The dead old man wore a green parka, mostly dry. His eyes were open, glassy and tinged red from broken blood vessels. His mouth gaping, a glob of dried spit on his chin.
“Any of you seen him before?” Oliver asked.
Each shook her head no.
“Just what we need. Another fucking body.” What remained of his chaotic rage narrowed to a pinpoint of focused anger, spurring him to action. Oliver knelt beside the man and pulled down the collar of the plaid shirt underneath the parka. A red-purple ring circled his neck, but whatever had been used to strangle him had been taken away. Oliver placed the back of his hand against the man’s cheek.
“He’s cold.” He lifted the arm and set it back down. “But not stiff. And he doesn’t smell. So rigor mortis hasn’t set in yet. He’s been dead less than two or three hours.”
“And what makes you a forensics expert all of a sudden?” The waver in Lorna’s voice belied the courage in her words.
“Mum watches a lot of Forensic Files. Like, a shit ton.”
“He’s right,” Ellie said. “My daughter was studying the stages of decomposition for her GCSEs. Jilly was asking her tutor all sorts of morbid questions.”
Oliver checked the man’s pockets but found no keys. There was, however, a driving license.
“Dugal MacLeod,” he read.
“Caskie’s missing caretaker?” Lorna asked.
“Not missing anymore. His jeans are damp. It can’t have been that long ago that he was outside.” Not wanting to touch the dead man again, he tossed the ID onto the floor.
“Caskie seemed genuinely angry yesterday that the caretaker wasn’t here,” Lorna said. “What if he’s innocent after all? He left like we thought and MacLeod came back here to take care of us for the weekend.”
“The fire,” Ellie said. “Mr. MacLeod must’ve relit the fire this morning. And why would he do that unless he really was here to look after us and the house?”
“This where you found him?” Oliver pointed to the open room beside them.
“He fell out,” Ellie said. “He just . . . fell out when the door was opened.”
What might have once been an office now served as a large storage area. Cardboard and plastic boxes. Mops and buckets. Tins of paint. Bins. There was another door on the opposite side of the room. Oliver tried to open it, but it was locked. He left the junk room and returned to the others, who had started arguing.
“Maybe Hollis killed him?” Ellie asked. “Or he and Hollis killed each other?”
Lorna shook her head. “And then what? Hollis staggers up the stairs with half his head missing, somehow not leaving any blood trail? Then places a note card on his own chest—again without leaving any blood on it—before he dies?”
“There’s only one thing we can be certain of,” Oliver said. “If Hollis killed MacLeod, then someone else killed Hollis. And if it was MacLeod who killed Hollis, then someone else killed MacLeod.”
“Either way,” Ellie realized, “it means there’s someone else in this house.”
“Caskie’s letter,” Lorna said. “Remember? In the letter, Caskie said those gifts were left by our benefactor.”
“But who is that?” Ellis asked.
“Maybe someone who’s been hiding here the whole time,” Oliver said. “Or someone standing here, who hasn’t been telling the truth.”
The distrust returned and rippled through them all. He saw it in the way they moved away from one another. In the way their eyes darted from one person to the next. In the way they tensed their muscles and folded their arms. Where upstairs they had been united, now they had splintered apart.
“Who opened the door?” he asked.
He watched them as he waited for an answer. Waited to see which way the wind blew. And he couldn’t say he was surprised when Lorna and Ellie both turned toward Maeve, who, Oliver realized, had yet to speak.
“Why did you open the door, Maeve?”
Maeve’s hand fluttered to her neck, and she blinked several times before answering. “I was looking for another way out. We all were.”
“Tell me again why you were down here when you were supposed to be upstairs with Ellie.”
“I don’t know how many times you want me to repeat it. I was looking for the attic key. I mean I heard something. Someone.” Maeve backed away.
“Which was it? You were looking for the attic key or you heard something? And how did you hear something down here from all the way on the top floor?”
“I didn’t. I mean I did hear something. But I was mostly looking for the keys. Why are you asking me all these questions?”
“Why are you getting so defensive?”
“I’m not being defensive! You’re . . . you’re being aggressive. I swear I had nothing to do with this. With him. Lorna, you believe me, don’t you?”
“She admitted to Facebook stalking me,” Ellie said. “All of us.”
They circled Maeve, corralling her against the staircase.
“Wait. You’re twisting my words. I never said I stalked you. I said I looked you up sometimes. That’s all. And what does that have to do with a body that just fell on me?” Her voice pitched higher on each word. Lorna stepped close and squeezed Maeve’s shoulder.
“Take a breath, Maeve. I know you’re upset. Just tell us what really happened. We’ll understand. I’ll understand.”
Maeve looked as if Lorna had stuck her with a knife. “What do you mean, what happened?”
“If this was self-defense . . .”
Maeve jerked away from Lorna. “I didn’t kill that man! Why are you accusing me, Lorna?”
“You left me alone,” Ellie answered.
“You were downstairs when you weren’t supposed to be,” Oliver said.
“And you found this poor man’s body,” said Lorna.
“And you were so mad at Callum that night,” Oliver continued. “Madder than the rest of us. You were the one who—”
“Don’t. Don’t you dare bring Callum into this. I never hurt Callum. You know I didn’t. And this man? I’ve never seen him before in my life. Besides, if I had killed him, why would I open that door in the first place? That’s insane. I would try to hide it, not . . . not . . .” She wiped away tears with the back of her hand.
“Why don’t you tell us more about why you came here this weekend?” Oliver asked.
“Oh, so you can humiliate me further? I told you all last night. I thought I was meeting my boyfriend.”
“Right. Your online boyfriend. A believable story coming from you. Maybe a little too believable? Fits you a little too nicely?”
“It’s believable because it’s true. His name is Tom. He’s fifty-one, and he lives in Inverness and—”
“Then why not meet in Inverness?”
“Because he thought this would be more romantic. He said he knew this house. He’d stayed here before.” She was blubbering now, tears falling too fast to wipe away.
“And you fell for it? Come on, Maeve. Isn’t there something else? Something you don’t want to tell us?”
“That I’m an idiot? A gullible forty-year-old fat lady who tried online dating and got screwed?” She wiped her sleeve across her eyes. “Do you really think I could strangle a man? Me?”