Death of a Dreamer by MC Beaton Page A

any chance it was murder, who would want to kill her?’
    ‘I don’t know. Jock’s ex-wife is in town. I might be having a word with her.’
    ‘Come on. Effie was mad. She was a fantasist.’
    ‘But was she an artist?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    Hamish told him about the dust on the pottery wheel and the stiff, dirty brushes.
    ‘Still, I don’t see if that’s got anything to do with it,’ said Jimmy.
    ‘Unless she was ripping off some artist. Any news of the sister?’
    ‘Yes, she’s called Caro Garrard, and she’s on her way up.’
    ‘We might find out something from her. Maybe it’s someone from Effie’s past.’
    ‘Who killed her? Come on, Hamish. It’s suicide pure and simple.’
    Three more days crept past while Hamish fretted, trying to hear of any results. He had a good idea that Blair had blocked anyone from talking to him. At last, on the morning of
the fourth day, he phoned Professor Jane Forsythe and reintroduced himself.
    ‘Oh, the bright policeman from Lochdubh,’ she said. ‘How can I help you?’
    ‘I wonder if you have completed the autopsy and found out how the woman died?’
    ‘Effie Garrard died of a combination of ethylene glycol and exposure.’
    ‘What’s ethylene glycol, and where can anyone get it?’
    ‘Anywhere. It’s commonly known as antifreeze.’
    ‘Wouldn’t it taste awful?’
    ‘No, it tastes sweet. Some alcoholics even drink it when they can’t afford anything else. It was in that bottle of dessert wine that was found at the site.’
    ‘Any fingerprints on the bottle?’
    ‘No. I mean, just those of the deceased.’
    ‘What about that sawn-off finger?’
    ‘I can only assume she did it herself.’
    ‘With what? Nothing was found in the way of a knife or razor.’
    ‘She may have thrown it away. The procurator fiscal has decided on a verdict of suicide.’
    ‘I’m not sure about that.’
    ‘Well, your superiors are. Case closed. They say she was so mad and so disappointed in love that she killed herself.’
    ‘What are the symptoms of antifreeze poisoning?’
    ‘It’s changed in the body by the enzyme alcohol dehydrogenase into glycolic acid and oxalic acid, which are highly toxic compounds. There was widespread tissue injury to the brain,
kidneys, liver and blood vessels. After taking it, she would start to feel tired, disoriented, and may have fallen asleep.’
    Hamish thanked her, put the receiver down, and stared into space. It was all so neat and tidy, and yet he had an uneasy feeling about the whole thing. He wondered if Jock’s wife was still
in Lochdubh.
    Cursing himself for not having tried to speak to her before, he hurried along to Sea View. Mrs Dunne told him that Mrs Fleming had gone out for a walk.
    ‘Do you know which direction she took?’ asked Hamish.
    ‘I saw her go in the direction of the bridge.’
    ‘When did she leave?’
    ‘Just a few minutes ago.’
    Hamish set off in pursuit.
    He saw a small blonde woman heading up the road on the other side of the humpback bridge.
    He ran after her. ‘Mrs Fleming?’ he called.
    She stopped and turned round. She was in her late thirties with dyed-blonde hair in a ponytail. She had small, discontented features and pale blue eyes. She was wearing a multicoloured blouse,
brief khaki shorts and sturdy boots.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Police Constable Hamish Macbeth, Mrs Fleming. May I talk to you for a moment?’
    ‘Go ahead, copper. But if it’s aboot that dead wumman, I cannae help ye.’ Her voice was harsh with a Glaswegian accent.
    ‘Did you know her?’
    ‘Never heard o’ her till I come here.’
    ‘Why did you and Jock divorce?’
    ‘Away wi’ ye, ye nosey copper. That’s ma business.’
    She stared at him defiantly, her thin arms folded across her chest. ‘I’ve got naethin’ mair to say to ye.’
    ‘Well, if you think of anything . . .’
    She continued to stare at him defiantly until he walked away.
    Hamish went back to the station and put on his climbing boots. He was