Last Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 3) Read online

  “Who’s Sarah MacKenzie?” Warwick asked, the name still tickling the back of her brain.

  “She’s a professor at the University of Aberdeen,” Inspector Lindsey Benson answered. “And her cellular number was the last one our victim telephoned before he was murdered.”

  9. I Demand an Explanation

  Warwick’s expression didn’t change. She knew how to keep a poker face. But her stomach twinged. The name had sounded familiar, but when Warwick mentally linked murder with the university, it was another woman’s name that came to mind. Especially this type of murder.

  “Can you describe again,” she asked her colleague from Edinburgh, “how the body was found? I don’t think I was listening as closely as I should have done.”

  Cameron raised an eyebrow at her. They’d been working together long enough for him to note the rarity of the admission—or the need for it.

  Benson nodded. It was a strange enough murder. Warwick knew that Benson had likely had to explain it more than once to more than one person.

  “The body was found in a bathtub, face up. He’d suffered blunt force trauma to the back of his head and there was blood everywhere.”

  “And this was at a hotel?” Warwick confirmed.

  “Right,” Benson answered. “The Hotel Regency. The room was rented to a ‘Devan Sinclair.’”

  Warwick was pretty sure her poker face cracked slightly at that name. She covered it with a quick cough.

  “We’re still trying to track him down,” Benson offered. “His last known address was Aberdeen, so perhaps you can help with that as well.”

  “I’m sure we can,” Cameron assured.

  Warwick pushed back to the crime scene. “How do you know the dead man wasn’t this Devan Sinclair?”

  “His driver’s license, for starters,” Benson explained. “Derek Peabody of Vancouver, Canada. Plus, one of the maids said she had a brief conversation with him in the lobby. He said he was Canadian, and had the accent to match. Said he’d come to Scotland to work, but she couldn’t remember as what. Something dry and boring, she said.”

  “How’d she recognize him?” Warwick asked. “You didn’t bring her to the room, did you?”

  “Oh, good Lord, no,” Benson insisted. “That’s no place for civilians. Apart from contaminating the scene, I’m not going to burn that into some cleaning girl’s memory forever. No, we showed her a photo the coroner took. After they’d cleaned off the blood, and removed that blasted stone.”

  Warwick heart dropped. “Stone? What stone?”

  Benson tapped her chin. “That was the strangest part. The killer placed a small, flat stone on the victim’s face—right across the bridge of his nose.”

  Warwick closed her eyes. It was happening again.

  “Actually, no.” Benson corrected herself. “That wasn’t the strangest part. The strangest part was his spine.”

  “His spine?” Cameron asked. “What about his spine?”

  Benson raised an eyebrow. “It was gone.”

  *

  Time to show some backbone, Maggie told herself as she locked the door to the Ancient Book Collection behind her and marched toward the surface. It was one thing for Sarah to have lied to her to gain her sympathy for some twisted cause. It was quite another to poke her in the eye with the fact that she knew Maggie’s secret.

  Professor Sarah MacKenzie had some explaining to do.

  But Maggie was so wrapped up in her righteous indignation that she failed to notice the pair of unpleasantly large feet jutting out from between two of the narrow bookshelves on level B-3. She tripped over them and landed in an even more indignant heap. And with a loud, “Ouch!”

  “Watch where you’re going there, lad,” said a voice from within the bookshelves. The feet recoiled between the shelves and a moment later their owner stepped out to confront her. “You nearly scuffed up my new boots.”

  Maggie had managed to roll onto her backside, and found herself looking up at the large-footed man. The rest of him was equally unpleasant. He was a bit too tall, and definitely too thin. The skin on his arms seemed to be stretched directly over the bone, with no fat or muscle between. Thick black hair stuck to his head, combed forward from the crown, most likely with his fingers. He wore glasses that were too large and covered in smudges, as were his clothes. She was pretty sure she grimaced when she saw him. But he smiled.

  “Oh,” he said, exposing a nubby row of surprisingly small teeth, “you’re not a lad.”

