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

Author:Fletcher, Jessica; Bain, Donald [Fletcher, Jessica; Bain, Donald]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: mystery, Women Detectives, Murder, Mystery & Detective, Scotland, Jessica (Fictitious Character), Political, General, American, mystery fiction, Women Sleuths, Artists, Women Novelists, Fiction, Radio and Television Novels, Maine, Fletcher
ISBN: 9780451188519
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 1998-01-02T05:00:00+00:00

Power hadn’t been restored when it was time to go downstairs for dinner. I carried one of the candles from my room, and shielding it with one hand, descended the staircase and walked into the drawing room, where others had gathered for cocktails. A dozen candles cast a warm golden glow over the handsome room. Forbes tended the bar, as usual, his face set in an unexpressive mask. Fiona passed a silver tray holding hors d’oeuvres. I could see why Malcolm was “smitten” with her. She was a beautiful, vivacious young woman, filled with life and possessing a bubbly laugh that lit up the otherwise shadowy room.

“How’s Seth?” Jim Shevlin asked.

“I’m glad you mentioned him,” I said. “I promised to wake him for dinner. Excuse me.”

“I’ll do it,” Shevlin said. “I can use the exercise.”

He left, and I plucked a few items from Fiona’s tray. George Sutherland appeared at my side holding two glasses of white wine. “Sorry about the dimness,” he said. “The folks at the power company say we might not have it restored until sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

“We’ll survive,” I said. “Actually, the candle-light is—”

“Romantic? If so, I might suggest they drag their feet fixing the lines.”

“I hope Seth is all right,” I said. “Jim Shevlin went to wake him. I forgot.”

“A good stiff brandy will fix him up, I suspect.” He handed me one of the glasses, and we touched rims. “To a more pleasant stay,” he said.

“That sounds good. By the way, Malcolm James stopped by my room.”

“I know. I sent him.”

“He’s a nice young man. He gave me his manuscript to read.”

“Manuscript. I didn’t know he was a writer.”

“He’s written a novel based upon the murder of Evelyn Gowdie twenty years ago. I’ve read the first chapter. It’s quite good.” I laughed. “When I told him I thought it was quite good, he was disappointed. I didn’t realize that saying ‘quite good’ means only so-so in Great Britain.”

“Ah, yes, we speak the same language, yet we don’t.”

I looked to the door. “Jim hasn’t come back,” I said. “I think I’ll go check on Seth.”

“I’ll go with you.”

We bumped into Jim on our way upstairs. “I was coming to get you, Jess,” he said. “Seth is sick.”

“I was afraid this would happen,” I said.

Seth was in bed, the covers pulled up tight to his neck, his shaking visible beneath them. A single candle burned brightly on the night table.

I sat on the edge of the bed and touched his forehead. “You have a fever, Seth.”

“Ayuh. I’m burning up.”

“That crazy old man,” I muttered, referring to Evan Lochbuie.

“My fault,” said Seth. “Lost my balance, that’s all. Should have known better.”

“Well, be that as it may, you need a doctor.”

“I’ll fetch Dr. Symington,” George said.

Seth sat up. “Keep that man away from me,” he said. “He’s no doctor, no matter what degrees he claims. He’s a quack, researchin’ into ghosts and that sort a’ nonsense.”

I looked up at George: “Can we call a doctor from town?”

“Ay. But the electrical outage might make it difficult to get one up here.

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