Call of the Clan

by Patti Wiggington

  Trish's eyes widened. “Ooh, now that is sexy. Moody as hell, yes, but oh-so-yummy to look at. Have you seen him yet?"

  I laughed at the other woman's exuberance. “No, I'm afraid not."

  "I hardly think this is appropriate dinner conversation,” muttered Evan.

  "Oh, Muncaster, shush, would you?” ordered Trish. “Get that stick out of your ass and have some wine."

  By this time the table was occupied with a few more residents of Kilgraeme, and I had to take a moment to do the meet and greet thing with each of them. Mack Piper did indeed show up, and complimented Mrs. Much effusively on the quality of dinner. There was also a pale-faced teenage girl who was introduced as the cook's daughter, and a pimply young man in his twenties, who mumbled that he was the gardener, Danny Beaton.

  Dinner was a stew of chicken, potatoes, and onions, served with the large loaves of bread that I had smelled earlier in the day. It was heavenly. Not quite the same as Mark's cooking, but certainly close. Mary Much made everything from scratch, and I wondered absently if she had killed the chicken herself too. She probably could have done it without batting an eye. After a while, I realized that the jet lag, wine and carb-laden food was making me sleepy.

  "How long does this go on?” I asked Evan under my breath.

  "Until you get up and leave, lass,” he murmured, a look of amusement on his handsome face.

  Trish had finished as well, and overheard our conversation. “You ready to bail out? I'll walk you upstairs if you like. I need to hit the shower anyway."

  "She's on the third floor, Trish,” offered Evan helpfully.

  "How convenient,” Trish said dryly. I wondered again if there was a Trish-Evan thing going on. I felt rather like someone who starts watching a television show mid-season, and has to play catch-up with all the characters.

  When I stood up, everyone arose with me, which was one of the weirdest experiences I've ever had. I stifled a giggle, mumbled a thank-you, and bid everyone goodnight. It was nearly eight, and I was exhausted.

  "Which room is yours, Trish?” I asked when we arrived upstairs.

  She indicated one further down the hall. “Down at the end. Muncaster is right next to the stairs, and Much is in the one beyond him. Hey, if you get up early enough, come find me tomorrow morning, and I'll fill you in a little on this dump they call Kilgraeme!” she grinned conspiratorially.

  I smiled thankfully. Despite the perky and cute sex-kitten image, she was very intelligent. “Great. I'll look for you some time after breakfast.” I turned to go into my room.

  "Oh, one other thing, milady,” purred Trish. “I'd lock your door, if I were you."

  I froze. “Why?"

  "Muncaster didn't tell you, did he?” Trish MacGregor laughed. “Kilgraeme is haunted. Goodnight!"

  Chapter Four

  Over the next few days or so, I settled into life at Kilgraeme. Evan was constantly on hand to lend his assistance, and thanks to him, I gradually became familiar with the inner workings of the estate and its holdings. As far as I could determine, most of the income was derived from rents collected from farmers. Mack Piper's weaving business brought in a small amount of revenue each year, as did Tormod Kerr's pub, the White Rose, and Danny Beaton's surprisingly profitable herb garden. Each fall Danny cut and dried herbs for sale to specialty shops in Glasgow. There were also cattle. Two young men, cousins named Andy and Doogie Fleming, worked the herd. The big, shaggy beasts didn't look like any cows I had ever seen, but Evan assured me that they were indeed cattle, and fairly profitable ones at that.

  I had fallen in love with the house, despite its cosmetic problems and general hygiene issues. The ground floor consisted of a main dining hall, a sitting room of sorts, the huge kitchen and its storage areas, including the “simples room,” which was apparently a pantry used to store anything that didn't have a regular home, and the Museum From Hell.

  This aesthetically challenged nightmare was an enormous cavern of a room, equipped several decades ago with large glass display cases by old Ranald. All of the cases were covered with a film of oily dust, and the room was disorganized to the point of anarchy. It was dark in here, a fact accentuated by thick maroon curtains that completely blocked any light from entering. Along one wall dangled an exhibit of swords, shields and other assorted scary-looking pointy things, none of which appeared to be in very good shape. The opposite side of the room was cluttered with suits of armor, rusty old guns, and pieces of carved stone which probably meant something to someone, but not to me. I would have to find someone who specialized in antiquities to come evaluate the trove of stuff.

