“Was he ever involved in any of Bob Williams’s teams?”
“No. We live—I live—in the suburbs. He—played against some of Williams’s teams.” Jake cleared his throat again. He was having trouble with this. “I couldn’t keep up with him. He should have been with his father, a younger man who could do things with him, but I couldn’t persuade either of them. Bernie softened a little as the years went by, and they saw each other now and then, but Aaron wanted to stay with me, and I’m a selfish old man; I wanted him, too.”
“I don’t think you were selfish at all. You loved each other—what better environment could a child have? Not that I know a thing about it, really, with none of my own—”
“Count yourself lucky,” said Jake flatly. “You don’t have them, they can’t break your heart.”
He moved ahead of me as the trail headed back downhill, and something about the set of his back told me the story was over. I hoped telling it had helped, but I wasn’t at all sure.
We struggled on. The sun broke through the clouds and brought heat with it, but my heart wasn’t going to warm any time soon.
7
I FOUND GOING down the hill much harder than going up; Jake silently offered an arm now and then when the going was especially rough, but I was wet with sweat and both knees were almost inoperable by the time we arrived at our next stopping place, the fabled marble quarry. I sank to a grassy bank with a moan and several sharp cracks from tortured joints.
“Careful,” said Jake in a politely distant tone that told me he was suffering life-history-teller’s remorse. “Behind you.”
I swiveled my head and saw the sharp, rusty spikes of some unidentifiable piece of ruined machinery a few inches from my back. “I’ll just have to take my chances,” I said firmly. “I am not moving from this spot until I cool off and my knees stop screaming at me.”
“You must focus on your inner being,” said a serene individual seated cross-legged on the grass a few feet away. “If you’re really centered, you won’t feel any pain.”
I looked at him—her?—with interest. The person, of whichever sex, had long dishwater-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, a sensitive face with pale blue eyes, and beautiful, expressive hands. The sweatshirt read BE TRUE TO YOUR KARMA, and its dark blue showed off the pyramid-shaped crystal dangling below the neck.
“And just how do I do that?” I asked. “Focus on my inner being, I mean.”
“Look inward. Meditate. Concentrate on the oneness of the universe.”
It sounded a trifle vague. I obediently tried looking inward, but my meditations seemed to focus on my stomach, which growled.
“I guess I’m not good at this. I must admit my knees don’t hurt as much.” True. Rest was doing them some good. “Where are you from?” Better change the subject before I revealed the true depths of my ignorance.
“I’m from Los Angeles. Well, close to Los Angeles. Most of us are from Southern California.”
Of course. “Really. I have a niece in Chatsworth, and a sister who lives in Ventura County.” And both of them reasonably normal people. Not everyone who lives in southern California is crazy. “You must be part of the group at the Argyll Hotel. How many of you are there?”
“Thirteen. That’s a lucky number, really, you know. We set it up that way on purpose.”
“And why did you come to Iona?”
She—I had tentatively decided the person was female—replied earnestly. “Partly the basalt crystals on Staffa. They’re very powerful. But we’re interested in all religions; there is truth to be found everywhere if you open yourself up to it. Iona is a home for the old religions, too, you know. The Druids had shrines here long before the Christians came. And Wicca—here, in this place, can’t you feel it?”
Well, yes, I could. The sun had disappeared again, but the chill I felt wasn’t entirely physical. Deirdre the wagon-driver had been right. There was evil here in the marble quarry.
Of course, according to my own old-fashioned beliefs, the possibility of evil exists wherever there are human beings, with their fatal propensity for messing up whatever they touch.
I looked my solemn adviser squarely in the eye. “How old are you, child?”
She drew herself up and frowned. “Nineteen.”
“Then let me tell you something you may not have had time to learn for yourself. Yes, truth can be found in many places, but there are different kinds of truth, and some kinds can be deadly. Before you ‘open yourself up’ to just any influence, you’d better be sure you know which kind it is.”
