by Amy M. Reade
I needed to move, to keep my whole body busy. I fetched cleaning supplies from the laundry room and attacked the floor of the shop with a mop and bucket. I was viciously scrubbing a particularly persistent spot of dirt when the bell jingled. I looked up, brushing a strand of hair from my face. A woman walked into the shop. She was dressed in dark green corduroy trousers and even darker green Wellies. A tan trench coat, too big, was cinched at her waist, and she wore a drab gray hat over elbow-length brown hair. She had thick glasses, behind which protruding eyes blinked once.
“Be careful!” I warned. “I just mopped over there.” I stood up and leaned the mop against the wall, dragging the bucket behind me. “How can I help you?”
The woman looked around, then her bulging eyes came to rest on mine.
“Is Mr. Carmichael here?” she asked in a cultured English accent.
“No, but I expect him back soon. Is there something I can show you?” I swept my arm around, taking in the entire shop and gallery.
“No, I just wanted to speak to him about something. I’ll come back.”
My mind was churning. What could this woman possibly want with Seamus that she couldn’t share with me? “I’m Mrs. Carmichael,” I offered. “I’d be happy to tell him you stopped by. What is your name?”
“You’re Mrs. Carmichael? I guess I can talk to you. I’m Alice McDermott. Florian’s wife.”
“Oh, Mrs. McDermott, I’m verra sorry for your loss.” I paused for a moment, not knowing what to say next. This poor woman has been through so much.
“I came to see if your husband has any information about the night Florian died. The police aren’t sharing much with me.”
“Seamus and I have both talked to the police, and they haven’t told us very much, either. We’ve gotten more information from the local paper than the police.”
“You probably don’t know any more than I do, then. I drove all night to get here from London. I was hoping for more information,” she said, her shoulders drooping. “I’ve read the newspaper accounts of the accident online.”
My heart went out to her. She deserved to know what had happened during her husband’s final moments. She deserved to know that something was being done to find the person who killed Florian.
“Won’t you come into the kitchen and sit down, Mrs. McDermott? Can I get you some tea?”
“That would be nice, yes. And please call me Alice.”
Alice was still there when Seamus came home an hour later. I introduced them and they chatted in the kitchen for a long time while I tended to customers in the store. We were starting to see a more steady flow of tourist traffic because the name of the shop had been on the television news, somehow connected with the death of a stranger from London. It didn’t matter that we knew nothing about the “accident.” Simply being in the news was enough to draw a crowd through our doors, and Seamus and I weren’t complaining.
That afternoon Alice asked shyly if I would mind driving her to the scene of Florian’s accident so she could see the place where her husband breathed his last. She was surprised by the narrowness of the road Florian was driving the night he died, by the twists and turns leading drivers past Cauld Loch on one side and thick woods on the other.
We spent a long time at the scene. The police had removed the yellow crime scene tape, so Alice was free to wander around without worrying about destroying any evidence. The trees, which had been broken in the accident, lay strewn in her path. She picked her way over them carefully, her long hair becoming tangled in the riotous green growth of the forest. I was self-conscious watching her, so I left her to her private grief while I waited in my car. She didn’t say anything on the ride home, except to thank me for taking her.
Alice stayed for dinner that evening. Seamus cooked while the three of us talked about Florian.
“We didn’t have any children,” Alice told us. “And his parents and sister have all passed away.”
I nodded solemnly, trying to imagine what it would be like to live through such a tragedy alone.
“I just wish you could go home with more information,” I said, shaking my head.
“I suppose I didn’t really expect to learn much,” Alice said. Her eyes gleamed with the sheen of unshed tears. “I just wish I understood why he felt the need to come up here.”
“He was looking for a painting that reminded him of his childhood,” Seamus said, stirring the contents of a pan on the stove.
“Did he find one?” she asked.
“Aye, he did. A beauty by an old Scot named William Leighton Leitch.”
“And he bought it?”
