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

Gowdie, put to death in 1622 by a pitchfork through her heart, and a cross slashed into the flesh of her throat. According to Malcolm’s manuscript, Evelyn Gowdie’s body had been found behind a small office building on Bridge Street, Wick’s main thoroughfare.
    I decided to put off reading more of the manuscript until later in the day, and went to my room, where I changed into new sneakers and a green-and-white jogging suit over another layer of clothing. Confident I’d dressed appropriately for whatever weather I might encounter—George said the weather in northern Scotland could change within minutes—I left the castle and walked in the direction of the village.
    It took me longer than I’d planned to reach Bridge Street because I kept stopping to admire the rugged natural beauty of the area. The sun shone brightly, providing its warm rays to the crisp morning. There were spectacular rock formations along the tops of the cliffs that George had said were called “Grey Bools”; a soaring natural arch in those same cliffs, “Brig o Trams,” made a bold, awe-inspiring statement against the cobalt blue sky.
    I eventually reached the center of town and paused on a comer to get my bearings. Not that Wick was large enough for a tourist to become lost. What struck me as I stood on the corner was the absence of people. There were a few men and women walking down Bridge Street, going in and out of shops. But there weren’t many shops to enter, at least from my vantage point. Some were boarded up, others had CLOSED signs on their doors. Overall, the impression was of a village that had not only fallen on hard times in the past, those hard times prevailed to this day. That impression was enhanced when the sun ceased to shine, as though someone had thrown a switch, and a cold rain started to fall. I’d heard about “horizontal rain” in northern Scotland; now I experienced it. A wind that suddenly began to howl down Bridge Street flung the raindrops in a horizontal direction, stinging my face and sending me in search of shelter. I found it in a small shop selling sporting goods, guns and ammunition, fishing rods and artificial lures. An older man was behind the counter as I entered, causing a tiny bell attached to the door to sound.
    “Guid morning,” he said.
    “Good morning. Goodness, that rain came up fast.”
    He laughed. “Another few minutes, the sun will be shining brightly again.”
    “So I’ve heard.”
    “Something I can help you with?”
    “I only came in to stay dry. But now that I’m here, maybe you would give me some advice on what dry flies to use, what the fish are rising to.”
    The shopkeeper spent the next fifteen minutes showing me various dry flies, which, he proudly proclaimed, he’d tied himself. I bought a few. By the time I’d paid, the sun was out and the rain had stopped.
    I left the store and slowly walked up Bridge Street, pausing to peer into shop windows, and observing the few people sharing the street with me. It didn’t take long to reach the end, where the village just seemed to fade into a country road.
    I turned back and headed in the direction from which I’d come. As I started back down Bridge Street, a small sign on an office building caught my eye. I moved closer to read it. It was a plaque that had been placed on the building by the Wick Historical Society. It read: “Site of the murder of Evelyn Gowdie, Feb. 11, 1976, descendant of famed Scottish witch, Isabell Gowdie.”
    A strange thing to commemorate.
    I stepped away from the building, but something caused me to go back and read the plaque again. Well, I thought, since the leaders of the Wick Historical Society felt a woman’s murder was worth a plaque, I might as well see where it actually happened.
    There was a dirt driveway running from the street to the rear of the building. I walked along it until reaching a backyard area strewn with bottles and other trash. Weeds grew with abandon. I looked at the