by Amy M. Reade
Seamus gave an unsure smile. “I hope so.”
“Is it common knowledge that Scotland Yard is asking questions about Seamus?” I asked.
“Probably not, but it’s pretty easy to search for a particular person online. If anyone planning to come to the opening looks up Seamus, it might be there.”
I whipped out my mobile phone and punched the internet app. I did a search for “Seamus Carmichael” and his web page, along with several pages of mentions and information, popped up. “Nothing about Scotland Yard, as far as I can tell,” I said, “but there’s no telling what might be there by morning.”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about any of it,” Felix said with a sigh. He signaled to the waiter. “We’d like three coffees, please.”
I didn’t want coffee and the last thing Seamus needed was caffeine, but neither of us spoke up. I didn’t touch mine, but Seamus drank his dutifully. Felix and Seamus talked while I sat in silence, wondering what Scotland Yard had learned about Florian and his accident.
Should I call Scotland Yard? No. What could I possibly tell them? I rubbed my temples. Seamus noticed.
“Are you getting a headache, love?”
“I think so,” I replied in a tired voice.
“Go on back to the hotel and lie down. I’ll get you a cab. I’ll be along later, after Felix and I have talked.” He excused himself and left to hail a taxi while I gathered my jacket and handbag.
“Feel better, Sylvie,” Felix said. I managed a wan smile.
“Thanks, Felix. See you at the opening tomorrow.”
Seamus managed to hail a cab. He paid the driver in advance and directed him to take me to our hotel straightaway. I was grateful.
When Seamus climbed into bed several hours later, my headache was in full force. I moaned as he lay down.
“What did Felix say?” I mumbled.
“Just more about the opening,” he said quietly. “You need to sleep. Stop talking.”
I didn’t need the advice repeated. I turned over and slept, waking up without a headache and in good spirits. How I wish Seamus had been able to do the same. He told me the next morning that the coffee had done its work and he was restless all night long. He was in a foul mood, and I told him so before he left for the gallery.
“You’d better practice being charming before you get to Lundenburg,” I told him. “You’ve been nothing but cross since you got up.”
“It’s because of that coffee,” he snarled. But I suspected it was more than that—he was unnerved that Scotland Yard had been asking about him.
As Seamus was preparing to leave for the gallery there was a knock at the door. He yanked it open and gave a start when he saw that both men standing in the doorway held badges from Scotland Yard. I looked at them in surprise. I didn’t even have time to get nervous about their visit before Seamus invited them in. They sat on the couch and motioned for Seamus and me to sit opposite them on the foot of our bed, then they proceeded to ask us questions about Florian, the events on the night he had died, and the painting he had bought. They didn’t seem interested in Seamus or me as suspects in Florian’s death, and their visit ended cordially and quickly.
After Seamus had closed the door behind them he turned to stare at me. “What do you make of that?” he asked.
“It seems like they’re just gathering information. I felt strangely at ease whilst we talked to them,” I answered.
“So did I. I’ve been wondering when they would show up, and now that they’ve been and gone I feel much better.”
“Good. Now maybe you won’t be so grouchy.”
He smiled, his good humor restored, and left for the gallery.
Left to myself, I formed a plan of action for the day. I was to meet Seamus, Felix, and the rest of the gallery’s employees at Lundenburg early in the evening. Felix thought it would be a good idea for me to attend the opening cocktail party with the important, wealthy clients so I could regale them with stories about Seamus.
But that was hours away; I had plenty of time to put my plan into action. First, I searched online for Seamus’s name again. There it was—a brief mention in a gossip column that said that officers from Scotland Yard had visited Lundenburg Gallery. There was no speculation about the reason for the officers’ visit, just a tantalizing item that was sure to invite juicy gossip about their presence.
Next, I placed a call to Scotland Yard. I had no idea how to find the people in charge of the investigation, so I was put on hold again and again until I was finally connected with one of the detectives who had visited Lundenburg Gallery the previous day. As I had feared, he was “not at liberty to divulge any details of the investigation.”
