Duncan ran his fingers through his hair, feeling as though he'd forgotten something. He'd neglected taking notes in each room! He sighed and began examining the place all over again. A couple of hours passed before he emerged from the cottage. It needed more work than he initially imagined. A bit discouraged, he climbed in the Jaguar and drove to Tyne.
The bell above the door to Cat's Books continued to jingle as he strode to the back of the shop. He could see Abigail behind the counter, flipping through a glossy magazine, fluffy Persian cats lounging beside her reading material.
"Hello, Duncan," she said without looking up. She must have spotted him through the window.
"Hallo, Abigail. How are you?"
"Not weel, not weel atall, Duncan."
"Oh? What's wrong?"
"Something I heard jist now gie me the boak, made me all peely wally."
"Now, Abigail, let me explain. I—"
The shopkeeper's bright blue eyes darted from her magazine to Duncan, and she held up her small, plump had to signal he should stop. Her lips, painted the usual bright pink, curled into a smile as the little bell above the door signaled they were no longer alone.
"Weel, hello, Mrs. Craig. How may I help ye?" Abigail purred in her sweetest voice as she rounded the counter towards her customer, ignoring Duncan.
He waited while his friend made a show of helping Mrs. Craig. He occupied his time petting Abigail's cats, who possessed gigantic blue and green eyes. He'd learned that the furry grey and white felines came from a special breeder in the States. Her pets took to him from the first time he came in the bookstore, and today proved no different. The fluffy animals never tired of how he scratched behind their ears and under their chins, and they in turn loved to rub against him. Eventually, he became aware of the bell tinkling and Abigail at his side. Mrs. Craig had left.
"As I was saying—"
"No need to explain, Duncan. Mr. Trotter told me everything."
"Mr. Trotter? Was that the man I found trespassing?"
"Nae. That was the man ye asked me to find fir ye to fix up yer dilapidated hoose."
"I'm sorry for the misunderstanding, Abigail. I'd be happy to apologize to Mr. Trotter, if you'll just forgive me for not thinking faster on my feet."
Abigail placed her hands on her hips and gave him a good once-over as her cats purred and nudged Duncan. He flashed her his best dazzling smile for good measure.
"All right. But ye'll need to tell yer neighbor yer sorry."
"My neighbor too?"
Abigail nodded with a smug expression.
"He's yer neighbor."
"Who's my neighbor?"
"Michael Trotter."
Duncan grimaced as he experienced déjà vu. He would have to see the small, rude bearded man again, and not just in a pew at the kirk. Never a dull moment. Abigail pulled a stack of three books from under the counter. He glanced at the jackets and quickly examined the back matter. He could tell they were contemporary works regarding art theft, counterfeits and frauds. He grinned.
"What do I owe you, Abigail?"
The tiny lady with the platinum curls pondered her response, tapping her fingers on the counter.
"It's for business," he added.
"Weel, in that case . . ." Her voice trailed off as she scribbled out an invoice, tore the sheet from its pad, and slid the loose paper to Duncan.
After a quick glance at the bill, he lifted an eyebrow and said, "How about I throw in dinner at the Blue Bell tonight?"
His arrow found its mark as the store owner fluttered her eyelashes and turned her back to him, hoping he wouldn't notice her blush or the way she couldn't control her smile. Duncan stroked one of the cats and allowed Abigail to compose herself.
"If ye can occupy yerself fir the next hour, I'd love to," she said without turning around.
"Of course. I'll pop over to Alyn and Sons and come back here before you close."
He paid for the books and carried them to his car before heading to Alyn and Sons, Purveyors of Fine Men's Clothing and Bespoke Accessories. As soon as he opened the door to the establishment, the comforting scent of polished wood, top-quality leather, and expensive men's cologne filled his nostrils. He waved to the elderly proprietor, Harry, who, along with his grandson and namesake, kept this bastion of manhood going.
