars.”

Sherri ignored the snarky Monopoly reference. So much for the polite Phineas MacMillan. “So, what you're saying is that no one can vouch for your whereabouts.”

“I slept alone, if that's what you mean. Although I could have had company, had I wanted it.”

Sherri narrowed her eyes. “Mr. MacMillan, if someone was with you, it would be wise to tell me—that person could provide you with an alibi for the time in question.”

“A gentleman never tells.”

She didn't buy that Phineas was a gentleman, not for a moment. Was he laughing at her? Or was he just stringing her along? Or could it be that some unlucky female
could
actually vouch for his whereabouts?

“Let's switch topics to your speech at the supper,” she said, abandoning one line of questioning to take advantage of the segue he'd inadvertently offered her. “It sounded to me as if you
told
, or at least hinted, a great deal.”

“I'm afraid I don't remember all of the details,” MacMillan said.

“You don't recall what you said about your associates and their families?” Sherri didn't bother to hide her amazement.

“I was making it up as I went along, trying to get a rise out of people.” Phineas shrugged. “I didn't expect them to be so sensitive about a little ribbing.”

“So, you're telling me that there is no written copy of your speech?”

“That is correct.”

“That's too bad, especially if it turns out that you, and not your brother, were the intended victim.”

Sherri reached into a folder for the notes Liss had made for her. “You said in your speech that pretty young girls were a commodity, especially if they play the bagpipe.”

MacMillan smirked.

“To whom were you referring?”

“No one in particular. If someone took offense, it can only be because they had a guilty conscience.”

“You didn't mean Amanda Tandy?”

“I don't even know little Mandy.”

Sherri once again consulted Liss's notes. “You said something that upset Harvey MacHenry and then, a little later, you told him he should relax because you were ‘done' with him.”

MacMillan's laugh was unpleasant. “Eighty-plus years old and the man still hasn't learned how to take a joke.”

“What joke? Do you think you could remember that much for me, Mr. MacMillan?”

Sherri realized she'd just sounded as crotchety as the man sitting across from her. She was supposed to remain cool, calm, and professional, she reminded herself. She must not let this odious man bait her.

“I said I'd heard he was planning to pay a visit to Helmsdale Castle,” Phineas admitted. “What? No spark of recognition? I thought everyone knew that old story.”

“Why don't you tell it to me.” Sherri resented his attitude, which grew more patronizing by the minute, but she managed to keep her voice level. He was the one who wanted police protection. Let him prove he needed it.

“Helmsdale Castle is where the eleventh Earl of Sutherland and his wife were poisoned back in the year of our Lord fifteen hundred and sixty-seven,” MacMillan said. “The Earl of Caithness was behind the murders, and since MacHenry's mother was descended from—”

“Wait a minute. Are you trying to tell me that he got all bent out of shape because of something that happened hundreds of years ago?”

Again MacMillan shrugged. “Scots have long memories, Officer Willett. Harvey MacHenry is the SHAS genealogist. He likes digging up the skeletons in everyone else's closets. I just reminded him of his.”

Sherri felt a sudden kinship with Alice, she of Wonderland fame…just after she fell down the rabbit hole. Logic was obviously not a requirement to join the Scottish Heritage Appreciation Society. “Let's move on to Mr. Bruce, shall we? You came right out and accused him of cooking the books.”

MacMillan affected innocence. “Eye of the beholder, my dear girl. Or ear. I did nothing more than tell an old chestnut of an accountant joke. Some people are just over-sensitive.”

“You made several of those people very angry, Mr. MacMillan. Maybe angry enough to kill. We know that one of them mistook your brother for you and roughed him up a bit before the confusion was sorted out. That probably happened shortly after you last saw Phil and shortly before he was murdered.”

At last, something seemed to rattle Phineas MacMillan. “This is the first I've heard of such an incident. Who—?”

“That's not important at the moment. Suffice it to say that there was a scuffle near the hotel gift shop. No one was hurt, but the incident clearly shows that your brother could have been murdered a little later by someone else who made the same mistake. Your sister-in-law may have been right. It could very well be that
you
were the real target.”

He flicked an imaginary speck of lint off his trousers, pretending nonchalance. “Eunice certainly seems convinced that I was the intended victim. Then again, she was rather upset at the time. She may have been grasping at straws.”

“Well, let's hang on to that particular straw for just a little longer, shall we? I understand that you also insulted two or three more people at the Burns Night Supper.” Liss hadn't been able to identify one of Phineas's targets. “Can you give me their names, please?”

“I don't remember.”