So I was stuck. But all the discussion and worry about the investigation had made me start wondering again about Florian’s wife. I was concerned about Alice and hoped she was beginning to recover from the shock of her husband’s death. I pictured her back in our Highlands shop, lethargic, her big eyes confused and unbelieving.
She had given me her address when she visited. I scanned my list of contacts until I found her, then put her address into the GPS on my mobile phone. Her house was in Highgate, over three miles from our hotel. I decided to walk—that would use up some of my nervous energy.
It was a beautiful day. Summer solstice, the longest day of the year. A warm breeze bore me gently along the bustling streets as I made my way from King’s Cross toward Highgate. Not having spent much time in London, I was unfamiliar with its various sections and neighborhoods. The actual city of London, I had learned, was a one-square-mile area in the center of a much larger metropolitan area. I passed through lovely neighborhoods with homes behind trees coming into full leaf, run-down areas with flats stacked one on top of another like children’s blocks, and areas with expanses of parks and gardens.
I stopped for a cup of tea at one quaint shop. As I sat at a tiny sidewalk table I decided I would ring up Alice and let her know I was coming. She seemed glad to hear from me and suggested that we meet for lunch at a café in Highgate rather than at her house. I continued on my way, looking forward to lunch at the end of this walk.
As I moved closer to Highgate, the streets became less crowded. People living this far from the city center, I presumed, would take the Tube or other public transportation. The detached homes were spaced a wee bit farther apart, and the buildings of flats were larger and surrounded by more trees.
The village of Highgate sat atop a hill. Walking up the incline, I almost didn’t notice my breath coming faster as I gazed at the beautiful buildings, the churches, and the lovely shops and cafés I passed.
I found the café easily. It was a small restaurant, with al fresco dining in a shaded English garden behind the stone walls of the building. It was charming, with dappled sunlight glowing among shrubs and groupings of plants covered in tiny pastel blooms. Alice had asked me to meet her in the garden. She wasn’t there when I arrived, so I chose a table by a tinkling fountain and took several photos with my mobile phone while I waited for her.
She arrived shortly, stepping out of the café and onto the flagstones of the garden in black trousers that were a tad too short, a white peasant blouse, and black brogues. Her long brown hair hung loosely down her back as it had when she visited our shop. I thought she would look much nicer if she cut her hair and wore it in a more modern style, then felt ashamed for silently criticizing her appearance. Her huge eyes blinked behind thick glasses as she walked toward me. I stood and shook her hand, feeling that a hug would be too familiar and unwanted, then motioned for her to take the seat opposite mine.
“I hope it’s okay to sit here,” I began. “It’s such a pretty spot, and we can hear the water from the fountain.”
“That’s fine,” she said. “It’s my favorite table.”
We sat in silence for several moments, both of us looking around the garden. I suddenly felt awkward—maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea. I shifted my gaze back to the table and found her looking
at me.
“I…I just thought you might like to have a bit of company. I’m in London for a couple weeks, so I had the idea to ring you up and see how you’re doing.”
“Thank you. I’m doing all right, all things considered.”
“Have you gotten out much?”
She nodded. “A little bit.”
“Have you heard any more about the accident?” I wanted to ask her if she knew Scotland Yard was investigating Florian’s death, but I didn’t want to upset her.
“Not really. Scotland Yard has taken it over. They don’t share details of their investigations.”
“So you know about Scotland Yard. I didn’t want to mention it for fear it would upset you.”
She waved a hand limply, as if to shoo the idea away. “I know about it. I was probably the first person they interviewed. They wanted to know how well we got on, if we ever had rows, that kind of thing.”
“I can’t believe it! Did they actually think you had something to do with his accident?”
She gave a half-hearted shrug. “I suppose when someone dies under suspicious circumstances, the spouse is always the one they look to first.”
