Murder in the Orkneys: The Daisy Day Mysteries

CHAPTER 1

Bumbling fools!

Send an inferior in, and these are the results you get. All the better that I caught the first plane out. A red eye. Everyone knows how much I hate those. But if nothing else, I’d arrived in time to secure a table at the front of the restaurant right out of view. It helped to frequent the place. Drop a load of cash here and there. It always secured their silence. From all the correspondence between my understudy and the hotel staff, the predictability of the understudy’s daily routine went like clockwork.

I rubbed at my arms and shivered with pleasure. How I loved to see my proteges squirm. The flow of adrenaline thrummed through my veins each time they saw a glimpse of me. The dilated pupils, the fidgeting hands, the perspiration that broke out upon their brow… It never grew old. And why shouldn’t they squirm? I paid them well enough. All they had to do was take the most valuable artifacts that would sell for the highest bid. For that, they’d receive gobs of money. Why, pray tell, did they always foul it up? I should have known it would fail like all the others. They became too big for their britches. The goal remained with stealing the antiquities. No one needed to die. That was rule number one. Except, of course, if a bystander came too close to the truth. Or if they disappointed me.

I sighed heavily at the last round of deaths. The good doctor wasn’t the first, and with the eager beavers I’d hired as of late, his wouldn’t be the last either. A pity, really. He proved useful on more than one occasion, never mind that he was oblivious to the plan. All the more reason to keep him alive. But this find… It was different. When the protege informed me that he’d caught on to what we’d been doing, I’d convinced them to buy his silence. Why couldn’t he have looked the other way? The sum would have set him and his descendants up for life. No matter, I had no choice. Rule number two: take out any obstacles.

Ah… how the proteges fidget when they sense they’re being watched. The nervous glances, the dropped fork…

But you won’t find me, pretty one. I’m too clever. Your time is almost up. The hair-brained scheme, which you insisted would work, failed and cost me money. No one takes my money. Nobody.

No matter. I’d handle it. Back-stabbing wench would get what was coming.

I sucked in a breath and forced my sights on my plate. The red faces and agitated voices of my protege and her play toy had piqued the staff’s interest, but not enough for one of them to interrupt.

I inwardly chastised myself. Now who was being the fool? I must stay focused. To pull off this feat, I needed to appear a bystander, then slip out the front and catch the first flight out. Easy peasy. I’d done it several times before. Of course, the video of the gruesome death would be emailed right after it happened.

I couldn’t help to chuckle at the thought. I’d watch it in private, sipping on champagne and eating chocolate covered strawberries. Not exactly my favorite, but considering the circumstances, it was a proper sendoff.

The understudy was raising her voice again. Nasty little wench. Though, in due time, her silence would be guaranteed. That 100-pound bribe I’d given the wait staff when I’d walked in was a stroke of genius. What was better was they believed it. The idiots. Who agrees to substitute a dessert brought in from outside the restaurant? Fools. All of them. But perhaps the understudy’s ability to incense anyone in life, including that one nun in Italy, actually worked in my favor. Not surprising the staff relaxed the rules this one time.

What was next for my protege? A double serving of anaphylaxis, that’s what. They all knew not to promise me the moon and come up short. The arrogance of it all. How I’d love to see that smirk turn to terror when the life was all but sucked out. Thinking they would outwit me was their fatal flaw. That deserved its own special trip to an everlasting sleep. The best part was no one would suspect foul play even if the staff remembered the substitution. Playing the love-struck partner would secure my innocence, and if that didn’t, then my disguise would. On the off chance someone placed me, I’d taken care of that too. It was true that money corrupted most souls, especially the arrogant. Now all I had to do was sit and wait. The little darling would soon learn what it meant to try to sell these artifacts behind my back.

I scrolled through my texts and wondered when the wheezing would kick in. Five minutes? Ten? I’d replaced the EpiPen with a dud earlier. No chance of living through it this time. Practice makes perfect, and that misfortune taught me a valuable lesson. Always think through the plan a minimum of three times. Practice runs make them almost foolproof. Almost. It did endear my little protege to me when I’d rescued her on the last occasion, making it all the easier to strike now. They always let their guard down around me. It only required a staged rescue at the beginning of their tenure working for me, and if I ever needed to send them packing…

The other lesson learned included not leaving my bag unattended for any reason. Never trust anyone. That was what Father repeatedly said. To prove his point, he’d tried to kill me seven times. On the eighth attempt, I’d switched the glasses. The utter shock in his eyes when his plot failed and he’d realized his mistake still made me giddy. It didn’t take much to convince his bodyguards to change allegiance. Treat the underlings with respect, give them a treat now and again, and they’d be your friend for life. That was rule number three.