“You…don't. .remember?” Sherri leaned back in her chair and fixed Phineas with a hard stare. The man was unbelievable, and the most astonishing thing was that he showed no visible grief over the death of his brother—and a twin brother, at that. And no desire for revenge. In fact, he seemed to have no interest in discovering the identity of the killer. It was positively unnatural.

“I've told you already, Officer,” Phineas said. “I was making it up as I went along. But if I upset someone as much as all that, I'm sure it will come out when you question him. Or her,” he added as an afterthought.

Not the person who killed Phil MacMillan, Sherri thought. That individual would be very careful not to say a word about it. Not that she planned to question anybody. That was the state police detective's job, and he wouldn't thank her for trying to do it for him.

“So, what about my police protection?”

“I have one more question, Mr. MacMillan. Let's assume for a moment that it was not a case of mistaken identity, that someone really intended to kill your brother. Can you think of anyone who would want to do that?”

Phineas frowned. “Well, that
is
a puzzle, isn't it?”

“You hinted last evening that Phil might have faked the theft of his own brooch.”

For a moment, MacMillan looked startled. Then he laughed. “So I did. I'd forgotten. Another off-the-cuff remark, I'm afraid. What is the expression? Oh, yes—I was just yanking your chain, Officer. Phil had his faults, but he was honest enough.”

“So, no enemies you can think of?”

“None.”

“What about his wife? Would she stand to profit by his death?”

“I don't see how. He was all but broke when he died.”

“All right, Mr. MacMillan. Thank you. As for your request for police protection, you'll have to talk to the state police about that when they get here. I'm afraid the only thing I have to offer is advice. I suggest that you don't go wandering off alone and that you lock your door at night.”

L
iss MacCrimmon had overlooked one salient feature of the gift shop when she'd given Russ Tandy the grand tour. It was Dan who reminded her that the former card room had a working fireplace. After breakfast, they set to work clearing out the display racks that had been artfully arranged in the unused hearth. Liss left the items on the mantel where they were. Dan brought in an armload of wood and kindling and in short order they had a cheerful blaze going. Once the temperature in the shop began to rise, Liss opened for business.

A slow but steady stream of customers trickled in. Everyone seemed to prefer rooms with fireplaces—the lobby, the lounge, the restaurant, the library—and word soon spread that the gift shop could be added to that list. In the first hour, Liss sold out of shawls and mittens, all hand knitted by a local lady. It was a pity there were no sweaters, she thought, but the sweatshirts with
MOOSETOOKALOOK, MAINE
across the chest did well. So did Liss's Scottish merchandise.

There was a short lull in business. Then Harvey MacHenry wandered by and, seeing that the shop was open, ventured inside. “Miss MacCrimmon, isn't it?” he asked.

“Call me Liss, please, Mr. MacHenry.”

“Then do me the honor of using my first name, as well,” he said with a courtly little bow. “It's Harvey. Like the classic Jimmy Stewart movie.”

Liss laughed. Harvey MacHenry seemed like a nice old guy. She'd heard he was a bit irrational on the subject of his clan's history, but in a group like SHAS, that wasn't out of the ordinary. A lot of Scots indulged in ancestor worship.

“I feel I should apologize for my son's behavior here last night,” Harvey said. “He's not usually so short-tempered.”

“No apologies necessary. I know he was upset by Mr. MacMillan's comments. And worried about how you'd taken them, too.”

“Poor Will. He frets. Thinks I'm going to keel over if he doesn't look out for me all the time. But really, the whole thing was a tempest in a teapot. MacMillan touched on a sore spot and I got a little overexcited and called him a bastard. That's not my usual style, I assure you. Then I felt a few twinges, but I popped one of my little magic pills and all was well.” He patted the pocket of his shirt. A small round pill container made a slight bulge in the flannel.

“I gather you have a heart condition.” Liss had a vague memory of her grandfather taking nitroglycerine every time he felt a chest pain. It must have worked. He'd lived to be ninety-six. She frowned, wondering if she'd gotten the name right. Wasn't nitroglycerine an explosive?

“It's under control,” Harvey said, pulling her attention back to him. “Nothing to worry about.” He picked up a kilt pin decorated with a clan crest and examined the workmanship more closely.

Liss hesitated. She'd promised to stay out of the murder investigation, but she couldn't see any harm in satisfying her curiosity. “So,” she said casually, “I take it that Will told you that he mistook Phil for Phineas.”

Harvey set the kilt pin down and picked up another. “He did. He's very embarrassed about that.”

By his mistake, or because he'd lost his temper in front of witnesses? Liss had to wonder.

