by Amy M. Reade
Thoughts of me confronting Seamus swirled around inside my head. He was brawny and much bigger than I—I would be no match for him. The entire pathetic scene played out in my mind. I pictured Eilidh, having searched for me for two days, forcing her way into my house and finding my body on the bathroom floor. I thought of my mother and how she would react when she got the phone call that I had been killed in my own home, probably by my husband, her beloved son-in-law. Greer would have to wait until Ellie was older to tell the dear child that her aunt had been the victim of a homicide committed by Uncle Seamus, an ex-convict who couldn’t be trusted.
It wasn’t long before I was in a full-blown panic. I shook my head to dislodge the ugly thoughts; it did nothing but intensify my headache. Headaches like this didn’t strike me very often, but ever since I had suffered the concussion I got them whenever I was under a lot of stress or hadn’t gotten enough sleep, both of which were happening now.
I opened the door leading to our small conservatory off the kitchen and lay down on the settee, closing my eyes in the darkness, willing my headache to disappear. About an hour later I was still lying there, rocking from side to side, when Seamus opened the door and turned on the light.
“Turn it off, please,” I moaned.
“Sylvie, what’s wrong? Why are you out here?” he asked as he switched off the light.
“My head is killing me,” I said.
“Why aren’t you in bed?”
My mind filled anew with pictures from the television show and my own vivid imagination. “I couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to wake you up.” That was true, though a little misleading. My desire to let him sleep had nothing to do with my thoughtfulness and everything to do with my survival. Somehow I had convinced myself that Seamus was going to kill me when he found out I knew his secret. Damn that television show.
“Come to bed, Sylvie. You’ll feel better if you sleep in your own bed.” He reached for my hand and helped me back into the bedroom. I lay down on the bed, protesting that I didn’t want to disturb him, but he was adamant that I try to sleep in there. “The sun will wake you up at dawn in that conservatory, love,” he said. “You can have a lie-in tomorrow morning if you sleep in here. It’ll be darker.”
I couldn’t argue any longer. The pain in my head was excruciating and all I wanted to do was sleep until the headache was gone. I heard him creep to his side of the bed and crawl under the covers carefully, trying not to disturb me. Eventually I fell asleep.
When I awoke the next morning the blinds were closed and I could hear birds singing outside. I moved gingerly in case my head still hurt, but my headache seemed to have disappeared. It took me just a moment to recall what had happened the previous night, and when I remembered my stomach lurched. I opened the blinds and looked out on a sunny day. The gorse below our bedroom window was beginning to bloom, its bright yellow flowers mocking my sour mood.
I looked at the clock. Seamus would have opened the shop and gallery two hours ago and was probably manning both by himself. I checked my phone for texts—there had been none since the texts with Eilidh last night. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and passed through the kitchen to the gallery, grabbing a cup of tea on my way.
Sure enough, Seamus was in the gallery, discussing one of his paintings with a prospective buyer. Once a customer showed a real interest Seamus’s artwork, I usually called him in from the shop so he could talk to them about it. A conversation with the artist often tipped the customers’ indecision and convinced them to buy a painting, and this customer was no exception. She bought one of Seamus’s smaller paintings of a Highland snowstorm. He wrapped it for her and extended his hand in thanks. The high color in her cheeks told me she was delighted to meet the artist in person.
When the woman had left, clutching the painting under her arm, Seamus turned to me and kissed my cheek, giving me a concerned look. “How’re ye feeling today, love?”
“A little better, I guess. Can you mind things here for a bit whilst I run over to Eilidh’s? She has some herbal tea I’d like to try.”
“Of course. Take your time.” He gave me a long look through narrowed eyes. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
I nodded. “Still a bit groggy, I guess.” I hoped he wouldn’t guess that I knew about the receipt before I could talk the whole thing over with Eilidh.
Her house was just up the road, and she was expecting me. Even before I was in the house she asked, “What’s going on?”
I told her about finding the receipt in Seamus’s pocket and his dubious story about picking it up to throw away later. Then I told her he had taken the receipt out of the bin after I left the room. She cocked her head. “Are ye sure of all this?”
“Positive. I searched that bin and the receipt isn’t there. He’s the only one who could have taken it out.”
“I wonder what he’s all about,” she mused.
“Then you don’t think I’m a nutter for doubting his story?”
She shook her head. “No. He’s definitely up to something.”
My lip twitched, which it did whenever I was concentrating on a problem. “Seamus isn’t a secretive person, though. He’s always been straightforward, even when he’s talking about something that might hurt me.”
“Maybe it’s something different this time.”
I thought about the dreadful television show I had watched and voiced the words we were probably both thinking. “Do you think there’s another woman?”
The pitiful look Eilidh turned on me made my knees tremble. She didn’t have to answer my question. She suspected another woman, too.
“I’ll kill him,” I said between clenched teeth.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions, Sylvie,” Eilidh warned. “It could be something entirely different.”
“Such as?”
