A Tricky Lie

By Ella J. Fraser

In this cosy mystery, Scottish distillery heiress Fiona Sutherland returns to the bucolic village of her childhood to assume her role in the family business only to discover her true expertise is jousting with enigmatic Chief Inspector Nick Dawson when her grandmother’s friend falsely confesses to the murder of the local greenkeeper two days before the start of the British Open.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ella J. Fraser
• Release date: May 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9780986969003

Ella J. Fraser

While her day job had been in corporate marketing and communications, making the most of an MBA she’d earned years earlier, it often required a knack for creativity and the sort of willing suspension of disbelief worthy of an MFA. Nevertheless, it failed to provide the level of satisfaction accrued from more legitimate pursuits like painting and writing. After receiving New York photographer Christopher Beane’s book Flower as a gift, she was so moved she sat down to write him an email complimenting him on his talent. What she ended up writing was the manuscript for Waking Up In London, her first novel.

Book preview

A Tricky Lie

Sutherland Mystery Series #1

By

Ella J. Fraser

Smashwords Edition © Copyright 2011 Ella J. Fraser

All rights reserved worldwide.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

http://www.ellajfraser.com

Table of Contents

Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four

Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven, Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen, Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen, Chapter Sixteen, Chapter Seventeen

Chapter One

Duncan MacDougall awoke on the morning of the twelfth expecting his day to unfold like any other.

After a languid stretch, he groped about in the shadows hoping to switch off the alarm before it had a chance to sound. His skin prickled at the refreshing breeze butting against the heavy window curtains, and so, while seeking refuge in the warmth of the duvet, his gaze settled on that of his wife’s sleeping form.

She looked younger, more vulnerable, in this unguarded state. Dark crescent lashes resting delicately on porcelain skin. Her lips soft, mouth partially open. Not wanting to wake her, yet unable to resist, he traced the callused tip of his index finger along a pale lock of hair artfully draping itself over the edge of her pillow.

Tantalizing thoughts of how he wished he could spend the day ran recklessly through his mind: make love; sleep for another hour; and drive, perhaps, to an undiscovered spot in the country to lounge over a picnic. The urge to kiss her rose fierce and unbidden from a tender place deep within him, tempting him to act, not simply on the promise of physical pleasure, but the balm of emotional solace carried with it. Granting not only a release, but freedom itself.

After a moment, he dropped the lock of hair along with his dreams—dreams which would remain forever unfulfilled—and slid out of bed.

* * *

Downstairs, Duncan moved about quietly with an efficiency borne from years of practise. He almost never disturbed Kirsty. Once dressed and ready to leave he picked up his wallet, mobile, keys, and an apple from the corner of the kitchen counter before making his way into the silent pre-dawn stillness of a July morning, locking the door behind him.

There was no activity on the main street as Duncan drove his old Land Rover through Beilberry on the way to his job as Head Greenkeeper at Seton Hill Golf Club on the other side. At this hour, Beilberry looked like a ghost town. Eerily frozen in time. Or, he thought, more like an empty stage set with its cast biding their time in the wings awaiting their cue.

He passed the small stone church, scaffolding hugging the facade—an obvious indication of its state of health. It was thanks to Mrs. Sutherland that such work could be carried out at all. She had been the driving force—in partnership with Reverend Barclay—behind the many fêtes and fundraising activities necessary to surmount the required facelift, ensuring the ancient church would continue to age with dignity and grace.

Duncan suspected her involvement included a substantial private financial contribution as well. Sutherland Distillery had been a dominant presence in the area for at least four generations, amassing riches greater than any one family deserved. Nonetheless, it was difficult to begrudge Mrs. Sutherland that wealth while she subtly positioned herself as a steadfast cornerstone of the community.

Duncan had, on occasion, even felt some pity for the woman, knocking round the splendour of Kilmarack House all by her lonesome. Though, with her granddaughter’s recent return from London that would no longer be the case. And from what he knew of Fiona, in addition to the family fortune, she appeared to have inherited a good many of Mrs. Sutherland’s admirable character traits as well.

Shifting down to proceed through the heart of the village, Duncan passed the elegant terraced homes where another member of Mrs. Sutherland’s golfing foursome lived. Kirsty’s Aunt Phoebe. Or Ms. Buchanan as she became known after her acrimonious divorce from Doctor Murray. Duncan found his thoughts were not so charitable where she was concerned. Particularly after last evening.

He suspected many of the concerns Kirsty brought to his attention had originated with her aunt. Reflecting now on the argument that had ensued, he believed it might actually have been the prerequisite to turning a corner. Blowing away the sombre cloud of dissatisfaction that had stubbornly hovered above their tiny cottage these past few months.

As the bakery drew near, Duncan slowed enough to peer through the large bow window for some sign of life. He was hoping to spy Herman Mueller, the brusque Swiss pastry chef whose singular redeeming quality was his ability to produce sinfully addictive treats. Much to his disappointment, it too was dark.