Harvey abandoned the pretense of shopping and smiled at her. “I suppose you're thinking it strange that he'd risk upsetting me. I can tell. As it happens, Will didn't have any choice. I overheard Russ Tandy telling someone else about the incident this morning, before we went in to breakfast. Tandy seemed to find it amusing.”

Liss felt relief wash over her. Talking about last night's ruckus was not something Russ would do if he knew Phil was dead, especially if he'd killed him. She hadn't seriously thought Gordon's brother capable of committing such a heinous crime, but after what had happened outside the gift shop, she'd had to include Russ's name on the short list.

“Such a pity,” Harvey said, “that Tandy's brother, Gordon, is out of state. If he'd been at home, I've no doubt he'd have attended the Burns Night Supper and been on the spot to take charge.”

“This is his area,” Liss agreed, “but I didn't know he was a member of SHAS.”

“He's not, but he came to the supper last year as his brother's guest. I had hopes of recruiting him, especially…well, no matter.”

But Liss's curiosity was well and truly piqued. “Especially?”

“I suppose it's no big secret.” Harvey wandered over to a display of paperback novels and gave it a spin so he could see the titles on the back side. “Did you wonder, perhaps, why Phineas MacMillan's speech was so full of vituperation?”

“I did, yes.”

“We held a board of directors meeting last week. We're trying to attract new members. Younger members.” He sent a wry smile her way. “That effort is not helped by having a president who is unsociable and prone to sarcasm. We voted Phineas out of office, effective at the end of the month.”

“And replaced him with Russ Tandy?”

Harvey nodded. “Phineas did not take our decision well.” He gave a little “what can you do?” shrug and continued his exploration of the gift shop.

Liss followed close on his heels. “So, you're saying Phineas's speech was a form of retaliation? That he was getting back at the other board members and at Russ by making those nasty remarks?”

“I'm afraid so. Phineas has grown very petty these last few years.” Shaking his head, sadness in his eyes, Harvey studied Liss's face. “You dislike him, and I can understand that, but he wasn't always such a misogynist. He had a bad experience seven or eight years ago. It changed him. Made it hard for him to trust anyone, not just women.”

“You'll forgive me if I don't feel too sorry for him.”

“Not even over the loss of his brother?”

Embarrassment left Liss momentarily speechless. Total lack of sympathy under those circumstances was not an attractive trait. She wondered if Sherri had been right to suggest that she read too many mystery novels. Had she lost her capacity to feel sorry for the victims of crimes? Her focus had been on the challenge of finding clues and solving the puzzle. She was treating a real-life murder like an intellectual game. Appalled, Liss tried to tell herself that it was important to seek justice, to catch killers and other criminals and put them away where they couldn't hurt anyone else. But did a normal person really
want
to meddle in murder?

Harvey MacHenry seemed unaware of the turmoil his question had caused. He continued to examine the books on the rack, finally selecting a title by Clive Cussler to purchase. “I suppose you think my son could have had something to do with Phil's death,” he said as she rang up the sale, “but I can assure you that we were together from the moment he returned to the lobby until this morning. And I think it unlikely, even if I couldn't vouch for him, that he'd mistake one twin for the other twice in one night.”

“I'm sure you're right,” Liss said, still wrestling with her conscience. Had she truly become heartless? Uncaring?

“Then again, Phil might have been the intended victim all along, in which case the police will concentrate on the obvious suspects. You know—who inherits and all that.” He chuckled. “I suppose you're going to say that I watch too much television, but it seems only logical to look first at the victim's spouse.”

“You think Eunice killed her husband?” In spite of her dismay at the way she'd reacted to Phil's murder, Liss couldn't stop herself from asking.

“In fact, I do not. I happen to know that Phil's death will put Eunice in a difficult financial position. She had no motive that I can see to kill him. None at all.”

“How do you know so much about Eunice MacMillan's situation?” Liss asked.

“Oh, it's no secret that Phil made some bad investments. Eunice complained about that to anyone who would listen. And, behind her back, there was speculation that they'd have to sell their house, if they could find a buyer, to make ends meet. Still, Phil was a pretty sharp operator. If he'd lived, I suspect he'd soon have made the money back on the stock market or in some other manner. Eunice, though, the only thing she knows about money is how to spend it. With her husband gone, I wouldn't be surprised if she had to file for bankruptcy.”

That was pretty much what one of the four SHAS ladies had said, too, when they'd been gossiping in the gift shop. Liss thought about asking Harvey more questions, then told herself, sternly, to keep out of it. She handed him his purchase and told him to have a nice day.