“But you’re obviously grieving. How can they be so insensitive?”
“It’s really all right. I expected it,” she said with a touch of annoyance. “Anyway, I suppose they’re done with me and have moved on to other people.”
I could see my questions had upset her, so I vowed not to mention Florian again. A server brought us menus and we looked at our lunch choices, the falling water and the birds for accompaniment.
When the server returned, I ordered a glass of lavender lemonade, a selection of finger sandwiches, and a small salad. Alice ordered a glass of iced tea and fish and chips. We chatted about the weather while we waited for our food, and as we ate Alice told me her favorite places in London and suggested I visit as many of them as time allowed during my visit. She showed a polite interest in Seamus’s show, but I got the feeling she didn’t want to talk about art. She wrote down a few restaurant names for me and told me I must visit them before going home. I was surprised—Alice didn’t strike me as a foodie, but she was well acquainted with several restaurants I had read about in travel and food magazines.
Alice was an enigma. She looked dowdy and simple, but she spoke in posh tones and was clearly knowledgeable about the finer points of London culture.
We took leave of each other after our leisurely chat. She suggested a couple shops I might enjoy in Highgate, and she pointed me in the direction of the Tube in case I didn’t feel like walking all the way back to the hotel.
I took my time browsing in the shops she suggested. Highgate was indeed a lovely, upscale village. I longed to explore some of the streets leading away from the village center, but time was growing short. I still had to return to the hotel, shower and change my clothes, and meet Seamus and Felix for a glass of wine before the opening. I hopped on the Tube and was back in King’s Cross in just under twenty minutes.
I put on one of the two fancy dresses I had brought to London, secretly hoping I would need to buy one or two more before returning home. It was a striking black evening dress with a square neckline, tiny cap sleeves, and a flared skirt. I wore it with simple black high heels and my hair in a chignon. Seamus had become so used to seeing me in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt that he probably wouldn’t recognize me.
When I walked into the restaurant, carrying my beaded clutch and a filmy black wrap, he was waiting at the bar, talking to Felix, a highball glass raised to his lips. He saw me and did a double-take. He put his glass down and came over to me, beaming. “I can’t believe you married the likes of me!” he exclaimed with a laugh. I looked him up and down. He was resplendent in a traditional Scottish tartan kilt, complete with belt, sporran, sgian-dubh, kilt pin, hose, and ghillie brogues.
“You look wonderful, my laird!” I said with a laugh.
He led me over to Felix, who kissed my hand and bowed. I felt like a princess.
“My wife is meeting us for dinner after the opening, but I asked her to come for a glass of wine beforehand,” he said. “Let’s give her a few more minutes, then we’ll head over to the gallery. Everything is ready. It’s going to be a wonderful evening.”
I glanced at Seamus, whose hand was shaking almost imperceptibly as he lifted his glass to his lips. He had had plenty of gallery shows in the past, but this one was different. This was the Lundenburg. He was understandably nervous—this was a huge step forward, and his future as an artist hinged on the opening’s success.
I ordered a glass of mineral water. I could feel Seamus’s anxiety seeping into my tingling hands and couldn’t stomach anything stronger. As the bartender handed me my drink, Felix said, “Ah, there she is,” and turned to look at a woman walking toward us.
“Sylvie, Seamus, I’d like you to meet my wife, Chloe,” he said with pride in his voice. He introduced us and we all shook hands. Chloe was a petite woman, with purple-red hair cropped close to her head. She wore an ivory dress embroidered with gold accents around the neckline and the hem. Her gold high-heeled sandals added three inches to her height, but she was still several inches shorter than I. The four of us found a tall table where we could stand and talk. Felix and Chloe, accustomed to these openings, appeared at ease. Seamus and I probably looked like nervous schoolchildren.