“Aye, but it wasn’t among the wreckage,” Seamus said.
“What do you think happened to it?”
Seamus pulled on his beard. “I’ve no idea. Looks like someone took it from the scene of the crash.”
“Who would do such a thing?” Alice asked, her eyes wide.
“I don’t know,” Seamus answered. “The painting wasn’t even in good shape.”
“I wish I could have seen it. I would love to see what he chose to connect him to his childhood in the Highlands.”
“I can tell you about it, and I can probably find a reproduction online, but I’m afraid you can’t see the real thing until the police find it.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I don’t know its real name, but I called it ‘Old Kirk in the Field.’ There’s an old, crumbling stone church in a wood. An old woman is gathering flowers in front of the church. The painting had lots of yellows, greens, and browns. It wasn’t in the best shape—it had a tear in one corner and the paint was rather faded, as happens over time when paintings aren’t cared for properly.”
“It sounds lovely,” Alice said.
“It was,” Seamus said.
“How did you come to have it?”
“I found it in a store in Edinburgh. Just happened to go in on a lark. Wasn’t even hung up. It was on the floor, leaning against the wall. As I told the other man who was interested in buying it, I’m sure the shop owner didn’t realize what a treasure he had there on the floor.”
“There was someone else interested in buying it?” Alice asked.
“Aye, but I gave Florian first dibs, so the man left empty-handed the next morning.”
“It was very kind of you to offer it to Florian. I’m sure he appreciated that.” She gave us a tired smile, a faraway look in her eyes. Then she fixed her gaze on Seamus. “Do you suppose the other man had anything to do with Florian’s death?”
“Don’t see how he could have,” Seamus answered. “He didn’t find out that I had sold the painting to Florian until the next morning, and by then, according to the police, Florian had already been in the accident.”
She grimaced. “Who would steal something from the scene of a fatal accident?”
Seamus came over to the table with a dish bearing three pieces of fish. “I’m sure the police will find the painting, Mrs. McDermott,” he said in his most soothing voice. “It may take a wee bit of time, though.” Alice merely shook her head.
“Alice, you must be exhausted. We’ve kept you here all day. Do you have a place to stay tonight?” I asked.
“No, I was going to drive back to London.”
“That’s an eight-hour drive! You’ll be driving all night,” I scolded. “You can stay here.”
Alice demurred at first, but finally agreed to stay in the guest room. “I’ll just go right to bed after dinner and be out of your hair first thing in the morning,” she assured us.
“Och, don’t worry about that,” Seamus boomed, happy to be moving away from emotional territory and toward more practical matters. I smiled, knowing how much he hated being in the room when women were getting tired and teary. “I’ll clean up dinner whilst you and Sylvie make sure you have everything you need.”
Alice accompanied me to the guest room and I left her watching television after making sure she had blankets and towels. Seamus and I retired early, not want
ing to be in the living room where our voices might bother our guest.
Once in bed, we talked about our visitor in low tones “Do you think she’ll be all right driving to London by herself?” I asked. “It’s such a long drive.”
“She made the drive up here okay, love. I’m sure she’ll be fine going back,” Seamus answered in a loud whisper.
“I wonder if they’ll ever recover that painting,” I said.
“Who knows?” Seamus replied, turning over onto his side. “Don’t exhaust yourself asking questions that have no answer, love.”
CHAPTER 5
Alice left early the next morning after a quick breakfast of porridge and tea. Seamus hadn’t even opened the shop when she pulled away from the house, giving us a limp wave as she drove out of sight.
“Poor thing,” I said, shaking my head.
“You need to stay busy today, love,” Seamus told me. “Why don’t you finish your collage and we’ll get it hung up?”
I was in a better frame of mind to finish my project that day, and it was hung up by mid-afternoon. Hairy Highland cows stared at me from the gallery wall, their huge brown eyes watching placidly as I greeted customers. I smiled every time I caught a glimpse of those wonderful cows.
