Dressed to Kilt by Hannah Reed Page A

Bridie and Henrietta had been close for years and years. Telling Bridie that her longtime companion was dead had even been difficultfor the inspector. I’d stood beside him, my knees threatening to collapse beneath me, and now, if she broke down, I might, too.
    Bridie went on, “And all along someone was after Henrietta. When she brought that awful note tae me, we both assumed it was fer me. Poor Gordon and Patricia. I need tae go tae them.”
    â€œThat isn’t possible at the moment,” Inspector Jamieson told her. “They’ve gone with the body. And the warning and its intended recipient are still tae be determined.”
    Several hours had gone by since the shocking disclosure and the subsequent follow-up—guests interviewed in the tasting room, the body and crime scene examined, results logged, items bagged for further study. Finally, Henrietta’s body had been removed, after which the warehouse had been cordoned off.
    Sean Stevens had been dispatched to the distillery to perform for the first time in his new capacity as constable-in-training. Because I was a special constable, only a volunteer after all, my role at the scene normally would have involved less-critical tasks than those performed by the inspector. I’d have comforted the victim’s family, kept witnesses gathered together, and remained alert for abnormal behavior. Although we all were acting abnormal considering the circumstances.
    However, as the unfortunate person who discovered the body, I was front and center instead of backstage, forced to relate my story multiple times, what there was to tell. Way too little, much too late.
    I’d been so sure when I’d reached into the vat and begun pulling the body out that once the dead woman’s face wasrevealed, it was going to belong to Bridie Dougal. So when Henrietta’s openmouthed face had surfaced from the depths of the whisky vat, followed by the rest of her body still clothed in her black housedress now water soaked, its pressed white collar limp, it had taken me a few minutes to process that fact.
    When I did, I’d been shocked for a second time. The first time being when I realized it was an actual body inside the tub. Then it was so unexpected that the drowning victim was Henrietta when I fully expected to pull out Bridie.
    â€œWho would do this?” Bridie, very much alive, repeated. “And why? Do you think it was a case of mistaken identity? That Henrietta was thought tae be myself? It can be dark in there without the lights on, ye know.”
    I bit my lip, because I wanted to answer, to say that it couldn’t have been a case of mistaken identity. Bridie was diminutive; Henrietta, though frail, was tall. They were as different physically as the lanky Inspector Jamieson and the much shorter Sean Stevens. But it was Jamieson’s place as head of the investigation to answer, not mine.
    It certainly wasn’t a case of mistaken identity, but there still was some concern (remote, though) expressed privately with the inspector that Henrietta’s death could have been the elimination of a barrier of safety. She’d acted much as a bodyguard, and anybody getting to Bridie had to get through Henrietta first. Unlikely, we agreed, but still a concern.
    I’m not sure how the inspector would have addressed Bridie over mistaken identity, because Sean chose that moment to speak up.
    â€œHaud the bus,” Sean said, spreading his arms wide asthough actually attempting to stop the wheels of a bus. “Ye might be ontae something there, Bridie Dougal. But let’s take it a step further down the path. Some bloke mighta mixed up the sisters. That other one is a politician’s wife, eh, and that might have something tae do with it.
She
mighta been the recipient o’ the note and shoulda been on the receiving end. Instead her sister got it.”
    Leave it to Sean to come up with a theory none of us had considered, although