“You’ll soon learn that everyone knows everything in Drumnadrochit.”
Kris certainly hoped not. She might find herself tossed into the loch if they did. She was, after all, planning to expose their livelihood as one of the biggest tourist traps of all time.
“I’ve never met anyone named Dougal,” she said, eager to change the subject before he started posing more questions that would require more lies.
“I went by ‘Doug’ in the states, but I’m back to ‘Dougal’ now.” He indicated the kilt. “Anything to appease the tourists.”
“Yet you don’t add a brogue?”
His lips curved. “I come off sounding more like Foghorn Leghorn than William Wallace.”
“How long were you in the states?”
“Most of my life. I inherited the motel from my granaidh. My grandfather. I added both the restaurant and museum. If I do say so myself, my museum’s the best in the area. A combination of scientific facts, cryptozoological theory, and the most comprehensive list of sightings available in this country or any other.”
Kris felt a prickle of excitement. She’d never been able to find information on all of the sightings compiled in one place, so it was impossible to compare and discover if some were repeats of others.
Meeting this guy was a golden opportunity. And she’d walked in for the Nessie Nuggets.
“You sound like a true believer.” Though Kris wanted the information, she was kind of disappointed to encounter yet another sheep in the “I love Nessie” flock. Was no one in Scotland a skeptic, like her?
“Don’t tell, but…” Dougal made a show of looking around, then stepped closer and lowered his voice: “I’m here to cash in. People want Nessie…” He swept a showman’s hand toward the museum’s entrance. “I’ll give them Nessie.”
Kris smiled. At last. Someone with a clue.
“I’d love to hear more,” she began, and the door opened, spilling tourists into the foyer.
Dougal appeared torn. He obviously sensed in her a kindred spirit and he wanted to talk longer, but he needed to deal with all those wonderful customers.
“Are you busy tonight?” he asked.
Kris blinked. Was he asking her out?
Kris hadn’t had a date in six months, with good reason. The last had been of the blind variety. Lola had set it up with a friend of a friend of a ticket taker at the ballet.
“He’s a nice guy,” Lola had insisted.
Apparently his wife thought so, too.
Lying creep.
Such was the way with dates. They looked good on paper. Even seemed to go all right on the phone. But by the third meeting, if not before, the lies started to tumble out.
Dougal patted Kris on the shoulder, already moving toward his unexpected mother lode. “Don’t look so deer-in-the-headlights. I was just going to suggest you walk through the museum and if you’re still interested in talking, there’s a pub where the locals go. MacLeod’s. The oldest of its kind in the village.”
“How old?”
“Maybe eight hundred years,” Dougal answered. “They say Andrew Moray’s troops drank there. And there are the usual tales of the Bonnie Prince, Robert the Bruce, and William Wallace all lifting a tankard on their way to the next kill fest. But I think, sometimes, those tales are very much like the American claims that ‘George Washington slept here.’ If the man slept everywhere they say he did, he wouldn’t have had any time left to win the war.”
“Where is it?”
“Next street over.” Dougal jerked a thumb past his right ear. “I usually get there around sunset.” He turned and greeted his guests.
Kris ducked into the eatery ahead of the crowd. Nessie Nuggets turned out to be deep-fried chicken strips shaped like a herd of bumpy-backed dinosaurs.
“Chicken McNessies,” Kris commented when they were placed before her.
From the waitress’s expression, she’d heard that one before and hadn’t found it funny then, either. Kris had done her share of waiting tables in college and understood the sentiment. Everyone was a comedian. Or at least thought they were.
The Nessies came with chips and veggies, she assumed the latter to help clean out the arteries being clogged by the deep-fried former.
She ate everything, washing it down with what had been billed on the menu as “Scotland’s other national drink” or Irn-Bru—which tasted like a combination of orange pop and 7UP.
Kris exited the restaurant ahead of a large group of Belgian tourists, then paid the nominal fee for the museum to a young, dimple-cheeked woman who did have a brogue and slipped inside.
If the museum were comprised of a few out-of-focus photos of fish fins and some inflatable purple plesiosaurs, Kris wouldn’t feel bad about skipping the rendezvous at MacLeod’s, although from the description of the place she would need to stop there at some point. An ancient, authentic Scottish pub should not be missed.