  She added a sneer to the grimace. “No,” she replied, pulling herself to her feet. “I’m not. How smart of you to notice. You must be a student here.”

  His nubby smile fairly exploded. “You’re an American!”

  It sounded like an accusation. She almost went with the ‘Canadian’ line again, but thought better of it. Instead she stayed with snarky. “Brilliant, professor. How do you do it?”

  “An American lass trips over my feet,” the too-tall man said to no one in particular. “And a pretty one at that. How lucky can a lad get?”

  You’re not getting lucky with me, Maggie thought. “I’m going to go now,” she announced.

  He ignored her threat. “I’m Stuart.” He stuck out his hand. “Stuart Menzies. I’m a student here at the college.”

  Maggie regarded the hand. It was strangely small compared to the lanky frame and large feet. After a moment’s revulsion, she relented and shook it. It was clammy.

  “Maggie Devereaux,” she managed to say. “I’m a student here too.”

  “Are you then?” Stuart didn’t let go of her hand. She had to pull it out, which wasn’t hard given the dampness of his palm. He held up a book. The cover read ‘The Unabridged History of Science.’ “You don’t study science by any chance, do you?”

  “Afraid not,” Maggie was relieved to say. She’d feared he was another languages student. God forbid she ever run into him again. She turned to leave. “Bye.”

  Stuart lowered his book. “Oh. Right, then. Okay, well, bye, Maggie Devereaux, pretty American student. I’ll see you around then, shall I?”

  “Not if I see you first,” she muttered under her breath as she hurried to the stairway that led back up to the main hall.

  She barely managed a perfunctory nod to the woman behind the circulation desk on her way out of the building. Easily pushing thoughts of Stuart Menzies out of her head, she strode purposefully toward the Taylor Building, home of the college’s modern language programs. More importantly, it was home to the offices of the professors in the college’s modern language programs. Most importantly, it was home to Sarah MacKenzie’s office.

  She yanked open the outer doors and stormed up the steps, not even thinking to look at the reader board to see whether they’d replaced all the missing ‘i’s yet. She knew where MacKenzie’s office was. She knew what MacKenzie was doing. She knew exactly what she was going to say to her.

  But when she got the office, she had absolutely no idea who the dashing young man inside was.

  “Hello,” he said when he noticed her, standing slack-jawed in the doorway. “Can I help you?”

  He was tall, but not too tall, with sandy brown hair, dark sideburns, and an obviously athletic body hidden under a casually professional button-up shirt and khakis. His accent was like hers.

  “You’re, you’re not Sarah MacKenzie,” Maggie observed.

  The dashing young man laughed, but kindly. “No, I’m definitely not.” He extended his hand. “I’m Philip Harmon. I’m a visiting professor from the University of British Columbia in Vancouver, Canada.”

  Maggie took his hand. It was soft but strong. The hand of an academic, but a confident one.

  “Maggie,” she managed to reply. “Maggie Devereux.”

  He’d noticed her accent of course. “Are you Canadian too?”

  Maggie smiled as she appraised Philip Harmon’s high cheek bones and deep brown eyes. “Sure.”

  *

  “Totally spineless?” Warwick asked incredulously.


  “No, not totally,” Benson clarified. “It looked that way at the scene, but once we got the body to the morgue, the coroner was able to take a compete inventory. There were seven vertebrae missing, basically everything below his rib-cage.”

  “It’s symbolic,” Warwick opined.

  “You think so?” Benson questioned.

  “Clearly. It’s the base of his spine. The backbone. The strongest part of something. When you build something, you talk about constructing its backbone first, then adding on.”

  “So what are they building?” Benson asked.

  “I don’t know,” Warwick admitted. “But there’s another question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why this man? Was he important, particular? Or was he just a random victim? If so, why pick a healthy man in the prime of his life? He’d be the last person to target if you wanted to kill just anyone. Too much ability to fight back.”

  Benson nodded. “You’re right. He was chosen specifically.”