Later that evening, Greer called. Seamus had joined Callum for a pint at the pub and I had the evening to myself.
“What’s new?” she asked. I gave her all the details of Alice’s sad visit. “Sounds like she’s lost. Looking for anything that could connect her to her husband in death. So sad,” Greer said, her voice quiet.
“I felt awful for her,” I said.
“Any fallout from that receipt?”
I was surprised by the question. I hadn’t even thought about it since the night before Alice arrived. “You know, it completely left my mind.”
“Good. Let it stay out of your mind. I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“I think I would know if Seamus was up to no good. I mean, we live and work together, right? I’m bound to know everything he’s doing.” I laughed. It had been silly of me to suspect Seamus.
Greer laughed along with me, then we talked about our mum, who had told Greer that I never invited her to visit. That meant two things: First, Mum and Greer had been talking about me, and second, it was time to invite Mum up to the Highlands.
Seamus called after I hung up with Greer. He wanted me to meet him and Callum at the pub. On the way I stopped at Eilidh’s house and invited her to go with me.
“Sure!” she agreed. She pulled on her coat and locked the door, then turned and linked her arm through mine. “What’s wrong, Sylvie?”
I told her all about Alice’s visit, from her arrival to the minute she left almost twenty-four hours later. “I just can’t seem to get her out of my head. The whole thing is so verra sad.”
“Why would she want to see the place where her husband died?” Eilidh asked, giving an exaggerated shiver. “Seems morbid, if you ask me.”
“Wouldn’t you want to see where Callum died if he died far away from home?”
She slapped my upper arm lightly. “Bite yer tongue, Sylvie. It’s bad luck to talk like that.”
“Well, wouldn’t you?” I persisted.
“Maybe,” she relented. She bit her bottom lip. “But I wouldn’t want to stay all day then spend the night with strangers, especially if they were the last ones to see him.”
“I think she felt just the opposite. I think it was comforting for her to ask us about his last hours, since we knew what he was doing and where he was staying.”
“Twisted.”
“Och, Eilidh. You just can’t put yourself in other people’s shoes.”
“I can, too. If there’s one thing I have, it’s sympathy.”
“The word is empathy, and I don’t know if you have any.” Elidih’s mother and my mother were sisters. We had grown up just down the road from each other and spent our childhoods together. That’s why Eilidh and I could talk to each other—or bicker—like sisters.
An endearing frown appeared on her face. She looked at the ground and I knew I had been too harsh. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “I just think it was good for Alice to spend some time with us.”
“That’s okay,” she said, giving my arm a squeeze.
When we arrived at the pub Seamus and Callum were holding court in the back, laughing with a group of men over a game of darts. Seamus waved us over.
“What took ye so long?” he asked in a loud voice. He pecked my cheek. “Why the long face, love?” he asked.
“Alice.” I didn’t say any more. I wriggled out of my coat and motioned for the server to bring me a pint. Eilidh ordered a glass of wine. The game of darts ended and Seamus asked me if I wanted to join the next one.
“Sure,” I told him. The men started to hoot, but Seamus shushed them. “She’s better than most of you scunners,” he said to a chorus of raucous laughter. I stepped forward, my toes touching the line on the floor. I stood still for a moment, judging where the dart needed to go, then I let it fly.
Bull’s-eye.
The men, including Seamus and Callum, gave a collective shout of surprise. I had earned their respect with one flick of my wrist. Eilidh stood by, her hand over her mouth. “How did you do that?” she asked in wonder.
“Easy. Just takes practice,” I answered. “Want to try?”
“Okay.” She smiled and set her wineglass down on the closest table. Callum handed her a dart and she stepped up to the line. She drew back the dart and threw it hard toward the wall. It turned sideways and bounced off the dartboard, falling to the floor with a tinny thud. A sympathetic murmur rose from the group. Eilidh picked up her glass and took a sip of wine. “How did you get so good at this game?” she asked me once the next man was taking his turn.