A glance at his watch told him it was now five. In only a few hours, the entire village would be dealing with the influx of visitors overflowing from neighbouring St. Andrews. Here for the Open, they brought with them not only cash but longer queues at the bakery, the newsagent, and nearly any other business in the area. However, it was nothing compared to what living in St. Andrews itself would be like. Knowing this, the residents of Beilberry remained a tolerant lot. Quite happy to exist in the shadows of the exalted attraction without having to deal with the bulk of the inconvenience.

He carried on. Saw the local school, empty now for the summer. A quiet park and, on the corner opposite, The Pear Tree Inn and Pub. The outdoor furniture in the pub’s courtyard stood vacant, looking orphaned, waiting patiently for patrons to arrive. Down the way a bit, and there came the library. Its windows plastered with posters promoting the arrival of some longed-for book, and notices regarding the weekly meeting of the knitting club.

The same drive, the same sights, thought Duncan.

No wonder he had experienced a certain degree of restlessness in recent months. Something Kirsty had not failed to notice. It was this behaviour that had provoked her suspicions and, fuelled by her aunt, those doubts had culminated in last night’s ugly scene.

Yet his problem had started with nothing more than a vague sense of uneasiness. When the feeling persisted, haunting every decision, every action, he’d been forced to reflect on its source. Either his stamina or motivation—or possibly both—were wavering. But why? Some mid-life nonsense? The job? His health? The answers to such questions had remained elusive. Lately, thankfully, he felt the worst of it had passed. He was back on track and he’d told Kirsty there was nothing to worry over. The familiarity of life in Beilberry, once again, brought him peace. Contentment. He was able to find reassurance in the routine.

Toward the east, as the road swept out of the village, the first peach blush of dawn crept over a stand of pines drawing Duncan’s attention. It promised to be a clear day. The kind of weather that enabled one to see all the way to Lochnagar from the north of the promontory at Seton Hill. A good day for getting much accomplished. His thoughts naturally progressed to the work that lay ahead.

For his operation to run smoothly, tasks and the staff assigned to each job had to be scheduled as tightly as possible. Naturally, something always impacted the best laid plans—a burst pipe, a broken mower—but the effect could be minimized if Duncan and the First Assistant, Alistair Forbes, did their homework ahead of time.

Alistair had come from an excellent course the other side of Glasgow. Duncan liked him from the beginning. He was intelligent, professional with the staff and members, but most importantly, he was keen. It was no secret that Alistair had his eye on running his own course one day. And Duncan had no doubt that he would achieve this. But for now, he belonged to Duncan. Together, they would make the most of the season.

Leaving the Land Rover at the back of the shop, he walked round to the front and unlocked the main door. Once inside in his office, Duncan scanned the outline he’d made the day before of today’s priorities as well as his own list of meetings. Knowing it would be another exhausting day, he made a mental note to ring Kirsty at a reasonable hour and break the news that, in all likelihood, he’d once again be late for dinner.

The silence was disrupted by the noise of a door slamming shut. Duncan raised his head, guessing that Alistair had arrived. Another day was about to begin.

* * *

At twenty past twelve that afternoon, feeling the need to retreat to his office for a while, Duncan drove his golf cart back to the shop. As the day was proceeding more or less according to expectations, he decided to take the opportunity to start on tomorrow’s schedule, and then head back out to follow up with his staff before sending them home.

Knowing his other cup would be stone cold by now, he stopped in the lunchroom to make a pot of coffee. When he saw the last of the sugar packets had been used, he opened one of the lower cupboards in search of new supplies. As the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, he slit open a box with an oversized pocket-knife contraption he wore clipped to a loop at the waist of his trousers. Grabbing a clean cup, he poured the coffee, added sugar and some milk from the fridge, and took a restorative sip.

On the way to his office, he checked on Alistair’s desk to see if he’d made any notes for tomorrow in order to avoid duplicating his work. A cursory glance through the papers scattered across the blotter indicated he had not. Duncan reminded himself to ask Alistair to keep a tidier workspace as he sat, put his coffee aside, and unearthed a blank tablet and pen to begin jotting down his thoughts. Alistair could add to the list when he came in.

There were a number of items that had to be done first thing in the morning. Hole changing, cutting tees and greens, raking bunkers, et cetera. He worked quickly knowing who his best people were and assigning the most critical work to them. He added a few jobs that he’d wanted to get at today but were unlikely to be completed in the time remaining. Each day was the same: arranging, rearranging. Sometimes he thought it required no more than a very skilled hand at juggling. Maintaining your cool while added demands were placed on you and unforeseen obstacles landed in your path. Today, for him, there had been a number of those. He could only imagine the pressure the manager of the Old Course at St. Andrews was dealing with.

Craig’s frustration had been evident from the moment he’d stepped out of his truck earlier that day. Duncan knew he too had worn that same expression of exasperation numerous times in any given summer. Hell, he thought, shaking his head, even a number of times on any given day. Whether you were at one of St. Andrews’ courses or almost any other, golfers, as a breed, demanded the best.