Not five minutes later, Phineas MacMillan wandered in. He inspected everything in the shop, then bought a tartan handkerchief. “I understand my brother stopped by here last night,” he said as Liss rang up the sale.

“Yes, he did.”

“And that there was a bit of trouble.” Phineas didn't sound particularly concerned.

Liss had no idea what to say in response to his comment, so she didn't say anything at all. She supposed that by now everyone in SHAS knew about the incident.

“Will MacHenry could have followed Phil,” Phineas said.

“And killed him later?” Liss shook her head. “I don't think so. They went off in opposite directions and Will spent the rest of the night with his father. Besides, by then Will knew that Phil wasn't you.”

“Did he?” Phineas asked. “Did he really?”

 

Sherri rubbed her tired eyes and refilled her coffee cup. She was still sitting at the same table in the restaurant. The idea was to be available if anyone wanted to talk to her. And it was as good a place as any to go over the notes she'd made and prepare her report for the state police.

She was a little surprised when Richardson Bruce plunked himself down in the chair opposite her. “Is it true?” he asked. “Did someone strangle Phil MacMillan?”

“Where did you hear that?” Sherri asked.

“Everyone's talking about it.”

Why didn't that surprise her? Sherri wondered how many more methods of murder would be making the rounds before the day was over. “As I said earlier, there was an unattended death. And yes, the deceased was Philip MacMillan. That's all the information I'm prepared to share until the medical examiner can evaluate the situation.”

“Huh,” Richardson Bruce said. “Poor Phil.”

“Were you close?” Sherri couldn't resist asking.

“Not really. I knew his brother better.” He shook his head. “It's a damned shame it wasn't Phineas who got himself killed. At least he wouldn't have left a widow and a mountain of debts.”

Sherri's eyes widened. She waited, letting the words hang in the air until Bruce realized what he'd said. He blinked several times. Then he lowered his head onto his hands.

“Oh, my God. Is that what you think happened? Someone killed Phil by mistake?”

“It's a distinct possibility, Mr. Bruce. And I understand that there was no love lost between you and Phineas MacMillan.”

“The man impugned my character,” he said in a defensive tone of voice. “He all but called me a crook.”

“And you were angry, weren't you, Mr. Bruce? Tell me, can you account for your whereabouts after the supper?”

He glowered at her. “I stayed in the lobby with everyone else until I went to bed.”

“And when was that?”

“I have no idea. I wasn't watching the time.”

Most people hadn't been. Nor had they been paying much attention to what other people were doing. Sherri was glad she wasn't the one who'd have to take statements from all of them.

“I do remember seeing the MacMillan twins talking to each other at one point,” Bruce offered, “but that's all. I was staying as far away from both of them as possible. I'd had my fill of Phineas for one night. I have to say, though,” he added, “that no one who knew them both could talk to Phil for more than three seconds and still mistake him for Phineas.”

“Why is that, Mr. Bruce?”

He shrugged. “Mannerisms. Attitude.” He gave a bark of laugher totally lacking in amusement. “Phineas has an annoying habit of calling people ‘kiddies,' no matter how old they are.”

Sherri had already noticed that tendency, although she was glad Bruce had reminded her of it.

Bruce started to rise. Sherri told herself she was not supposed to be interviewing suspects and that she should let him go. But she couldn't seem to stop the question from popping out. “Any truth in Phineas's jibe about you cooking the books?”

“Of course not.” His face flamed. His hands gripped convulsively the back of the chair he'd just left.

“But you are an accountant by profession, I suppose?”

“You suppose wrongly. I'm a college professor. Medieval studies.”

“Oh.” She hadn't expected that. “Well, then, perhaps you did make an accounting error?”

“It does not require a degree in accounting to add a few columns of figures. There are no mistakes in the organization's books.”

He met her eyes, but only for a moment. Did that mean he was hiding something? She gave in to the temptation to try to find out what it was. She asked more questions about the finances he handled for SHAS. The more he sputtered and denied, the more certain she became that he must have done something worthy of a cover-up. She kept at him and, five minutes later, he exploded.

“I am not a crook!” he bellowed.

So, Sherri thought, Mr. Bruce had a temper. That was one count against him. But was it enough to move him to the top of the suspect list?

And what did it matter? This wasn't her case. It wasn't her job to find Phil's killer. But she was finding that hard to remember, especially when the average person, including Richardson Bruce, believed that she
was
the one in charge.

“Sit down, Mr. Bruce,” she said with as much authority as she could muster. “Let's go through last night's events one more time.”