She fumbled her words. “Well, maybe… maybe he’s… saving to get you a gift.”
“There’s an awful lot of money in that account, Eilidh,” I said. “What gift could he possibly get me that’s so expensive?”
“A new house?”
“No way. We love our house. Neither one of us wants to move.” I paused, wondering if one of us would be moving out in the future. What if the other woman moves in? I shook my head to reassure myself. If anyone is moving out, it’s Seamus. Damn him.
“A boat? Maybe a posh trip somewhere?”
“You know we’re not the type to take posh trips,” I said, rolling my eyes. So far Eilidh wasn’t being much help. “What do you think I should do?”
“You want me to follow him?”
“What are you, a detective? Follow him where?”
“I don’t know. Wherever he goes.”
“The only place he goes without me is the pub, and then he goes with Callum.”
“Want me to check his search history whilst you two are out?”
Should I ask her to do that? “Maybe,” I replied. I was reluctant. I trusted Seamus. Or at least I used to. “Aye, that might be a good idea,” I said after a moment.
Eilidh leaned forward, almost gleeful. “When should I do it?”
I hesitated. “Let me think about it. I don’t know.” I needed to talk to someone else. Greer.
I mumbled to Eilidh about forgetting something at the gallery and left in a hurry. She gave me a bewildered look as I bolted past her.
I ran back to my house, but stopped before I got to the gallery door. What would I say to Seamus when he asked where the tea was? Would he ask why I was out of breath? I didn’t know where to turn. I had to find a private place to call Greer.
I had left my car keys on my bureau, so I went around to the back of the house, hoping Seamus hadn’t seen me from inside the shop. I went in through the back door, stole through the kitchen, and tiptoed into the bedroom. I grabbed the car keys, scrawled a note for Seamus in the kitchen telling him I had to go for groceries, and left. I drove through two villages before I felt calm enough to stop by the side of the road and shut
off the engine. I pulled out my phone, praying there was mobile service, and dialed Greer’s number.
No answer. I should have expected that, given her busy schedule.
I sighed and slumped back against the driver’s seat. What was I going to do? Part of me wanted to cry and scream and go home to my mother, part of me wanted to kill Seamus, and part of me just wanted information about the bank account.
I sat there for several minutes, wondering how I should behave when I got home. Should I give Seamus the cold shoulder? Should I pretend nothing was wrong? Should I light into him as soon as I got through the door, demanding to know more about that receipt?
I sat lost in thought until the mobile rang. It was Greer.
“Hi. Sorry I missed your call. What’s new?”
I took a deep breath, suddenly feeling silly about everything.
“Sylvie? You all right? What’s wrong?” She sounds like Mum.
“I think Seamus is cheating on me,” I said in a rush.
“What?!” she exclaimed. “What makes you think that?”
I told her the story of the receipt. She listened without interrupting. When I had poured out all of my suspicions she asked, “Do you think you might be overreacting a bit?”
I leaned forward and put my head against the steering wheel. “I don’t know. Maybe I am. That’s why I called you, to get some perspective.”
“Maybe you need to take a step back and think about this before you go jumping to conclusions.”
“But don’t you think the whole thing is weird?”
“I don’t know. What if he took that receipt out of the recycling bin and shredded it to keep someone stranger’s bank information private? It would be like him to try to protect someone else from identity theft. You shred receipts, don’t you? We always shred any receipts we don’t need.”
I thought for a moment. “I guess he could have done that.”
“It’s the most likely explanation.”
I leaned back against the headrest, feeling more relaxed. Greer had given me just what I needed—a reality check. Of course Seamus had shredded the receipt to protect the identity of whoever dropped it. The thought of him lying and cheating had filled me with sadness, rage, and self-pity. I smiled for the first time in hours.
“I feel so much better. Thanks.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
When I returned home, Seamus was looking for me. “Where’d ye go?”
“I had to run to the grocery store.” Just one last lie, so he wouldn’t know I had left in a panic to call Greer.
“Is everything all right?”
I smiled at him, relieved that Greer had talked some sense into me. “Fine.”
“Headache gone?”
“Yes. I feel much better.”
“Care to go to the pub for lunch?”
“Sure.” The morning waned. We took care of a few more customers, then put out the “Be Back Soon” sign on the front door and walked handin-hand to the pub. I ordered the onion soup, Seamus had a giant burger and chips. We sat at a table for two in the back, and we were enjoying each other’s company when Seamus’s mobile phone rang.
It was our solicitor, Mr. Howe. Seamus covered the mouthpiece.
“The constable wants both of us to go to the station to give statements about the day Florian was in the shop.” He spoke into the phone again. “Will you meet us there?”
He rang off a moment later. “He’ll meet us there.”
“Why does the constable need statements from us?” I asked.
“I don’t know. There must be something they’re not telling us.”
The light mood had vanished, replaced by pensive thoughts and, in my case, anxiety over whether the constable would grill Seamus about his past.