Duncan felt himself relax as he gazed around at the club chairs, wool tartans, dark paneling and leather goods. The manliness of the place was itself a retreat—a reprieve from females who needed cajoling, feelings protected, superfluous apologies, and special attention. He picked up a wool hat and flipped it onto his head. Made in Scotland with locally sourced materials, the olive tweed flat cap brought out the green flecks in his otherwise dark eyes. He admired himself in a mirror, posing with his hand touching his square jaw in a thoughtful way. He had not shaved that morning, and the stubble he sported gave his stance a professor-like quality. Approving of what he saw, he couldn't figure why people often referred to him as brooding. He lost all self-consciousness in the pantheon of masculinity that was Alyn and Sons. He reached for a nearby display of pipes, realizing that although he didn't smoke, he could use another accessory to complete his scholarly look.
"Well, if it isn't Duncan Dewar!"
The investigator almost jumped out of his skin at the shrill voice directly behind him. He swung around even as his neck began to turn crimson, forgetting his proximity to the pipes. His arm hit the rotating display, a device akin to a modern spice rack, knocking it from the shelf. Artisan-made wooden pipes clacked on the floor, some splintering apart while others skidded under clothing displays. The case had hit with a loud thud, and old Mr. Alyn scurried forward to see what the matter was. Duncan, flushed with embarrassment, attempted to smile and wave him off as he hurried to pick up the items. The woman now towered over him, sporting a deadpan expression.
Millicent Carnaby, Taye Councilwoman with the force of a Florida hurricane and a mouse-grey coiffure to match, stood, arms crossed, tapping the toe of her low, square-heeled, sensible pump. Dressed in an A-line, cranberry-colored skirt with matching blazer and a white cotton blouse and pearls, she appeared the perfect example of matronly superiority. What's she doing in here?
"Hallo, Millicent. How are—"
"I hear you had a run-in with my nephew today," she continued, avoiding the niceties of polite conversation.
"Ah—"
"No matter. Dinnae fash yersel, Duncan."
Her sly smile sent a chill up his spine. The tiny titan of Taye was up to something. Duncan's mind raced. Is she holding a grudge over the outcome of the Christmas bake contest? Did her nephew lose out in the holiday scavenger hunt to my group? Did Chef Mondo offend her in some way?
Millicent's grey eyes trailed up and down Duncan in a discerning manner while he felt a blush blanket his cheeks, ears and forehead. She turned and ambled towards the door, adding over her shoulder,
"I hope you realize any refurbishment to your cottage will require council approval."
Oh, oh.
The store's door slapped closed, and Duncan's eyes landed on Harry Alyn as he realized his predicament. The older gentleman offered a sympathetic smile and a slight shake of his head as a contribution to male solidarity. He returned the man's gesture and retrieved the olive cap he wished to purchase. The shop owner refused payment for the damaged pipes.
He tried the flat cap on again and caught his breath. He had just begun to relax when another high-pitched voice startled him.
"Duncan? Duncan Dewar? It's so nice to see you again."
Susanne Wallace strode to greet him, all smiles. He had barely gathered his wits from his previous encounter with the female species, and now this. Alyn and Sons was supposed to be a safe place for men, like the clubs of yesteryear.
"Hallo, Susanne. Nice to see you, too," he said, turning.
His mind still a muddle regarding his hat and the cottage and the local council and the trouble Millicent Carnaby was likely to cause, he felt a bit
befuddled encountering Susanne at this moment. She proved more than he could handle. They had tactfully avoided conversation at the vicar's funeral. Their last encounter prior to that had not gone so well. Her nephew had proven himself a scoundrel, and Duncan had ended up in a brawl with the villain. He guessed she wanted to make amends since she seemed to be getting closer with Donald these days.
"Are you staying at the Blue Bell?" she asked, batting her lashes. "I saw you go into Cat's Books."
"No, I'm not staying at the inn. Is Wally back in town?"
He almost put his hand over his mouth, but it was too late. Bringing up her criminal nephew would no doubt embarrass the woman. The lady's face fell even as her back straightened and her posture took on an aristocratic stance. He chalked his slip of the tongue up to his disturbing experience with Millicent. Susanne lifted her chin towards the ceiling of Alyn and Sons, making it appear as though she looked down upon Duncan, even though she was much smaller than the tall Scotsman.
"Walter enrolled in university at Bern, Switzerland. He's studying art history. Good day, Duncan."
