08 - The Highland Fling Murders by Jessica Fletcher, Donald Bain

to go on a tour of the area. Forbes, the castle’s brooding jack-of-all-trades, was the driver.
    “Not coming with us?” Jed Richardson asked me as he and Alicia were about to board.
    “No. I think I’ll spend the day relaxing,” I said.
    “Us, too,” said Jim Shevlin, Cabot Cove’s newly elected mayor. “I thought I’d wander down to town hall, see how government works here.”
    The Petermans hadn’t come to breakfast; Peter and Roberta Walters had left word they were skipping breakfast and sleeping late.
    I watched the bus pull away, went inside, and settled in an oversize, overstuffed chair in front of a massive fireplace in which thin logs piled against each other vertically sent a welcome warmth into the room. Although it was springtime, there was a distinct chill in the air, as well as in the castle. A young man wearing a kilt, whom I’d seen only when he had helped bring our luggage into the castle upon our arrival appeared and asked if I wanted tea.
    “That would be wonderful,” I said. “Hot tea and a warm fire. Perfect.”
    When he delivered the tea, he lingered, as though wanting to say something.
    “How long have you worked at Sutherland Castle?” I asked to break the silence.
    “Just a month, ma’am.”
    “It must be an interesting place to work.”
    “That it is. Mr. Sutherland is a good boss. When he’s here.”
    “Who’s in charge when he isn’t here?” I asked.
    “Mrs. Gower sometimes. Forbes. Depends. I don’t wish to seem bold, ma’am, but I understand you write murder mysteries.”
    “Yes, I do.”
    “So do I.”
    “Really? How many have you written?”
    “Only one. Been working on it for a year, on and off you might say. When I have the time.”
    “Is it set here, in Wick? Week, I mean.”
    His youthful smile was pleasant. “Yes, ma’am. It’s about a real murder that happened here twenty years ago, right in the village.”
    “Twenty years ago. That wouldn’t be the relative of Isabell Gowdie, would it?”
    “You know about that?” His voice went up in pitch to mirror his surprise.
    “Yes. Mr. Sutherland told me about it.”
    “I was only three years old at the time,” he said. “But my mother talked about it a great deal. Kept all the newspaper stories and the like.”
    “Fascinating. Could I read it while I’m here?”
    “That’s what I wanted to ask you to do, ma’am, only I thought it might be rude, considering you’re a famous writer and all.”
    “I’d be delighted to read your book.”
    He left, returning moments later carrying a small leather backpack from which he withdrew a tattered, dog-eared one-hundred-page manuscript. The title was Who Killed Evelyn Gowdie? Right to the point.
    “Did they ever find out who murdered this Evelyn Gowdie?” I asked, thumbing through the pages.
    “No, ma’am. That’s the murder mystery part of my book. I have my detective solve the real murder.”
    “An interesting approach,” I said, “combining fact and fiction.”
    I was about to ask other questions when Mrs. Gower appeared in the doorway and said sternly, “Get back to your chores, Malcolm, and stop botherin’ the guests.”
    “That’s all right,” I said.
    She ignored me. “Come on, now, get to work. You’re the laziest boy I’ve ever seen. Dreamin’ all day about foolish books, and Daisy not showin’ up, just as lazy as you. Can’t rely on any young person these days.”
    Malcolm—I now knew his first name—grabbed his backpack and scurried from the room, Mrs. Gower’s harsh stare following him all the way. I started to say something in his defense, but all I saw was the broad back of our cook as she turned away and lumbered down the hall, her heavy footsteps ringing off the stone floor.
    I sipped my tea and read Malcolm’s first chapter, which succinctly laid out for the reader the bare facts of Evelyn Gowdie’s murder twenty years ago. She was the woman who George claimed was a descendant of the famed Scottish witch, Isabell