After we closed the shop and the gallery for the evening we drove to the police station. Once we got there the police took us into separate rooms, probably so they could compare our stories about Florian. The detective questioned Seamus first, and then it was my turn. Mr. Howe sat in with both of us while we were questioned.
I wasn’t able to give them much; Seamus had been the one dealing with Florian. I had only met him for a few moments. The police asked if I spoke to Florian’s wife, Alice, and also if I had any other information. I told them that Florian drove to and from our home without headlamps, and that he had paid for his purchase with a large wad of cash. The officer seemed to find those revelations interesting, but I wasn’t able to provide any further information.
Having cautioned the police to contact him again if they needed to conduct further questioning, Mr. Howe left. Seamus and I compared notes on the way home. Seamus had also mentioned to the police that Florian had arrived without his headlamps on, and he recalled cautioning Florian because the highland roads were twisty and narrow. I had forgotten Seamus’s warning, and either Florian forgot, too, or he ignored it. I wondered if Florian’s decision to drive without lights had cost him his life.
“I asked questions, but the police wouldn’t tell me anything about the crash,” Seamus said.
“I didn’t even ask. I was so afraid that we were going to be charged with something that I wasn’t even thinking about the way Florian died.”
“I’ve been wondering about it ever since we heard.”
“I assumed it was just a one-car accident.”
We hadn’t eaten dinner, so we sat down for a late meal when we got home. It was the first chance I’d had to look at the local paper, which had been delivered early in the morning, and I sat down to peruse it while Seamus fried eggs and potatoes in a skillet.
“Seamus, look at this. There’s an article about Florian in here.”
He came and stood behind me, reading over my shoulder.
The driver involved in Wednesday’s fatal one-car crash outside Cauld Loch on the village road has been identified by police as 57-year-old Florian McDermott of London. It is unknown at this time what caused McDermott to drive his car into a tree by the side of the road, but the crash scene is under investigation. According to McDermott’s wife, McDermott was visiting the Highlands in search of a piece of artwork.
I looked up at Seamus. “This doesn’t shed too much light on what we already knew.”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t Callum know everyone in the village? I should ask him what’s going on in the constable’s office. It seems like they’re doing a lot of investigating for a one-car accident. I mean, for us to be questioned separately is unusual.”
“Call him up,” I suggested. Seamus looked at his watch.
“I’ll call him in the morning. Let’s eat.”
It had been a long day. I fell into bed, exhausted. Seamus put his arm around me as I drifted off.
There was another article about Florian in the paper the next morning. “Here, read this,” I told Seamus as he brought two bowls of porridge to the table. He read the short paragraph aloud.
Police have determined that the one-car accident two days ago involving London resident Florian McDermott may have involved foul play. The circumstances of the crash continue to be investigated.
He put the paper down and looked at me. “Now we know why we’ve been questioned,” he said.
“Do they think we actually had something to do with it?” I asked.
“I doubt it. It worries me, though. We’re probably the last people who saw him alive.”
I shivered. “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” I said in a quiet voice. I lapsed into silence, wondering about Florian’s last moments. “I hope he didn’t suffer,” I said after a long pause.
“Me too,” Seamus said.
“Why would someone have caused Florian’s crash on purpose?”
“I don’t know. We’ll probably find out, though, either from the police or from the newspaper. It seems to be a more urgent story now that the police think it was more than just an accident.”
“Someone must have known he was up here in the Highlands.” I shivered again. “Whoever it
was must have been following him. That means the person must have been right outside the night Florian died. Och, I can’t stand thinking about it.”
“It’s possible, I suppose. But there are lots of things that could have happened. Maybe some drunk ran him down. Maybe Florian complained about a meal or miffed someone at his bed and breakfast and they decided to get back at him. It could have happened in a million ways and for a million different reasons. We shouldn’t assume there was a killer lurking outside our home, waiting for Florian to leave.” Seamus’s voice was hard. I think he was trying to convince himself of his words, too.
“But the painting was gone. Doesn’t that suggest that whoever was responsible for Florian’s accident wanted the painting? What about the man who was in here the next morning? Maybe he wasn’t in London, like he said when he called. Maybe he was already in Cauld Loch. Maybe he followed Florian to steal the painting.”
Seamus shrugged. “The cop who questioned me mentioned that I knew the value of the painting. He implied that I might have sold the painting, pocketed the money, and then killed Florian to get the painting back because it was by one of the Scottish masters.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “And you didn’t think to tell me this?” My voice was an octave higher than usual.
“Sylvie, calm down. It won’t help to get all riled up. Mr. Howe made him stop that line of questioning. We have to stay calm.” He spoke quietly, as if someone could hear us.
“And what did he say about it? Is he concerned?”
“Aye. I have a meeting with him this morning. I’ll talk to him whilst you mind the shop, if that’s okay with you.”
He left an hour later. I didn’t know what to do with myself afterwards. At first there were no customers, so I tried to stay busy working on my cow collage. But after I spilled the glue, ripped one of my prints, and tripped over the leg of my work table, I decided it was time to put the art supplies away and do something else.