It was a pompous enough little speech, if well meant, and of course it was futile. She knew everything; people that age do. I could see in her suddenly glazed eyes the thoughts she was too polite to utter: old fogey, close-minded, stuffy. I sighed and breathed a quick prayer that the benign influences of Iona might wash some of the nonsense out of her head.
Our leader was standing up again. “We’ll go from here over to Columba’s Bay, where he and his monks first landed at the end of their voyage from Ireland. After we spend a little time there, we’ll make our way back to the Machair for lunch.”
There were glad sounds greeting the word “lunch.” I tried to smile at my New Age friend, but she had turned her back and made herself very busy gathering up her gear. Jake had disappeared, as well. But Teresa was nearby, so I asked her. “What’s the Machair? And how far is it?”
“It’s that grassy meadow we passed on the way here. You know, where the golf course is?” Teresa was the kind of person who always knows things, but I didn’t appreciate her information.
“But that’s hours away!” I wailed.
She grinned. “We came very slowly, and stopped a lot. It’ll be quicker going back. It’s only a little over a mile, actually.”
“And all vertical, I’m willing to bet,” I said darkly.
“Almost all,” she agreed cheerfully, and then lowered her voice. “Mrs. Martin—Dorothy—I overheard what you said to that little idiot.” She cocked her head toward my long-haired companion, now fortunately out of earshot.
“I suppose you thought I was a preachy bore,” I said, embarrassed.
“Not at all. Those New Age people actually believe in suppressing their critical faculties, so they sometimes swallow the most pernicious nonsense. You were absolutely right, and I’m glad you said it. Um—do you need any help? Because otherwise—”
I shook my head, she strode off, and I shook my head again to try to clear it. I’d have thought Teresa, ultramodern nun that she was, would sympathize with the truth-is-everywhere clan. Instead she’d agreed with my conservative views, and quite amiably—for her.
Could her good mood possibly have anything to do with the fact that Bob Williams was dead?
I wasn’t learning anything very useful, was I? And I didn’t enjoy being suspicious of everyone I talked to, but what choice did I have? I kept up the smartest pace I could on the way back over the hill. I wasn’t eager to be left alone.
The smartest pace I could manage, however, was, in fact, pretty slow. Ordinarily I’d have been sure there was no way at all that I could get over the marshy, rocky hills to Columba’s Bay, but I did it somehow. From there to the Machair was even worse, but I managed that, too. I was trembling with fatigue when I finally found a little hillock where I could sit, too tired to be hungry anymore, but possessed of a raging thirst.
It was Grace who came to my rescue with a plastic cup of water from the Abbey van’s supply. She also fetched my rudimentary lunch from Jake, and insisted I eat it. All her ministrations were conducted with an air of impersonal detachment, as though her mission in life were to look after the hungry, and she intended to do it—whoever they were and wherever she found them.
When I had recovered a little I tried to talk to her. “Tell me about your work with the soup kitchens, Grace,” I began. “It sounds interesting.”
“Does it?” she replied coolly. “I doubt you would find it so.”
“Wel
l, but—you must run into fascinating people.”
“Not really.” She picked up a sandwich and looked away, presenting to me the back of her perfectly groomed head.
I was left with the feeling that I had been trying to crack a Fabergé egg. It was exquisite to look at, but smooth and cold to the touch, and utterly impenetrable.
I went back to the hotel with the Abbey people. Too much exercise and too much heart-wrenching had drained both soul and body; I was in no shape either to climb Dun I, Iona’s highest hill, or to appreciate the view once I got there. So I hobbled straight up to my bed, propped the chair under the door handle, and fell into the dreamless sleep of physical exhaustion. I woke a couple of hours later, stiff but rested, and ravenous.
The hotel was quiet. I looked both ways before stepping out of my room, but no one was around, nor was anyone in the lounge—except Stan, abandoned to sleep on a couch in the total relaxation only a cat seems able to achieve. Hattie Mae was evidently out or napping. Dinner was not yet in preparation, so the kitchen was cold and silent.
There was no one to beg for a snack. Although exercise wasn’t high on my list of priorities right then, calories were. And my neck was getting stiff from looking over my shoulder.