  “So,” Warwick said, “we need to find out what’s so special about a young Canadian man who’d come to Scotland to work in a dry and boring field.”

  *

  Philip laughed again. “‘Sure’?” he questioned.

  Maggie shook off her bedazzlement. “Uh, right. I mean, no. Not Canadian. American. But I’m from Seattle, so that’s pretty close to Canada.”

  “Very close,” Philip agreed. Maggie noticed they were still holding hands. “Practically neighbors.”

  Maggie smiled as their hands finally parted.

  “So, are you a visiting professor too?” he asked.

  Maggie felt a blush and she looked down. “No, I’m just a student.”

  Philip shook his head. “There’s no such thing as just a student. We’re all students, all our lives.”

  Maggie looked up and smiled.

  Philip raised an appraising eyebrow. “Besides, I’d wager you’ll be a professor soon enough.”

  Maggie’s blush deepened. She shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe.”

  “So did you just arrive in Aberdeen too?”

  “Uh, no,” she felt proud to answer. “I’ve been here a year already.”

  And what a year! she thought.

  “Well, then you are the master and I am the pupil,” Philip said. He folded his laptop closed and pushed it to the back of his desk, then gestured toward the hallway and what lay beyond. “I haven’t had a chance to tour the campus yet. Would you be willing to educate a neighbor a bit about the local scenery?”

  Maggie smiled and appraised the scenery herself.

  “Absolutely.”

  *

  “Absolutely no leads on the killer though,” Benson frowned. “Except for this one clue.”

  She reached into her pocket and extracted a plastic bag. It was sealed at the top with red evidence tape, but the baggie was clear and the contents were quite visible.

  Inside was a single piece of jewelry: a silver pendant of the crest of the Clan Innes, with its boar’s head and motto, ‘Be Traist.’

  “We find the owner of this,” Benson posited, “and I wager we’ve found our killer.”

  10. Hanging Propositions

  After a brief tour of the campus buildings closest to Taylor, Maggie took Philip to her favorite coffee shop. Well, one of them anyway. The one closest to campus, for when she needed a quick boost before a night of library-dwelling.

  “My treat,” she insisted as they stepped inside. The trust fund from her grandmother was in good shape. She hadn’t gotten around to investing any of it, which had turned out to be a good thing in light of recent financial events. Her principal was intact.

  Philip started to protest, but elected to turn conflict into opportunity. “Fine. But next time, I buy.”

  Maggie smiled. ‘Next time.’ She liked the sound of that. “Deal.”

  Despite a year in Scotland, she was still a Seattle girl, and often eschewed tea for a good, strong cup of coffee. Especially at mid-morning when she needed a bit of energy. She was pleased to see her North American colleague followed suit.

  “Tea is fine,” he said as he ordered a large black coffee, “but living in Vancouver, you need coffee to get through the winter.”

  “Ah, yes. The Northwest rainy season,” Maggie joked as they found a table in the corner. “September through June.”

  Philip laughed. “Exactly. Although I suppose the weather is similar here in Scotland?”

  Maggie shrugged. “A bit. It rains plenty, but the winter seems dryer and colder than Seattle. It usually snows, I think.”

  Philip nodded and smiled at her over his ceramic cup. “Well, that’s one more thing to look forward to this year.”

  Maggie enjoyed his smile, and the suggestion behind his comment. But there was a problem, she knew. “So, you’re a professor.”

  She couldn’t date a professor.

  “Er, yes,” Philip stammered. He knew the rules too, of course. “Just visiting this year.” As if that mattered. It didn’t. Not if she took any classes from him, anyway.

  “What will you be teaching?” Maggie asked as she sipped from her still scalding beverage.

  Philip raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “I’m not sure actually,” he admitted. “My specialty is dialect variations in Old Gaelic, but—”

  Maggie sat forward. “Excuse me. What did you just say?”

  Philip offered a surprised smile. “Um, my specialty is dialect variations in Old Gaelic. Especially non-traditional orthographic mutations. Why?”