The raised voice drove me to steal a look over the brim of my menu. The commotion caused stolen glances of alarm on anyone who paid attention and didn’t stick their noses into their scones and butter.

Poor little anthropologist. From her wide eyes and pale face, I’d say she’d had about enough. A pity she’d been sucked into this mayhem. Unfortunately, she had asked too many questions, not unlike the good doctor. We must handle her next or risk her toppling the entire organization. But who could I pay to clean up this mess? Ah, I know…

CHAPTER 2

Bones don’t lie. At least that’s what I’ve learned in my years of study. Anthropology, ranked number one on my list of loves much to my sister’s chagrin, ruled over every waking hour. To watch the brown water swirl down the drain after washing ancient, brittle bones that had been buried centuries ago, or even thousands of years, took my breath away. The lost secrets, the burdens they faced, they all showed up in what I could fit in the palm of my hand. They all had a name. Someone’s husband, father, wife, daughter… friend. From warrior to weaver, they all told a tale if I looked closely enough at the signs. I’d often sit on my windowsill late into the night, stifling yawns, sucking down cups of espresso, and imagined their lives. From the pelvic remains of a 19-year-old female to a man in his late thirties with bone spurs along the length of the spine, and vertebral cracks suggesting a life of burden, gave me pause and speculation over what they looked like, who their loved ones were, and even going so far as wondering whether they were happy.

My sister Laura thought me crazy for thinking of such things. She’d say, Keep it up, and I’ll be prescribing you antidepressants soon. That’ll drive anybody mad.

My sister, the surgeon, the wife, the mother, and all-around fierce protector of the ill, needy, and downtrodden, liked to let everyone think she was this strong, independent person, who seldom gave two seconds about what anyone thought of her, but I knew better. Underneath the confident exterior lay a woman with unfulfilled dreams and a life of regrets. Laura’s feelings were easily bruised, and I’d witnessed on more than one occasion her sink her head into her hands and wail like a wounded animal on the verge of death. The sobs punctured my heart, but I dared not make my presence known. Once I’d been foolish to rush in, trying to console her, but she’d run me out with a stern scolding of not to snoop anymore. After that, I watched from afar and would poke around in our later conversations, but rarely extracted any valuable information to help her. But that’s Laura.

Maybe she’d been right about the snooping part though. I’d had a knack for sticking my nose in when I shouldn’t. Known as No Surprise Didi, no one ever gave me a present that I hadn’t figured out either by sneaking around or tricking someone into telling me. But it was in good fun, and nobody got hurt. Never did I believe that my career, my safety, or my life would be threatened by some ancient bones either until that fateful day a week ago.

I shuddered to think about it. How close I’d come.

The frightening truth stared me in the face, and my actions and thoughts had surprised me. How far would I go for science? For truth and justice? The questions I asked myself remained: What if these fateful bones spoke of a secret? What if that secret threatened to topple the construct of well-meaning scientists too bent on following the status quo? What if that discovered knowledge rained chaos and murder upon my colleagues or those closest to me? Would I still pursue it for the sake of science? For justice?

A week ago I would have laughed it off, naïve to the danger that lurked amongst those nearest to me, but now… Now I believed in darkness, corruption, and the certainty that death followed me like a shadow, ready to pounce when I least expected it.

Just a minute, I mumbled to some students hovering by my office door. I’d forgotten to shut it when I swooped in, needing a few minutes to breathe and stuff a half-eaten ham and cheese sandwich I’d bought from the vending machine outside the main campus cafeteria into my mouth. I rarely ate such things, but this morning I had left my bagged lunch on the kitchen counter in my haste to make it to class on time and needed to stop the gurgling of my stomach. It was bad enough that the students overheard it, but today of all days, the dean of anthropology decided to observe me, and I caught a few raised brows during the hour lecture. The man had it out for me ever since I had studied here at Massachusetts College, and his dislike of me had only grown over the last couple of years.

I waved the first pupil in and muted my computer, which was streaming the latest news, and flopped into my seat, biting off one end of the plastic-tasting sandwich. I tried not to gag on the slimy meat and focused on the bright-eyed woman standing in front of me.

What can I help you with, Nara? I unscrewed my bottled water and sucked down half of it, hoping this Monday would turn out better than most, but from the line forming behind her, I’d say that chance ranked with winning the lottery.

Professor Day—

I waved her off and re-screwed on the cap to my water, catching sight of esteemed anthropologist Dr. Dru Pinnick on my computer screen. Please, call me Didi.