However, Kris was impressed by Dougal’s museum. He’d done a fantastic job with the displays. He obviously had artistic training or perhaps had hired someone who did. Everything was well lit, colorful, easy to read, and there was a lot here Kris hadn’t seen before. She wished she’d brought her notebook so she could write down the questions she wanted to pursue later.
Dougal Scott just might be her new best friend.
CHAPTER 4
After an afternoon wrestling with the Internet, followed by a nice, long nap, Kris retraced her steps to The Myth Motel. As the sun fell toward the horizon, she took the next street to the north, walked a block, and bingo.
Tucked into a stream of newer buildings, MacLeod’s stood out like a great-grandfather at a four-year-old’s birthday party.
The gray-stone exterior appeared to be original. The structure listed slightly to the right. However, the roof was no longer thatch and the windows, which had no doubt begun as mere holes in the walls, now sported sparkling glass and red shutters.
Inside the floor was polished wood, as was the bar. The ceilings were lower than Kris was used to—a testament to how much shorter men were back when the pub had been built. Through timbered archways several smaller rooms were visible, which made her think that once upon a time MacLeod’s had hosted both a public drinking area for the unwashed masses and private areas for the privileged few.
The place was three-quarters full—both men and women of all ages sat in booths, at tables and the bar. Their attire was testament to their occupations—cook, waitress, parking valet, farmer—very few had bothered to change clothes after work. In the corner sat Rob and Effy Cameron, a pint in front of them both.
They were arguing, or at least Effy was. Her mouth moved; her hands waved; she slopped ale over the edge of her glass and onto the table in an effort to make her point. Rob just sat there and drank.
The conversation dimmed when Kris walked in. She almost walked back out. MacLeod’s was for the locals, and she wasn’t.
Dougal stood, waving her to the bar. As she crossed the room, whispers followed. It wasn’t until she took one of the several empty stools surrounding him that the voices started up again.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
She hadn’t been, either, but even after the whispers and the strange looks she was glad that she had. She was in Scotland. She should see Scottish stuff as much as she could before she ran out of money and had to go home.
“You look like you could use a drink.” Dougal’s concerned expression made Kris realize she’d been frowning at the thought of her rapidly dwindling bank account.
She made herself smile. “Yes. Thanks.”
Dougal lifted his hand and the bartender, an extremely large man in every way—height, breadth, belly, chin; make that chins—grimaced. Strange behavior for a business owner, but it was quite busy. Eventually, after waiting on every customer down the line first, he made his way to them.
“Johnnie, this is Kris Daniels, the writer woman staying at Effy’s place.”
Kris’s offered hand disappeared in Johnnie’s when t
hey shook. His smile for her was warm, and his voice when he asked what she’d like friendly. She must have been mistaken about his annoyance.
Kris didn’t think white wine was on the menu or, if it was, that she’d want to drink it, so she indicated Dougal’s glass with a finger and said, “Whatever he’s having.”
Johnnie moved off with a surprisingly light step for his bulk and pulled a bottle from the top shelf.
“Did I just order the equivalent of Scottish lighter fluid?” Kris asked.
“You’ll see.”
Johnnie brought her drink, about an inch of liquid the shade of burnished sienna; then he waited while she tried it.
Yep, definitely lighter fluid.
Kris managed not to choke. She even managed to swallow the stuff instead of spraying it all over the bar. But what really impressed her was that she smiled and thanked Johnnie in a voice that sounded almost like her own.
The big man left to wait on another customer, and Kris turned to Dougal. “What is that?”
“MacLeod’s only serves the very best Scotch.”
“Which is?”
“Well, most have their favorites, Glenfiddich, Glenlivet, but in this bar—” Dougal lifted his glass. “Only single-malt whisky from the Highlands. This is called Loch Ness Whisky.”
“No way.”
He downed it in a single gulp. “They call it the ‘monstrously good malt.’”
Kris took a baby sip. Fire trickled down her throat and leaped into her stomach. She coughed.
“You don’t have to drink it,” Dougal said.
“It’s growing on me.” Kris took another sip. “Or if anything is growing on me, this will definitely kill it.”
Dougal signaled for another, and, eventually, Johnnie brought the bottle. He glanced at Kris’s barely touched glass, and his lips twitched before he moved off again.
“Is he always so laid-back?” Kris asked.
“Laid-back?” Dougal repeated.
“He takes his sweet time waiting on people.” From what she could tell, he took his time only when waiting on Dougal, but she didn’t think it prudent to mention that. Turned out, she didn’t have to.