Susanne turned on her heels and marched from the store. Duncan checked his watch and decided he should move on as well. Staying in one spot seemed to be pressing his luck after his last two encounters. He purchased his cap before returning to Cat's Books to pick up Abigail. He was certain he heard the old shopkeeper expel a sigh of relief as he left the Purveyors of Fine Men's Clothing and Bespoke Accessories.
At the Blue Bell, Donald and Skye Merriwether joined Duncan and Abigail over a dinner of lamb stew, prepared by the inn's chef, Andrew Gordon. The aroma of the dish, which included bacon, onions, thyme, bay leaves, and red wine, proved intoxicating while stimulating everyone's appetite. The crackling fire in the large hearth provided heat, and the pleasant, jovial atmosphere warmed Duncan's heart. He'd grown to love the old inn and its owners.
"How's business?" Abigail asked, taking a bite from one of the delicious oversized yeast rolls provided by Robert Abernathy's bakery.
The innkeeper glanced around the room before answering, "Good as ever. How are yer sales, Abigail, what with all these new gadgets people use?"
Donald gave Duncan a wink in reference to his electronic devices, now charging throughout the common areas of the inn.
"I've nae seen much of a difference. In fact, I was jist reading today that in a poll, all the celebrities say they prefer real books to electronic gizmos."
Duncan almost spewed his drink all over the table, and Skye fought back a grin as her father raised an eyebrow at the investigator.
"Do ye doubt it?" Donald asked.
I doubt most celebrities can even read.
"Do ye?" Abigail asked, concern reflected on her face.
"Well, I can't argue about the appeal of a real book, but I'm not sure how much time celebrities spend reading." He tried to be diplomatic. His own brief fame and experiences with the famous tainted his perspective.
"What was that I heard of a ruckus taking place over at the cottage today?" Skye asked, her brown eyes sparkling like gemstones.
"Our lad here insulted Millicent's nephew is all," Abigail said, giving the others at the table a knowing eye.
Duncan watched their reactions. Skye cringed and Donald couldn't suppress a shudder.
Abigail continued, "I told Michael Trotter ye'd be needing a carpenter to set things right with yer hoose. He's the best choice for the job with his skills and connections to the council." She paused for effect, directing her next comment at the Merriwethers. "Unfortunately, Duncan showed up unannounced today and chased him off."
Skye grimaced at the news while her father shook his head. Abigail nodded, eyebrows raised, as if trying to convince father and daughter of the unbelievable.
"How was I to know he was Millicent's nephew or that I'd need council approval for any changes to the property?" Duncan pled in his own defense.
He received more head wags and sympathetic expressions by way of response to his rhetorical question. Abigail's platinum curls bounced so violently, Duncan thought they might unwind completely, while Skye's forehead furrowed like a field awaiting planting.
"I think I'll have to keep me distance from ye fir a while, Lad, dae ye ken? Can't afford to get on the wrong side of the council, meself." Donald chuckled, giving Duncan a hearty slap on the back.
"Let's discuss something more pleasant," Skye suggested. "When are you going to take Mr. Lincoln home?"
Chapter 7
The Grand Affair
"Try not to hold anything against Harold. It truly sounds as though he's cooperating and keeping his distance from Caroline. You know your brother's a little different," Angela said in her most soothing way.
"Don't worry. I think between myself and Angus, we've gotten through to him. Besides, I wouldn't want anything to ruin Mum's big night," Duncan said as he pulled his car over next to Cocina Gaélico, the name Armondo and his mother had chosen for their endeavor.
"It looks so much better than when we were here a couple of weeks ago!" she exclaimed.
Duncan gave his fiancée a quick peck on the lips before jumping out of the car and trotting around to her side of the vehicle. She fit in so well with his family and she truly loved each of them. He wondered how he'd been so fortunate. He took a quick glimpse up and down the street before opening the door and helping Angela out of the Jaguar. Shouldn't there be more cars around? The semi-deserted area did not bode well for the success of Cocina Gaélico.
He plastered a smile on his face, squeezed Angela's hand, and opened the door to the restaurant. The place smelled wonderful but all appeared quiet. His father, Harold, and Penny sat at a table while Angus and his old school chums, Hamish and John, planted themselves at the bar. Angela hugged Penny and went to look for Margaret while Duncan nodded at his friends before leaning near his father's ear.