  It was a far cry from the feng-shui calm of Gil's apartment, or even my own glass and chrome condo, which seemed, at this point, like part of a very distant dream.

  The sitting room, or as Mrs. Much liked to call it, the parlor, contained what was evidently the only television in the house. A threadbare rug which could have been hunter green in decades gone by covered the floor. Fat leather couches in a shade best described as Dried Poop lined the walls. Not only was it filthy, it was a decorating disaster. Gilbert would whimper in agony when I got around to writing to him about it. I had planned to e-mail him, but there was no computer at Kilgraeme. That would have to change.

  I had been there for several days before I was able to ask Trish about the manor being haunted.

  So far, I had missed the genealogist each morning, as she was usually gone long before the sun came up. Sometimes she disappeared on foot or on horseback for the entire day. Other times she would vanish into some outbuilding or unused room at the manor house and not be seen for hours. I heard footsteps in the second-floor hall as I was toweling my hair dry, so I tiptoed downstairs and flung open my door, hoping to surprise my prey.

  "Yaah!” shouted Trish, eyes wide in horror. “For the love of all that's holy. Don't scare me like that!"

  "Did you think it was the ghost?” I joked.

  "You jest because you don't know better,” Trish intoned solemnly. Then she winked. “What gets you out of bed so early?"

  "I wanted to talk to you. Evan can tell me all about the business aspect of Kilgraeme, but you obviously know something about the history here. Do you have time to spare?"

  Trish glanced down the hall toward Evan's door. “I have time. Plenty of it, actually. Why don't you tag along with me today and I'll tell you what I can about Kilgraeme?"

  "Great. Are you leaving right now?"

  Trish ran a hand through her poofy hair and checked her watch. “As soon as I steal some provisions from Much. I raid the pantry and she pretends not to notice. Good woman. Meet me by the barn in ten minutes?"

  I went back into my room and pulled on my hiking boots. My luggage had arrived at Kilgraeme three days after I did, so things were definitely looking up.

  In truth, I had ulterior motives for spending the day talking to Trish. She would be a useful source for learning about Kilgraeme, obviously, but Evan had once mentioned that Trish had been the one who helped find me. That meant she probably had known Jamie Murray. So far I had been unable to learn much about my father's personality from Evan, who became quite forlorn when the entire subject was brought up. And as much as I hate to admit it, I wanted to get a feel for what kind of relationship Evan really had with Trish. If there was something going on between the two of them, better to find out about it before I got involved with Evan at all.

  The sun was just beginning to peek over Beinn a'Choinn. Trish was already at the stable by the time I got there. She was saddling a large mare.

  "Please tell me you can ride a horse."

  "I can,” I said proudly. “Three summers of Girl Scout Camp were not wasted on me. I'm also authorized to start a fire with twigs, clean a latrine in the dark, and perform emergency first aid in the absence of a grownup."

  Trish laughed. “Cool. I'll try not to get hurt."

  We saddled up another horse, and Trish tossed on a large saddlebag. “Snacks,” she explained. The morning was cool
and bright, and although the sun was beginning to warm the air, I was glad I had my jacket. Trish led the way around the south side of Beinn a'Choin, and soon the manor house was lost to view.

  "So where, exactly, is it that you go?” I asked, trying to break the ice. We hadn't talked much since my arrival at Kilgraeme a week ago. I had been busy getting to know the place while Trish scurried about the countryside doing whatever the heck it was that she did.

  "Oh, here, there, everywhere,” was the somewhat elusive reply. “I basically scavenge about looking for anything to do with the MacGregors, Spaldings, Murrays or the other families at Kilgraeme. Muncaster's got me here as sort of the expert historian, although I'm not an expert at all, I just work cheap. I come out every other spring and noodle around for a few months in old cemeteries and Ranald's library, to see what I can learn. Then I fly back to Michigan in late fall to work as a ski instructor,” she grinned.

