Page 9 of Death at a Scottish Halloween

Because even though he has a very hard head, he’s a gentleman.

I took off the makeup and put on my favorite pajamas that had pictures of a cat drinking coffee. Mara had given them to me for my birthday.

As I plugged in my phone beside my bed, I opened it again. I’d taken a few pictures as I’d been examining the body.

Something I’d been wondering about bugged me.

The angle of the knife was downward, which meant the assailant was probably as tall, if not taller than Duncan. He was well over six-foot three.

I closed my eyes and tried to think back to the many visitors we’d had throughout the night at the haunted house. But there had been far too many for me to remember much. Most of them had been dressed in some sort of costume.

The stories Baird had told us about the rig spun through my mind.

Who had Duncan made mad enough to murder him?

I was determined to find the answer.

Chapter Three

The next morning, I showered quickly. Then I threw on some jeans and a sweater. The house was chilly, and I realized I’d forgotten to turn on the heat before I went to bed.

Downstairs, I made myself an espresso, to jolt my brain awake. Normally, I’d head down to the pub for breakfast, but Abigail had texted she’d made her blueberry scones.

I’d just sat down at the kitchen table, when she and Tommy came in through the back door.

“Morning, Doc,” she said.

“Good morning. You two are here early.”

She grinned. “Tommy was up with the sun. We actually waited a bit to come down, so we didn’t wake you up.”

“Scones,” Tommy said. Then he sat down across from me.

“I heard,” I said.

“Your favorite,” he said.

“True. Did you have fun with Henry last night?”

Tommy, who had turned twenty recently, cocked his head. “Yes.” No need to expound, I appreciated his succinctness.

Abigail put the pastry box on the table, along with clotted cream and jam she’d most likely made.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” I said.

“I was in the mood for scones. Just as easy to make my own than to buy.”

“For you, maybe.” I was not a baker or cook. I barely knew how to boil water on the AGA in my kitchen. Though I’d become a pro at heating up pizza.

She grinned.

Before I’d put jam on my first scone, Tommy was done with two. “Garden,” he said.

Abigail let him out of the booth, and he headed to the garden.

“I have a favor to ask you,” I said.

She frowned. “Anything.”