Floss returned with a plate of warm scones and homemade jam and set them on the table in front of us. Harold followed along behind and began stocking the already overflowing shelves with Turkish delights.
“So what’s the word around town about Siobhán’s changes to the Stag?” I asked. If anyone had a finger on the pulse of the village, it would be Floss.
“Ach, there’s always a few that sees no good in anything, but most folks are fine with it. Should be a bit of extra business for all the high street shops.”
Patrick flashed a smug grin as best he could while tucking into a jammy scone. “Might even draw in a few visitors to the first-rate single malt whisky distillery just down the road,” Patrick offered, wiping crumbs from his lips and trying hard to look for all the world as if this thought had only just occurred to him.
“Shut up and eat your scone,” I murmured.
I was glad to see that news of the body at the Stag hadn’t reached the high street. If it had, Floss would’ve been all over it like a wooly jumper. I was glad not to have to discuss the matter yet. Something about the discovery was disquieting, but I hadn’t had a moment alone to consider what it was.
“Any other big news?” I asked.
“Well, now,” Floss said enthusiastically. “We’ve got ourselves a local mystery man. Came all the way from South America to rent Willy MacGregor’s place on the north side of town. Can you imagine?” Floss moved closer and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “They say ’e’s some kind of artist. Turned the barn into a studio, from what I hear. ’Spect we’ll have a bunch of naked models running around before long.”
“He may not be that kind of artist,” Patrick interjected with a shadow of a smile.
“I suppose.” Floss looked faintly disappointed, but not as disappointed as Harold.
“He came all the way from South America to rent a farm here?” I asked. “Why?”
“No one knows. “ ’E’s a real loner. Hardly shows ’is face in the village at all.”
“Does he have family here?” Patrick asked.
“None that we know of,” Harold contributed from the corner. “He ’as got one of them fancy American cars with the roof that peels off. Frank at the DIY’s sure he’s one of them drug lords you hear about on the telly. Thinks he’s hidin’ ’ere to get away from the mob.”
“You don’t say.” If I looked at Patrick, I knew I’d lose my struggle to keep a straight face.
Floss was clearly anxious to continue her part of the narrative. “Like I said, ’e almost never comes to the village, but guess what?” She paused briefly for effect. “He popped in here for a coffee t’other day and was asking after you,” she finished with a flourish.
“Me?” I said, nearly choking on my coffee.
“Aye, said that the two of you ’ad a mutual friend.”
I did a quick inventory of my questionable acquaintances, but none were based in South America. “I can’t imagine who it could be,” I said, frowning, “or what he’d want with me.”
Patrick leered at me. “So many possibilities.”
“I tried to get ’im to leave a message, but ’e wouldn’t. Told me he’d be in touch with you direct like,” Floss said. “You simply must go and meet ’im. I mean, it’d be rude not to go, wouldn’t it?” After a moment’s thought she added, “Do be careful, mind. Better take Liam along just in case.”
Floss was apparently happy to send me off to see a drug lord in order to satisfy the neighborhood curiosity, as long as I took the dog—the dog that was currently snoring at my feet and drooling on my shoe. Luckily for Floss, the journalist in me was intrigued by the stranger.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” I promised.
Once again it seemed my tranquil backwater was not as tranquil as it would seem. If I could sort out the dead body at the pub, the drug dealer on the hill, and the impending invasion of the Japanese distillers, maybe I could get a few moments’ rest. Then again, maybe not.
PHOTO: MARION MEAKEM PHOTOGRAPHY
MELINDA MULLET was born in the United States to two British parents. After many years in the legal trenches she is happy to be known as a former lawyer, a travel junkie, and a lifelong advocate for children’s literacy causes, both domestic and international. Melinda lives just outside of Washington, D.C., with her whisky-collecting husband, two extraordinary young women she is proud to call her daughters, and an obedience school dropout named MacAllen. Single Malt Murder is her debut novel.
melindamullet.com
@mulletmysteries
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