  We rode most of the morning in silence, and I really didn't mind. The scenery astounded me. The mountains were a shade of green I had only seen on postcards. I stared at the sky and wondered for a brief moment how I had managed to live so long without experiencing such beauty. After a while we crossed a small stream, and followed it down to a lake.

  I looked around, a bit disoriented. “Is this Loch Lomond?"

  Trish shook her head. “Loch Failte. It's the southernmost border of Kilgraeme. Loch Airneach forms the eastern edge of the estate, and Loch Lomond is to the west.” She hesitated for a moment. “What do you know about Jamie?"

  Well, this was handy. Here I had been planning to ask her the same question, and she had beaten me to it. “Er, not much. I was going to ask you the same thing. You knew him, right?"

  Trish blushed. “Yeah, you could say that. I knew him real well, actually.” She gazed off into the sky.

  I stared at her. I've seen that blush on people before, and it can only mean one thing. I was horrified. “Oh, no. You and my father...?"

  "Well, what's wrong with it?” asked Trish defensively. “We were both consenting adults."

  "I know, I just ... look, I'm still getting used to thinking of him as anything besides a name on a piece of paper. It's hard to imagine him ... er."

  "As a man?” finished Trish.

  "Well, uh, that's sort of a euphemism, but okay. And you're the same age as me, or close to it.” I couldn't believe this. In just a few short weeks, I had been thrust into the legacy of a family I never knew by the death of the father I'd never had. Now I was standing on the shore of a Scottish lake, chatting with a woman he had been intimate with. A therapist, or a talk show host, would have had a field day with me.

  "Thanks. I'm actually about five years older than you."

  "That doesn't mean it's okay.” I slid off my horse and sat on a fallen tree. “Why didn't you tell me before?"

  "Whoa, Nellie,” exclaimed Trish. “What was I going to say? Hi, I'm Trish, and I was knocking boots with your dad before he died?"

  Despite myself, I began to laugh. Again, this is something I do when nothing else comes to mind. Sometimes it makes me look like an idiot. I was pretty sure this was one of those times. “Well, okay, maybe not. I guess that is pretty stupid, isn't it?"

  Trish smiled. “A little, but I understand if you're ticked off at me. Actually, at first I thought Muncaster might have already told you."

  "Why would Evan tell me that?"

  She made a snorting sound at me. “Let me tell you something about Evan Muncaster. Don't let him fool you for a minute. He'll tell you things just to see what kind of reaction it gets, and then file it away to use later. Like the Scottish accent that he sometimes has and sometimes doesn't. He uses it when he wants to or needs to."

  I was surprised. This was an interesting turn of events. “I thought you two had something going on."

  Trish made gagging noises. “Not my type at all. Probably not yours either, but I'll bet you haven't figured that out yet."

  "What's that supposed to mean?” She was sounding a bit catty. Maybe I had hurt her feelings with my reaction to her revelations about my father.

  "Right now you're thinking to yourself that Evan is so kind, and generous and helpful. He's got such a good heart, and he really loved Ranald and Jamie so much, and he gets tears in his eyes just thinking about his buddy, your dear old dad,” she sighed. “Am I right?"

  I didn't answer her. I just waited. She obviously wasn't finished.

  "Pay attention, Brynne Murray Marlette, because I am just going to say this once. Evan Muncaster only says or does or feels what benefits Evan Muncaster.” Trish's eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “Watch your back around him.” She hopped down from her horse and led it away to the shore.

  I didn't know what to say, and I was troubled by Trish's obvious, and sudden, animosity towards the attorney. Really, I found it hard to believe that Evan was that deceitful. I would have to ask him what he thought of Trish MacGregor. Maybe the feeling was mutual.

  A few minutes later, Trish returned. We rode on, and she didn't mention Evan again. “I have some pictures of Jamie, in my room,” she said hoarsely. “He said if you ever came here I should give them to you."

  "Thank you. I guess he meant a lot to you,” I hedged. I didn't want her to think I was disapproving of her relationship with him. It was just weird to me, that was all.

  "I loved him with all my heart,” Trish admitted. She spurred her horse then, and galloped across the moor. I started to chase after her but then decided against it, and wondered what it was like for her. Returning to the place where he died. Looking out at Loch Lomond every morning....

