Read 08 - The Highland Fling Murders for Free Online Page B

upper circumference, twenty feet above. Huge oil portraits of George’s ancestors dominated each wall. The floor was covered in thick Persian carpets. The table, set for seventeen, provided a dazzling display of silver, china, and linen.
    A door opened, and George stepped into the room, followed by two couples. George looked splendid in his Sutherland clan kilt of greens, white, and red, and black waistcoat, fluted white shirt, black bow tie, and knee-high black socks. A crest on the jacket’s lapel showed two men in loincloths with crude clubs flanking a shield. George explained later in the evening that the motto on his clan shield, SANS PEUR, meant “Without fear.”
    “Jessica, Dr. Hazlitt,” George said, “allow me to introduce our other guests at the castle. This is Mr. and Mrs. Brock Peterman. And this is Dr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Symington.”
    Brock Peterman and his wife, Tammy, seemed. very out of place in this Scottish castle. Both had deep tans. Her hair was silver blond, and there was lots of it. His black hairpiece was obvious; it had a plastic look to it. She wore a skintight white dress that clung to every curve of her youthful, voluptuous body. He wore a yellow sport jacket over a black T-shirt, green slacks, and tasseled brown alligator loafers, no socks.
    “Brock is a movie producer from Hollywood,” George said after we’d greeted each other.
    “Oh? Might I have seen any of your films?” I asked.
    “If you like quality horror flicks,” he said, flashing a mouthful of large, perfect white teeth. “The Reptile’s Revenge? That’s my latest”
    “I’m afraid I missed it,” I said.
    Dr. Geoffrey Symington was a short, thin man in his midforties, with a hawk’s nose and deeply set green eyes. His wife, Helen, was a few inches taller than her husband, and considerably wider. They were appropriately dressed for the occasion: a black tuxedo for him, a sequined floor-length gown for her.
    “What sort a’ medicine do you practice, Dr. Symington?” Seth asked.
    “Research,” he replied.
    “What sort a’ research?”
    “Basic. Excuse me. I left something in my room.”
    As Seth raised his eyebrows at me, the door again opened and others from our group arrived. After introductions had been made, we took our assigned seats at the table.
    Two people served us. One was the brooding, stooped black-eyed man who’d been. our bartender during the cocktail hour. The other was a young woman with a sweet, ruddy round face wearing an old-fashioned floor-length gray dress that buttoned tight around her neck. She struck me as one of those fortunate women who would always look the same, no matter how old she became.
    The menu was elaborate: Nettle soup to start. Next, a wonderful salmon roe pâté, then a main course of stuffed trout caught that day on a local stream, and accompanied by “stovies,” a special seed potato cooked with onions. Dessert was “whipt syllabub,” a whipped concoction served with homemade macaroons. Charlene Sassi, Cabot Cove’s resident baking genius, pronounced them the best she’d ever tasted.
    As the evening progressed, the conversation turned to rumors that Sutherland Castle was haunted.
    “Is it?” Susan Shevlin asked George. “Is it really haunted?”
    George laughed and told our waiter to refill everyone’s wineglass. “Perhaps we should ask Mr. Peterman that question,” he said. “He’s here researching his next movie.”
    “A ghost story?” Charlene Sassi asked.
    “A sci-fi horror flick with a ghost subplot,” Peterman said. “I figure it needs a castle setting, so when I read about this place being open to guests, I told Tammy to call the travel agent.”
    “You’re going to shoot your new movie here, at this castle?” radio station owner Peter Walters asked.
    “Depends,” Peterman said. “I keep telling Mr. Sutherland how much business my movie can generate for his hotel. But he—”
    “Afraid this Scotsman is having trouble understanding why I