I moved my aching body out the door and down the hill to the village shops.
Fifteen minutes later, somewhat fortified by some melt-in-the-mouth candy called “tablet”—sort of a vanilla fudge—I wandered toward the other end of the village.
There was no traffic in the Sound today. The crashing waves provided the explanation; in the mysterious depths of the sea the storm had not yet worn itself out, and this was no place for small boats.
I didn’t linger at the jetty, but walked down the street, and as I passed the minute post office, decided to turn in. Hope springs eternal.
Surprisingly enough, in this case it was justified. I hadn’t yet opened my mouth to make my inquiry when the postmaster handed me an envelope.
“Ah, ye’ll be Mrs. Martin, I’ve nae doot. I’ve a letter for ye. The post was late today, due to the gale and it havin’ to be brought by special ferry, but it’s come noo, and if I’m no’ mistaken, ye’ll be findin’ the key to yon cottage in it. I was juist goin’ to take it up to ye.”
He handed over a slim packet with, sure enough, a bump in it. I tore it open.
“Dorothy, hope this is the right key. Found it under umbrella stand; suspect Samantha.” (Samantha was my young Siamese, who would chase anything she could get her busy little paws on. I was lucky she’d pushed her trophy under the umbrella stand. It could just as easily have been shot into the wilderness under the refrigerator and lost forever.)
“Gorgeous weather here, last of the summer. Your asters thriving. Hope having good time. Jane.”
I chuckled. Jane’s note was so like her. Brief, businesslike, no nonsense about “Dear” or “Love.” But she’d taken considerable trouble to search my house for the key. I’d have to find her a really nice thank-you gift, which she would accept with gruff disclaimers, but would secretly treasure.
“Thank you, so much!” I beamed at the postmaster. “You were right; it is the key.” I didn’t ask how he knew about the key. I’d lived in Sherebury long enough to know that small towns in this part of the world know everything about everybody. Here in a tiny community like Iona, a person probably couldn’t snarl at her husband in bed one night without getting anxious queries about her marriage the next day. I was a little more curious about how he knew who I was, out of all the Americans on the island, but I didn’t like to ask.
“Good! It’s a fine wee cottage; ye’ll enjoy it. And may I say that’s a bonnie wee bonnet ye’ve got on?”
I’d forgotten my tam-o’-shanter, which I’d jammed on as I’d left the hotel. Well, my hats do tend to make me recognizable. I smiled my appreciation of his compliment as I made my way out the door and up the short path to the village street.
At the head of the path, I hesitated. Left or right? The sensible thing would be to go back to the hotel and collect my luggage, but I was eager to see my new domain. I turned right.
I moved along at the leisurely pace my aching muscles preferred, looking over the gardens on the seaward side of the road. On the whole, they hadn’t fared too badly in the gale. Some of the flowers had been blown off the fuchsia hedges, and the more fragile annuals and perennials lay prostrate and discouraged, but the gardens were sheltered by walls and hedges, and Iona gardeners were doubtless used to severe weather, and planted accordingly.
The houses, on the other side of the street, were the same. Here and there a slate was missing, a chimney pot askew. But the day was wearing on, and most of the damage, I imagined, had already been repaired by the hard-working householders. The houses were small and sturdily built, meant, like the gardens, to withstand the severities of life on an isolated, windswept island.
My house (I had already begun to think of it as mine) was charming. Outside it was as plain and solid as the rest, a gray stucco box with blue shutters and a little blue roof forming a tiny porch for the front door. But there was a window box under both lower front windows, planted with bright pink geraniums that seemed to have weathered the storm unperturbed, and the snowy curtains visible in the front windows promised a well-kept interior. I let myself in with anticipation.
The layout of the house was very simple. A minuscule front hall had doors leading to a small living room on one side and an even smaller dining room on the other, with the kitchen at the back. Steep, narrow stairs led to two bedrooms and a small bathroom. It was nothing more than your basic two up and two down, in fact, but made delightful by the way it was furnished—simply, even sparsely, in white, mostly, with a few bright cushions and pretty watercolors.