  I followed the shore of Loch Failte until it ended, then turned to go north. I was fairly certain that Trish had come this way, but there was no sign of her. The sun was directly overhead, and my stomach was beginning to growl. I hadn't eaten breakfast, and all the food was in Trish's saddlebag. I would just have to head back to the house and eat when I got there. Mrs. Much was bound to have something available. There were always leftovers, even though Much constantly threatened me with starvation if I missed a meal.

  After a while, I admitted to myself that I was lost. I had never been lost before, and was used to walking around cobbled city streets, not riding around on a horse in the middle of nowhere. I looked at my watch, and realized I had been riding for two hours now, and had seen no sign of Trish, or any other human being for that matter. Apparently I missed the day they taught navigation at Girl Scout camp. I was riding in circles.

  The sky clouded over, hiding the sun, and I had no idea which direction I was headed. I urged the mare along as the wind picked up. If I could get to the top of one of the green mountains that surrounded me, maybe I'd be able to see Kilgraeme. Or a road. Or a cow. Anything.

  I approached a creek, but it wasn't the same one Trish and I had crossed earlier, or at least I didn't think it was. With a sigh, I began to guide the horse into the water. It began to drizzle lightly, and by the time I reached the opposite bank, the sky was black and rain was coming down in buckets. It couldn't possibly get any worse, I thought grimly.

  Then the horse went down.

  It happened suddenly. The mare stepped in a hole and buckled immediately, and the next thing I knew I was lying in mud. I groaned and rolled over, trying to sit up. I didn't think anything was broken, but the wind had certainly been knocked out of me. I lay there panting, and looked through the deluge for the mare. It had regained its footing and was wandering away.

  "Oh, come back, you stupid horse,” I yelled. For good measure, I added several very naughty Scottish words that I had picked up from Mrs. Much. Granted, I'm usually pretty stoic, but I was soaked and muddy, my hand had thistle-stickers in it, and my ass hurt where I had landed. The horse looked at me, and then trotted off. I swear it was smiling.

  "Damn.” I followed the horse through the storm, thinking maybe it was headed home. As I stumbled along, I mentally cursed Trish MacGregor for leaving me out in the boonies, Evan Muncaster for bringing
me here in the first place, and the guy in the SUV I had rear-ended the day I lost my job at Chad Dorman's office. Just for fun, I cursed Chad and his bimbo too. The storm showed no signs of abating, and I started to think this might be more than the daily three o'clock shower I'd experienced every afternoon since arriving in Scotland.

  I wandered along blindly, hoping I wouldn't fall in another creek and drown. I could barely see my hands in front of my face. A sudden crack of lightning illuminated the sky, and in that brief second of light, I thought I saw something off in the distance.

  Where was it? One more flash, just one....

  Another brilliant strike came, turning the sky purple and white. And there, not far away, on the side of a mountain, was what I thought I had seen. A house.

  As I approached, I could see that it wasn't exactly a house, but it looked like shelter, and that was good enough for me. After all, I was trapped outside in a veritable monsoon. It was a long, flat stone building with a thick thatched roof. There were no lights visible, and I wondered if it was abandoned. I didn't care, because by that point I would have cheerfully shared shelter with spiders, snakes, goblins or whatever else lurked in empty crofts on Scottish mountainsides.

  Just for the sake of politeness, I pounded on the door. “Hello! Anyone home?” The wind was howling, and anyone inside probably wouldn't have heard me anyway. There was another crack of lightning, this time much closer. I didn't waste any more time. I lifted the latch and tumbled inside.

  It was warm and dry, and as my eyes adjusted to the interior, I realized it was somebody's home after all. I stood in a room perhaps twenty feet square. The wooden plank floor had been sanded and polished until it shone. As the lightning flashed outside, I saw a wooden table against one wall, with two chairs. A fireplace crackled beside it, and there a kettle of something bubbled in the flames. I felt like Goldilocks, and wondered absurdly if there was a big pot of porridge waiting for me. That chair looked like it would be juuuust right.

  "Hello?” I called again. A blanket lay draped over the back of a squishy-looking recliner, and I picked it up to dry myself off. It smelled smoky, like burnt wood. “Anyone here?"