Chloe made a valiant attempt to calm our nerves. She wanted to know where I had been sightseeing and offered some of her own favorites. She gave us a list of restaurants and pubs near our hotel, and she asked about Cauld Loch and where we had lived before that. She even wanted to know how we met. Seamus told her how he happened to be visiting Dumfries in search of Morton Castle, a nearby ruin that was almost impossible to find without very specific directions. He was standing on a corner in town, scratching his beard and wondering where he could buy a map, when I walked by. I assumed he was a vagrant and I handed him a one-pound note.
“I gave the money back to her, we got talking, and the rest is history,” Seamus said with a laugh. He loved to tell that story. “We dated for a few years and then we got married. Best thing that ever happened to me,” he added with a smile, placing his hand over mine. Chloe grinned. She had done her job in getting Seamus to relax. “Shall we get back to the gallery?” Felix asked, glancing at his watch. “We want you to get settled in before people start arriving,” he said to Seamus. We left the restaurant, and the men walked ahead of Chloe and me on the way back to the Lundenburg.
“Don’t worry about anything,” she said quietly. “Felix likes Seamus. He’s not going to let anything go wrong tonight. Seamus is going to be a hit. You’ll play a big part, though. I’ll introduce you to some of the clients, and your job is simply to converse with them and be charming.”
When we arrived, Felix knocked on the window lightly and one of his assistants unlocked the door. Apparently the gallery had closed early in preparation for the opening. I stepped into the cool, soaring space. A bar was set up on an exquisitely carved wooden table near the entrance. Bottles of all shapes and sizes, filled with liquids of all colors, sparkled under the bright white lights. Silver ice buckets held bottles of white wine and an array of glasses was displayed behind the bar. The exhibit space was dotted with small tables, each with twinkling votive candles.
I accepted a glass of white wine from the bartender, just to give my hands something to hold. I had no intention of drinking it—my nerves were causing my stomach to do flip-flops. Seamus was talking to a few of Felix’s employees over on one side of the gallery and I was by myself. I wandered over to the first room of Seamus’s paintings and walked slowly through it, admiring his work and marveling at how I had seen all these paintings come to life from blank canvases. So many people would see these paintings tonight for the first time, but I had lived with them for months, and in several cases, years.
The exhibit space was quiet. The murmurs coming from the main gallery subsided into the background as I walked deeper
into the room, mostly looking up at pictures of places I recognized—John o’ Groats, Moray Firth, the Cairngorms, Corrieshalloch Gorge, the Isle of Skye, Ben Nevis, Loch Torridon, and so many others. The pictures represented all the seasons in the Highlands, but especially spring, Seamus’s favorite.
I turned when I heard heels clicking across the gallery floor. It was Chloe.
“Sylvie, people are starting to arrive. Come with me and I’ll start introducing you to some of the collectors.” She offered me her arm and I linked mine in hers. She patted my arm and offered me the same reassuring words she had said at the pub.
“Don’t worry about a thing. Just be yourself. Seamus is going to be a hit.” She led me over to two men standing near the bar.
Chloe whisked me from one group of collectors to another, always making sure the conversation moved along, always keeping a discreet eye on people milling around the exhibit. She was more valuable than any of Felix’s employees. And she was charming—the collectors all seemed to know and like her. In spite of my rattling nerves, I began to relax and enjoy the opening. I caught Seamus’s eyes several times and he would grin and wink at me. I could hear him laughing throughout the exhibit. He was obviously having the time of his life.
I was talking about one of Seamus’s paintings to a couple interested in purchasing it when I noticed out of the corner of my eye a small group of people standing nearby. Chloe was with them. Without even looking, I could see the color of her hair.
I promised to introduce the couple to Seamus before the evening was over. When they moved on to another painting, with pledges to buy at least one of Seamus’s works, I turned to Chloe and her companions, a tall, solid man with dark hair and a hint of scruff on his face and a woman of medium height and blond hair, with a generous mouth and large blue eyes.