Someone with excellent taste had managed, in fact, to give a tiny house the feel of spaciousness and repose. No wonder Lynn loved it here. It was, to be sure, in stark contrast to her London house, which had Renoirs and Sargents on the walls, and wildly expensive (and lovely) antique furniture. It didn’t resemble my house much, either, although most of what clutters mine is just that—clutter. But contrast is part of what a vacation is all about. I was going to love it here.
I inventoried the kitchen carefully before I left. A former tenant had kindly left behind some coffee and a tin half full of tea cookies, and the basics of housekeeping—flour, sugar, salt, a few spices—came with the cottage, but I would certainly need to lay in supplies before I could actually live here. I started a list on the pad thoughtfully placed by the telephone. Bread, orange juice, eggs—no, I had to remember Tom’s heart problems, no eggs—cereal, that was it. I went on through canned soup and sandwich material for lunches, and some salmon and vegetables, stewing beef and salad stuff for a couple of dinners. That would do it until the Andersons arrived, anyway. Tucking the list in my purse, I headed joyfully out the door.
And does this mean, my nasty inner voice piped up, that you intend to forget about Bob?
I sighed. Try as I might, I couldn’t forget about Bob. But surely I could be allowed to defer the problem for a little while?
As I was nearing the Argyll Hotel, a door opened in the cottage just beyond and David MacPherson popped out, making me hope I hadn’t been muttering to myself.
“Mrs. Martin! Have ye a moment?”
“Of course, Mr. MacPherson.” I was glad to see him, actually; he just might have some news that would mean I could stop worrying. Exactly what news that might be, I didn’t stop to define.
“Would ye like to step inside for a cup of tea? My wife’s juist set it to brew.”
“That sounds very nice, thank you.” Actually, if the tea was anything like what had been in his thermos yesterday, I’d have to be very cautious and add a lot of milk, but as my father used to say with a twinkle in his eye, “Never suppress a generous impulse.”
I was introduced to Fiona, his attractive wife, and, of course, I’d already met young David. The family was just sitting down to their tea, and
I made only a token protest when I was offered fresh scones and shortbread. The tea was, indeed, too strong for my taste, but lots of milk and sugar made it drinkable, and the food was heavenly. I slathered butter on a hot scone, lumpy with currants, and told myself firmly that I deserved it. Anyway, I’d worked it off this morning. Of course I indulged in these rationalizations far too often, but this time it was justified. Sure it was. I defiantly accepted another piece of shortbread.
While we ate, the three MacPhersons kept up a gentle flow of conversation about the gale and the other villagers, whose roof had been damaged, whose garden needed work. The two men, father and son, had made it home easily in the dinghy after mooring Iolaire in the Bull Hole for the night. They plainly thought me too easily impressed by a wee blow, while I was filled with awe at the thought of anyone crossing the Sound in a small boat in that weather.
“Was the Iolaire damaged at all in the storm?”
“Nay. She’ll ride oot a wee gale like yon. She’s a good boat, Mrs. Martin, and we take good care of our boats here on Iona. For islanders, they’re a lifeline. But we’ll no’ be able to take her oot soon; there’s too big a swell for passengers.”
“Then I suppose the Coastguard hasn’t been able to—find anything. Or do you know?”
“Aye, I’ve a radio in the hoose as well as on the boat. They’ve been oot since first light, in boats and helicopters, and the police have been sairchin’ the shore, as well. They’ve no’ found anything yet.”
“Will—do you think the body will stay in the cave, or be washed out to sea?” I thought about the impression I’d had of a strong undertow.
He thought about that for a moment, and then shook his head. “I dinna know. Debris that floats, wood and that, can stay for weeks in the cave, but something heavy . . .” He shook his head again. “We’ll have to let the Coastguard sort it. It’s their job.”
I thought about Bob’s body, being dashed against the rocks, finally floating, but perhaps unrecognizable by then . . . I decided not to think about it.
Holy Terror in the Hebrides Page 8