Nara’s cheeks flushed. Didi, I have a question about the last quiz grade. She fumbled through her backpack and handed over the latest essay project I’d graded. These days I taught Anthropology 101, seeing that I was the newest staff member. Sometimes I got eager students ready for a career in my beloved field, but mostly the undergraduates were satisfying a general education requirement. This made grading dull, considering most barely skimmed the surface of the subject, slapping down a half-hearted attempt, but I didn’t care. As long as I got to work in my field, it was lollipops and roses to the law career my sister had pressured me to study.

Nara stood erect, her straight black hair highlighting her bronze skin. Turbulent cocoa-colored eyes stared at me. I looked at the red-inked A- on the upper right corner of the paper.

What did I do wrong? Frustration tinged with sadness was reflected in her tone.

I jerked my head back in surprise. Nothing. An ‘A-‘ is an incredible grade.

If it’s incredible, then why not an A?

Nara, I dropped my sandwich into the plastic container and sat up straighter in my chair, what’s going on? You have never reacted this pent up about an A- before. I gestured to the seat in front of my desk and she slumped into it. Spring finals were around the corner and the undergraduates’ anxiety levels skyrocketed to astronomic proportions.

If I keep getting grades like this, I’ll never keep my full ride scholarship.

I furrowed my brow, wondering what type of scholarship dropped students receiving A- work.

Let’s see if we can figure this out. Please explain.

Nara swiped a tissue from my desk and blew into it, dabbing at her eyes once finished. I’m doing well in all of my other classes, except physics. Dr. Fitzgerald refuses to grade by the curve, and right now I sit at a fifty-nine percent average in his class. He keeps telling me that I haven’t tried hard enough, but I’ve asked him on numerous occasions for extra homework, grilled him on the test questions that I got wrong, and yet he still says I’m not applying myself. Nara sniffled.

Dr. Fitzgerald is a tough professor. Might I ask why you chose physics? It’s not required for a major in anthropology or archaeology.

Nara was one of the rare gems. She’d make a great anthropologist someday if the archaeology department failed to persuade her down their path first, and I wasn’t about to let that happen. Though truth be told, both professions worked side-by-side, and either path would overlap. Still, I hated to lose a bright mind like hers.

My father wouldn’t pay for my apartment if I didn’t. He’s determined that I’ll be better off in the health field.

Ah, been there done that. My sister, doctor extraordinaire, pushed me hard in the beginning too. Though she eventually acquiesced, I heard it every holiday dinner how much of a waste of brainpower I spent over the dead. How could I help someone that had died hundreds or thousands of years ago? But she didn’t understand. Never had. Laura thrived on saving people on the verge of death. Long hours, cold coffee, and sleepless nights invigorated her, but to me, it was wasted energy. Digging up bones and discovering their untold stories brought them back to life. Those people lived on well after death. Laura never saw eye to eye with me on it. Nara’s well-intentioned father was doing the same.

I see. You are in quite the conundrum, but try not to worry. Let me talk with Dr. Fitzgerald and see what I can do.

Nara clasped her hands together against her chest, her face shining. Really? You’d do that for me? Oh, profess—I mean, Didi, thank you so much. She hopped up from her seat, pumped my hand, and dashed for the door. I knew I could count on you.

The smoky scent of cumin mixed with the sweetness of cinnamon lingered after she left. I slumped into the wooden slats of my antique chair and rubbed my fingertips along the bridge of my nose. What had I gotten myself into? Dr. Fitzgerald, the snobby physicist known to quote Einstein’s theory of relativity to his plants, was not one for bending the rules. On several occasions, I’d witnessed students run from his lectures, tears welling in their eyes. The last time we’d spoken about the end-of-year party refreshments he’d signed up for, he’d glared down his crooked nose at me and scoffed, sending me halfway scampering down the corridor to my office. If looks could kill, I’d be a dead woman walking. Apparently, his assistant took care of all those matters. Even though I was an assistant professor in my own right, he still treated me like a pesky student.

Dr. Dru Pinnick’s picture popped up on my computer. I leaned closer and turned up the volume, growing more concerned. The words renowned anthropologist and dead sent shock waves through my body.

"…family has been notified of the esteemed professor’s death. An autopsy is scheduled later this week, but according to local authorities he died from blunt force trauma to the head, probably from a fall at his current dig site in Scotland. Dr. Pinnick was 52 years old."

The line grew outside my doorway, but they faded into near oblivion. Dr. Pinnick was not only my mentor’s field partner, but his best friend. The two had gone on multiple excavations together, and the stories they told of their past finds instilled a fire in my belly to join them on their next adventures and partake of the excitement they spoke of with such reverie.

I glanced at my phone laying on the desktop by my computer, noting the text he’d sent. Was it his last?