“Seamus got me a dart set for Christmas one year and showed me how to use it. It was set up in our flat in Edinburgh. I’ll have to get that out and put it up. Maybe on the patio. That would be fun,” I mused.
“You’ll have to show me how to play,” Eilidh said, swirling the wine in her glass. “I stink at it.”
“I’ll teach you, and you’ll be beating these fellows before you know it,” I promised. I glanced at Seamus, who was tilting his head back, laughing at a joke one of his friends had told. Eilidh watched the men play darts with a thin-lipped smile, obviously wishing she could play well enough to be invited into the game again. Several times, Seamus or Callum or one of the others called me over to take my turn, but after each turn I went back to sit with her. We chatted about the things I’d bought in Edinburgh and how Greer and James were doing. Eilidh wanted to know all about Greer’s reluctance to marry James. We also talked about the flowers she wanted to plant in the spring and where she should look for a job as a bookkeeper. She had been out of work for months, and her attempts to find a new job had met with no success. In addition to his part-time job, Callum worked for a construction firm, so he was often at work. Eilidh was getting bored at home, waiting for a job to open up.
At the end of the evening, after I had soundly defeated all the men at darts, Seamus flung his arm over my shoulders and kept it there the whole way home. Callum and Eilidh took their leave of us as we passed their cottage, both of them waving as they disappeared into their darkened living room.
“That Eilidh isn’t much fun when she’s out of the house, is she?” Seamus asked after we had walked a short distance from their house.
“She just doesn’t know what to say or do around other people,” I explained. “She’s a bit of a homebody, and that’s where she’s happiest, around Callum and us.”
“She’s a wee wet blanket, if you ask me,” Seamus said.
“She can’t help it. She doesn’t see much of Callum, she’s bored at home, and she’s discouraged because she can’t find a job.” The hills and valleys of my emotions over the last couple days were taking their toll, and my eyes glistened with tears as I looked up at his face.
“You’re not crying now, love,
are you?” he asked, a touch of hesitance in his voice. I laughed, knowing he was lost when women cried.
“No, just sniffling a bit,” I answered, reaching up to hold the hand draped on my shoulder. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”
CHAPTER 6
Our lives went back to normal for about a week, with the exception of the welcome increase in visitors to our shop due to our recent mentions on the television news. Then came the chilly spring day when a man walked into the gallery and announced that he was there to see Seamus.
Seamus was in the shop tending to another customer, but as soon as he finished I called him into the gallery.
“Mr. Carmichael? My name is Felix Barnaby, and I own the Lundenburg Gallery in London. I’m on holiday, staying in Edinburgh, but I wanted to come up here to talk to you about showing your paintings in my gallery.”
Seamus’s mouth gaped. Even I had heard of the Lundenburg Gallery. It was known worldwide for its forward-looking artists and quality, eclectic exhibits.
“Aye, sir, I would be honored!” Seamus declared, pumping Felix’s hand over and over.
“I saw some of your work in a shop in Edinburgh, and the owner of the place told me you’re the type of person who has to be seen to be believed.” He grinned. “I agree. At least physically, you’re definitely not the type of artist I’m used to working with.”
“Och, I expect not,” Seamus said, his eyes squinting from his wide smile.
“That’s exactly what I’m looking for. My gallery needs an infusion of new blood, and you seem to fit the bill perfectly. From what I’ve seen, your paintings are incomparable. Do you mind if I take a look around?”
“Not at all. Please,” Seamus said with a sweep of his arm, “make yourself at home. Care for some tea? Or a dram?”
“I’ll take tea, please. Black.”
Seamus looked at me with pleading eyes, probably remembering all the times I’d told him that waitressing was not in my job description. But this time was different—I could see how excited Seamus was, how he longed to talk to Felix, how he wanted to be available to answer questions or offer commentary on his paintings. I gave him a quick wink and disappeared into the kitchen to put on the kettle.
