Death of a Valentine - M. C. Beaton [52]
Hamish came in and exclaimed, “Poor lassie. You’re fair worn out.”
Josie, crouched outside the kitchen window, saw him lift Elspeth in his arms and carry her through to the bedroom.
She had recognised Elspeth Grant. She had seen her many nights on television. But surely she was no competition. She was going to marry that actor.
Josie stumbled back across the fields. Before she entered the manse, she took a tube of extra-strong mints out of her pocket and began to chew two of them so that Mrs. Wellington would not smell whisky on her breath.
Elspeth awoke the next morning and stared around in a dazed way. She threw back the bedclothes. She was wearing only her underwear. What on earth was she doing in Hamish’s bed?
Her skirt, blouse, and jacket were neatly arranged on a chair beside the bed. She took down Hamish’s dressing gown from a hook at the back of the bedroom door and went in search of him.
Hamish was in the kitchen, notes spread out in front of him. “Morning, Elspeth,” he said. “That must have been some drive. Sit down and I’ll make coffee.”
“I don’t know what happened, Hamish,” said Elspeth. “I helped myself to some of your whisky and then went out like a light.”
“Never mind. You never told me what brought you up here.” There was a tentative knock at the kitchen door. He opened it. Josie stood looking up at him and then past him to where Elspeth was sitting, wrapped in Hamish’s dressing gown. She tried to enter but he blocked her way.
“Take the day off, McSween,” he said. “I’ve got to go over my notes. I’ll phone you if there’s anything.”
The door was firmly shut in Josie’s face.
Josie craved a drink but did not want to buy too much whisky from Mr. Patel in case he gossiped. She got in her car and drove miserably off in the direction of Strathbane.
“So Elspeth,” Hamish was saying. “Out with it.”
She clutched the mug of coffee he had poured for her. “I had to get away from the press.”
“But you are the press. You’re a news presenter.”
“I’ve broken off my engagement. I wanted it all to be quiet but Paul Darby’s press agent got on to all the papers—I am sure with Paul’s encouragement. He’s very vain.”
“So why did you get engaged to him?”
“I was on holiday in the Maldives. All that sun and being away from work and having a handsome man to squire me around. Do you remember when I got jilted at the altar by that fellow?”
“Yes.”
“Well, from time to time, the papers drag that up. I suppose I wanted to show everyone that wee Elspeth Grant could do it. Paul’s a big heartthrob. Of course, he works in England and I work in Scotland, so we had snatched time together, which added to the romance. Then his filming on the soap was over for a bit and he came up and moved in with me. Do you know, Hamish, his cosmetics took up more shelf space than mine?”
“What, makeup?”
“No, lotions and hair tonic and fake tan and God knows what else. There was little room for my clothes because he has such an extensive wardrobe. He expected me to play wifie and have meals ready for him and I just didn’t have the time. I finally gave him back his ring. He tried to punch me so I tripped him up so that he fell on his bum. I told him if he ever laid a finger on me I’d call the police. He stormed off to see his press agent in London so I packed all his stuff up and left it with a neighbour, changed the locks, and left a note for him on the door. I had holiday time owing, so I just got in the car yesterday and drove straight to the Tommel Castle Hotel. I’d better beg Matthew not to put anything in the Highland Times or the press will follow me up here. They’ll find out soon enough, but I want a few days’ peace and quiet.”
“I’ll make us some breakfast but then I have to leave you, Elspeth. It’s this valentine murder. I have so many suspects,