  Why? Maggie repeated in her head, staring at the handsome young academic with the shared interest. But who was, nevertheless, a professor and therefore off-limits. Why indeed?

  “Oh, it’s just, that’s kind of my area of interest too.”

  “Really?” Philip leaned forward on to the table as well. Their faces were only a foot or two apart. “You know, I saw a brochure in my new office about a conference next month dealing exclusively with Old Gaelic language and literature. The keynote speaker is Professor Robert Hamilton of the University of Edinburgh. Are you familiar with him? I really admire his work.”

  Wow. Maggie was about to reply, ‘Oh, yes,’ and enthuse about Hamilton’s theory of a lost dialect of Old Gaelic used for religious ceremonies. She might even have let her guard down a bit too much and suggested she not only agreed with him, but had stumbled upon actual source material. There was something about those brown eyes across the table from her. Something about being in the company of a kindred soul. An academic, with shared interests, from her part of the world. Her defenses were melting. She could practically feel it. Luckily, before she could say too much—or say anything at all, for that matter—her friend Ellen Walker burst onto the scene.

  “Maggie!” she shouted from the entrance door, still ajar against her back heel. “There you are!”

  She rushed over to Maggie and Philip’s table, although she seemed oblivious to Maggie’s companion. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick. I talked to Iain and—”

  “Hello, Ellen,” Maggie quickly interrupted. She gestured across the table. “This is Philip Harmon. He’s teaching at the college this year.”

  Ellen finally turned to the other person at the table. “Oh. Um. Right.” She smiled, but only slightly, so her strong teeth were mostly hidden behind her still processing expression. “Hello.”

  “Hello,” Philip replied cordially. “It’s nice to meet you.” Then he turned to Maggie. “Have you been missing lately?”

  Maggie pasted a smile on her face. “Oh, no. Of course not. I’m sure I’ve been exactly where I was supposed to be. Wherever that might have been.”

  Philip grinned at the cryptic comment. Ellen’s smile broadened. She offered a wink to the professor. “Our Maggie’s a wee bit mysterious.”

  “Is that right?” Philip asked, narrowing his gaze to his coffee companion.

  Maggie’s own smile tightened. “Ellen…”

  Philip took a casual sip of
his coffee. Keeping his eyes downcast, he asked, “Who’s Iain?”

  Ellen took in a breath to start her own explanation, but Maggie spoke first. “No one,” she assured. “He’s no one.”

  Ellen looked askance at Maggie. So Maggie changed the subject. “Professor Harmon’s specialty is lost dialects of Old Gaelic.”

  Ellen’s expression was duly impressed. She knew that was Maggie’s dissertation topic. “Is that right? So will you be teaching courses on that this year? I know a lass who’d love to study under you, so to speak. Sit right in the front row, she would.”

  Maggie closed her eyes and looked away. She decided to count to ten before she said anything else. In Gaelic, of course.

  A h-aon, a dhà, a trì …

  Philip was polite enough to ignore the suggestiveness of Ellen’s comments. “Yes, well, I’m not entirely sure yet what I’ll be teaching. There’s been a change of plan apparently.”

  Maggie opened her eyes. She hadn’t reached a deich, but there was something in how Philip had said that. “Change of plan?” she asked.

  Philip nodded. “Yes. It’s kind of a long story, but apparently I’m going to be taking on some courses previously taught by a Professor MacKenzie.”

  Maggie’s raised eyebrows were more than trumped by Ellen’s loud gasp. Maggie remembered that she’d found Philip in Sarah’s office. She’d been so taken by the sight of him, she’d forgotten all about MacKenzie.

  “Sarah MacKenzie?” Maggie confirmed.

  “Yes, I believe that was it,” Philip answered. “They told me they needed me to take over most of her classes, but they didn’t say why.”

  “They didn’t even tell you?” Ellen practically shouted.

  “No,” Philip replied. “Tell me what?”