The tap on my opened door shifted my attention to the young man standing at my threshold, paper in hand, backpack slung over his broad shoulder with an expectant look at me. The gelatinous sandwich bite I’d forced down threatened to make a reappearance. A quick glance at my watch indicated office hours lasted another forty-five minutes. Crap. But if I crammed them all in, then I could cancel my afternoon classes and find my mentor, Dr. Gates. I hope he didn’t receive the news the same way I did. Shudders worked down my spine at the thought.

I cracked my knuckles and squared my shoulders, ready to hasten the onslaught of students, when my phone rang.

Hang on a second, I called out to the lanky guy tall enough to be a basketball center. He halted by my office door in mid-stride while I picked up the phone.

Professor Day’s office. I liked answering in the third person. It lent me an air of importance, like I had sufficient clout for an assistant or office manager, but it was also a failsafe. If I didn’t like the request or person calling, then I told them that I’d take a message and they’d be none the wiser. Although, it didn’t always work. My sister had a bad habit of phoning, and she knew my voice better than anyone, even if I did disguise it.

"Professor Day, it’s Ross Foster here. When can we expect an answer?"

The timbre of his speech sounded agitated, but I was stumped. The name Ross Foster failed to ring any bells. Within a few keystrokes, I brought up my class rosters on the computer and scanned the lists, but no such person appeared. Perhaps he was auditing. Apparently lots of students were upset over their latest essay grades if the never-ending line forming outside my office was any indication. Too many anxious faces, and a ton of other grading to do, plus the need to check on Dr. Gates. I needed to end this call or I’d pull another all-nighter.

Listen, I don’t have time to discuss papers or grades over the phone. Please either speak to me after class or visit during my office hours.

I was about to hang up when I heard a frantic, "Wait! Stifling a sigh, I pressed the receiver back to my ear. Yes?"

"There’s been some misunderstanding. My name is Ross Foster, and I work for Kimberly LeClaire. Someone recommended you for a dig that we’re currently working on. Ms. LeClaire sent you an e-mail several days ago, and I’m following up. If you don’t want it, then I’ll contact the next person on our list."

A dig?

I sat up straighter in my chair and brought up my work e-mail, ignoring the male student who’d cleared his throat in irritation. I rarely checked university e-mail, except for end of semester stuff the dean sent out. My inbox held over a thousand unopened messages, mostly advertisements for local bars or restaurants. Since he mentioned it was rather recent, I scrolled back and found the email sent from Kimberly LeClaire, with the words TIME SENSITIVE in the subject line. I swallowed hard. The sender? Kimberly LeClaire.

Uh, yep, I got it, I squeaked and slapped my hand against my forehead. As first impressions go, I’d failed miserably. But there was a chance I could salvage this. An assignment for anything at this point in my career was a miracle, and I wasn’t about to let this opportunity slip away. Out of curiosity, would you mind telling me when I’ll be needed?

"I’m sure Kimberly included that in the e-mail, but as quickly as possible. We can book your flight for tomorrow morning."

I chuckled nervously. That soon, huh?

"Is that a problem, Professor Day? We can call Professor Bernard—"

No! I practically shouted into the receiver, drawing an arched brow from the student leaning against my doorframe. That won’t be necessary. Tomorrow morning is great.

"Good. Check your e-mail for your itinerary. Oh, and welcome aboard."

The line went dead, and I absentmindedly placed the phone back on its base. A dig? This was the best thing that had happened to me in quite a while. Actually, pretty much ever. The euphoria deflated when the squeak of sneakers interrupted my reverie. I looked up at the lanky kid, acutely aware of the time with a heavy heart.

Um, sorry. I hopped up and rounded the desk, pushing him out of the room and closing the door in the poor kid’s face. Office hours are over for the day. If you have a problem with your grade, e-mail me. I yanked the cord, closing the blinds, and sank against the door. There was so much to do and to process, but first things first.

I whipped out my cell and within one ring, his booming voice greeted me. I imagined the jolly mirth that swam upon his face when he recognized a former student, friend, or really just anyone. With his fluffy white beard and sparkling eyes, he comforted everyone with his offhanded jokes, the occasional high-five, and the ever-ready tissue when a less than anticipated grade was received. The man was a walking, talking, 365 day a year St. Nick.

"Didi, my dear, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Dr. Gates, my mouth went dry, the news… Dr. Pinnick… I got a call… this guy… there’s a dig… it’s actually happening. My thoughts raced, and I didn’t know where to begin.

A humorous chuckle greeted my ear, and I imagined his rosy cheeks and bushy white beard wiggling in his mirth.

"Slow down, Didi. I imagine Kimberly LeClaire has something to do with your