"Where is everyone?" he asked.
"It's early yet. I'm positive things will pick up."
Duncan wasn't so sure. He wasn't sure anyone would be interested in Scottish-Spanish fusion cuisine, and he'd always opposed opening on Hunt-the-Gowk Day.
Before the new calendar was adopted in the Middle Ages, some people celebrated New Year's on the first of April, in accordance with the old calendar. Those not with the times were considered fools or gowks. Thus, the first became a day to play practical jokes on folks, sending them out to hunt the dolts who hadn't heard of the change in calendars.
He hoped he was wrong about selecting a bad day to open the place. He moved on to the bar and greeted the small group there.
"Nae, it dinnae look hopeful," Angus was saying in a low tone.
"What's going on?" Duncan asked. His brother's burr caused him to pause.
"Mondo says he happened upon a stash of their advertisements crammed in a trash bin oot back. Some glaikit moost ha nicked em all and goot rid of em."
"I'll wager it was the Indian place down the street that did it," Hamish interjected. He continued, "Probably under the auspices of a first of April prank."
"Why, the kippers!" Harold, who had followed Duncan to the bar, exclaimed.
"Roon ma bit, we'd teach that jakey a lesson," John said, his voice lowered. "Tamorrow, Ah'd be up fir pinnin some fish on their arses."
"Git a haud o yirself," Angus said, adding, "We dinnae know who's responsible."
Angus saw no point, at this stage, of reviving the childhood prank of pinning paper fish to the unsuspecting backsides of others on the second of April. That custom also had its roots in the Middle Ages, and some believed it related to the abundance of fish to be found at this time of year, while others felt that down through the centuries, the Passion of Christ—celebrated often around this date—somehow became confused with the French word, poisson, meaning fish.
"Where is Armondo?" Duncan asked.
"The bawheid's out nattering to any numpty who'll listen, pleading fir 'em to come in. It's all pish!" Angus rumbled in a whisper loud enough for all to hear. He added, thr
owing his hands in the air, "They already let the wait staff go home and Mum's in the back, crying."
With that news, Harold scurried out the front door and disappeared from view.
Doesn't he know we need as many warm bodies in here as possible? What a disaster!
A moment later, Margaret appeared, one arm draped around Angela. She didn't look as if she'd been crying and, in fact, it seemed the two shared a private joke. He noticed his fiancée had now donned a crisp, white apron and carried a large tray of nibbles.
"Duncan, pour everyone a drink," his mum said, nodding towards the bar behind him. "Angus, distribute those." She pointed to stacks of small plates and serviettes on the counter. "Thank you, everyone, for coming. As you can see, we've had a bit of a mix up tonight, but there's no reason we can't all enjoy ourselves. Bon appetit!"
"She's one heid bummer, all right," John muttered in admiration before shoveling a large serving of jamón ibérico with fig jam onto his plate.
Margaret came around with another tray, this one stacked with miniature steaming meat pies, as someone cranked up the volume of the festive background music. She explained that the crust remained her family secret, while Mondo's filling incorporated many of the ingredients from paella. Everyone in the small group raved over the dishes, and the mood, which Duncan had first likened to a funeral home, lightened immeasurably.
"Did you know Angela worked her way through school as a waitress at an Indian restaurant, Duncan?" his mum asked.
"Oh, really?" He feigned ignorance, but he gave his girl a wink and mouthed, Thank You, as soon as Margaret headed for the kitchen.
Duncan watched his friend, John, wipe jam from his plate with his last piece of jamón, smacking his lips in anticipation. Hamish chewed the remaining bite of one of the tiny pies while Angus downed his drink. Movement in his peripheral vision caught his eye, and he turned just in time to see a soaking wet Harold race through the front door. The weather had taken a turn for the worse as an onslaught of rain flooded the street and pavement. Penny rose to greet her boyfriend and tousled his red locks, flinging water drops in all directions. Harold, bent at the waist and gasping for air, tried to say something as one of their friends slapped him on the back, laughing. Everyone's spirits had risen in spite of the circumstances.
The Siamese Suicides: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder & Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 6) Page 6