Duncan had lent Craig a sprayer after one of his own had broken. With only two more days until the Open, Craig had more than enough reason to feel the heat. "No guts, no glory," he’d responded when Duncan asked how he was holding up. Yet sometimes, the risks outweighed the benefits. A lesson Duncan had been forced to learn the hard way.

It was at that moment he remembered he’d neglected to ring Kirsty about dinner. He reached for the telephone but was instantly seized by a searing pain shooting up the length of his arm. His initial thought was that he’d somehow aggravated a pulled muscle. Yet as the pain tore into his chest, gripping his ribcage like a vice, his body tightened in reflex and the irrevocable fact that the cause was much more serious introduced an overwhelming fear. Though he knew there was no one around to hear, an instinctive cry for help escaped his mouth, the sound unintelligible. His life’s breath was being stolen from his lungs. The simplest of movements, arrested. With one hundred-ninety pounds spread over a muscular six foot frame, Duncan MacDougall had been rendered as weak as a kitten.

Already sweating profusely, he made another attempt. This time to grab his walkie-talkie. Fully aware that panicking wasn’t helping, he tried to force his brain to think. To focus. Press the button. All he had to do was press the button. He realized now that it was his heart. But how? If it was anything, it shouldn’t be that.

Duncan’s last few seconds were imbued with confusion. A memory on the periphery of his consciousness failed to crystallize. A connection he should have made about an event that occurred previously that day.

As the room faded to black, a hazy image began to form. But before the face of his betrayer registered, his body turned limp. Like a discarded marionette, he slumped back in Alistair’s chair.

* * *

At one o’clock, the greenkeeping staff began their fifteen minute afternoon break. Arriving at the shop, they entered from two opposing doors. Those arriving by foot typically entered through the front door, walked along a short passage to the main corridor and turned right toward the lunchroom. Those driving golf carts or machinery parked round the back of the building, entered the open double garage doors, passed by the equipment repair section, and went on through the swing door into the main corridor that led to the lunchroom. The exception was made by Daphne Balfour, Head Gardener.

Hoping to corral Duncan and take him back out to assess the garden beside the Club House, Daphne parked her golf cart out front by the main entrance. Her first goal, however, was to use the loo.

She went inside, down the passageway, and turned left into the locker-room, walking directly to the Ladies at the back. In her mind, she rehearsed the conversation she hoped to have with Duncan. Her nervousness was heightened by the knowledge that he’d more than likely throw a fit given that she had chosen to reopen the issue at this late date. But it would be more than worth it to Daphne if she got what she wanted. After all, if he’d have listened to her a week ago, she’d not have had to bother him about it now, would she. But when she’d first proposed a change to that garden, he’d wholeheartedly disagreed with her plans, citing the expense of redoing it in the middle of the high season. But what she was suggesting now would minimize cost while maximizing impact.

She rather liked the sound of that and thought Duncan would as well. He had to. She could do absolutely nothing without his approval to purchase the plant material. If he gave permission, she could buy it this afternoon, work late, and with the assistance of one other staff member have it completed this evening.

Journalists from the international media were set to play their humble course tomorrow. Barring a monsoon, the luncheon would be held on the patio which meant they’d be forced to stare at her dismal little plot all the while. Ferociously shaking the water from her hands after using the facilities, Daphne envisioned the headline that would appear in the papers the following day. Seton Hill: spectacular course, but gardens need work.

Hmmph, she told the distorted reflection in the cracked mirror. Over my dead body!

Ripping a paper towel from the metal dispenser, she dried her hands well before tucking a few coppery strands of hair back into her plait and smoothing out the collar of her green Seton Hill staff shirt. All set, she squared her shoulders, took two deep breaths, and re-focused her energy on passing for the calm, cool, and collected female she wished she were.

Following the main corridor to the lunchroom, she poked her head inside the doorway and called out casually to no one in particular, Anyone seen Duncan?

A few heads glanced over while the rest carried on chatting and eating. Try the walkie, suggested one of the older crew members helpfully. Probably in his office, commented another girl.

Thanks, she replied, deciding it was worth checking his office first. If he wasn’t in, she’d radio him or drive the course until she hunted him down. Leaving the lunchroom, she glanced through the window of the swing door into the garage on the off chance he was with the mechanic. He wasn’t.

She followed the corridor to Alistair’s office and saw his door standing open as it usually did. But Alistair was not inside. She walked through to the connecting door leading to Duncan’s office. Peering through the doorway, she was relieved to see him sitting in the chair behind his desk. He was alone. And since he was not on the phone or otherwise engaged, she stepped inside the office and spoke in her most confident tones.

Duncan, if you have a moment, I wanted to discuss the Club House patio garden with you. She waited for a reply before continuing with her spiel, but he made none.

Noting that his chair was turned away from the desk, something about his stillness struck her. It was odd to find Duncan unengaged in some activity or at least appearing to consider his next task. Instead, he was gazing up at the window. Involuntarily, she glanced in the same direction but discovered nothing other than the reason for the terminally dingy room. The glass was layered in grime, preventing any useful amount of natural light