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

building’s rear windows; no one looked back. I wondered whether a second plaque had been installed, pinpointing precisely where the body was discovered. I didn’t see one.
    I was poised to leave when my attention was drawn to a large cardboard box in a comer of the small yard. To be more precise, it was what protruded from the end of the box closest to me that was of interest
    I went to it, and my initial reaction was validated. It was a foot, a female foot wearing a high black laced-up shoe. A few inches of ankle showed between the shoe’s top and the hem of a gray dress. I hesitated; I wanted to push the box aside but had difficulty mustering the courage.
    Then, after a few deep breaths, I used my foot to partially slide the box off the body, enough to see the face belonging to the foot and leg. Looking up at me was the round, ruddy face of Daisy—I didn’t know her last name—the young woman who’d served us dinner the night before at Sutherland Castle.
    My fist went to my mouth to stifle an anguished cry about to erupt. A pitchfork rose from Daisy’s chest. The handle had been broken off just above the metal tines. Brown dried blood surrounded each tooth.
    I crouched lower. I hadn’t seen it at first glance. Carved into her throat was a small, bloody cross.
    I quickly retraced my steps to the street and looked up and down. I wanted to scream, but held that impulse in check. Instead, I went to the sporting goods shop.
    “Forget something?” the owner asked.
    “No. There’s been a murder up the street. Behind the office building where Evelyn Gowdie was killed twenty years ago.”
    He looked at me skeptically.
    “It’s a young girl named Daisy. She works—worked at Sutherland Castle.”
    “Daisy Wemyss?”
    “I don’t know her last name. All I know is that—”
    “Come with me,” he said, leading me from the store. “She’s my brother’s daughter.”

Chapter Seven
    The shop owner led me to a small building in which Wick’s government offices were housed. We stepped into a room marked CONSTABLE, where a young man sat reading a newspaper, his feet propped on the edge of the desk.
    “Bob,” the shop owner said. “We’ve got a big problem down the street.”
    Bob looked up. “Oh?”
    “There’s been a murder. Daisy, my brother’s girl.”
    Bob dropped the newspaper to the desk, his feet to the floor.
    “Where’s Horace?”
    “Down to the river fishing.”
    “Well, go get the man. Fast.” The shop owner turned to me. “Where did you find her body?”
    I explained.
    “Who’s she?” Bob asked.
    “I’m Jessica Fletcher. I’m a guest at Sutherland Castle. I found her.”
    “Go on, Bob, get Horace.” To me: “Horace is our constable.”
    Bob ran from the office.
    “I take it your name is Mr. Wemyss,” I said to the shop owner.
    “Ay.”
    “What do we do now? Wait for the constable to return from fishing?”
    “Best thing to do.”
    “Isn’t there someone else we can talk to?”
    “Best to wait for Horace.”
    Another dour Scotsman, I thought. I’d better get used to it.
    Horace, whose last name turned out to be McKay, arrived ten minutes later carrying the longest fishing rod I’d ever seen. He wore “Wellies,” green rubber boots seen everywhere in Great Britain, and had with him a creel containing two large trout After I’d been introduced to him, he said, “Now, lady, what’s this about Daisy Wemyss?”
    “She’s been murdered.” I told him where I’d discovered the body.
    “Back where Evelyn Gowdie was killed,” he said in a low, gruff voice, heavy with Scottish burr.
    “That’s right,” I said. “I suggest we go there—now!” I was running out of patience with their cavalier approach to murder. Mr. Wemyss’s niece had been brutally killed. Constable McKay had a murder on his hands. But here they were standing around as though we were discussing the fish he’d caught.
    “Let’s go,” said McKay. He carefully placed the rod on wall hooks behind his