“He’s just like that with me,” Dougal said. “I’m not a local.”
“Neither am I.”
“Tourist is different. You won’t stay.” Dougal glanced at Johnnie. “I won’t go.”
“Why would they want you to go? Your grandfather lived here. Doesn’t that make you one of them?”
“Not so’s you’d notice.” Dougal shifted his shoulders. “I hear it’s the same in every small town in America. You could live there for fifty years and you’d never truly belong.”
He was right. But it still didn’t seem fair. And while Dougal said he understood, Kris didn’t think that he liked it. She didn’t blame him. Dougal seemed like a nice man. Interesting. Attractive. With those light eyes and dark hair, that well-trimmed beard and tall, taut body, she’d even call him sexy. You’d think every single woman in town would be after him.
Although … She glanced again at Johnnie. Maybe that was why.
They remained silent for a few minutes; then Dougal cleared his throat. “What did you think of the museum?”
Kris accepted the change of subject gladly. “You’ve put together something very nice. Did you do all the work yourself?”
“I planned it. Had some help from an artist woman who came to the village to paint the loch.”
Kris’s lips curved at the description. How long did you have to live in Drumnadrochit before you were known by your name? According to Dougal, maybe forever.
“Have you seen Nessie?” Kris asked.
Dougal sipped his whisky. “Everyone’s seen her.”
“That appears to be the party line. But…” She waited until Dougal looked up. “Have you?”
Something flickered in those amazing eyes. He hesitated, then shook his head. “Can’t see what ain’t there.”
The words could have come right out of her mouth. Kris felt again the tug of a kindred spirit. She scooted her stool closer to Dougal’s. “For a skeptic, you put forth a pretty good front.”
“I don’t have a choice. You think anyone would come to a museum that explains all the reasons there isn’t a Nessie?”
Probably not.
“You’re familiar with the history of the loch?” Dougal asked.
She was, but she wanted to hear what he knew. “Enlighten me.”
“Twenty thousand years ago a glacier skidded through this area.”
Skid might be pushing it. Glaciers moved pretty “glacially.”
“Dug quite a few holes and when the ice melted, about ten thousand years later, the land rose and the new waterways separated. Where once Loch Ness may have been part of the North Sea, it was no longer.”
“Any proof of that?”
“Remains of sea urchins, clamshells, and the like have been found in the deep sediment of the loch, despite its being a freshwater lake.”
“Go on.” Kris was intrigued.
“Some theorize that Nessie is a sea creature that was trapped here when the waterways separated and she’s evolved, adapting to the freshwater.”
“How could a single creature live that long?”
“Couldn’t,” Dougal agreed. “Unless there was something supernatural about it.”
Kris lifted her brows. “You think there is?”
“No.” Dougal grinned. “But it makes for a very good story.”
“What about the idea that a herd of these creatures was trapped in Loch Ness?” Kris asked. “A breeding population.”
“In theory, that would explain the issue of life expectancy. However, a trapped breeding population would end up so inbred that they’d eventually be unable to procreate.”
“And you’re right back to the life expectancy problem,” Kris said. “What else?”
“Some say that down where the depths of the water are unknown and uncharted there’s a way out of the loch. That Nessie is, in fact, a group of ancient sea creatures that has adapted to live in both salt and freshwater and despite the extreme cold of the loch they thrive here.”
“That would take care of the argument that several animals of such size couldn’t survive on the amount of food contained in Loch Ness without significantly and obviously depleting it.”
“Exactly!” Dougal exclaimed, obviously thrilled that Kris was familiar with all the Nessie factoids. “If there’s a way out, there’s no need to feed while in.”
Someone jostled Kris, and she glanced around. The pub was filling up. All the seats were taken. Though Dougal had said this was a local watering hole, quite a few tourists seemed to have found it, too.
Which might explain why Kris had the sudden sensation of being watched. In a crowd like this, someone had to be staring. She took a surreptitious glance around and caught the gaze of an elderly man at the end of the bar.
He was tall and very thin, his once-blond hair faded to white. His skin was lined from a lifetime spent outdoors, and his pale blue eyes shone.
He lowered his chin, an acknowledgment that he’d been staring, then returned his attention to his drink.
Probably lonely, she thought. He’s gotta be two or three decades older than anyone in here.
“The passage to the sea creates the possibility of a large breeding population, which also gives an explanation as to why the sightings of Nessie can vary from ten to twelve feet in length to other reports of a thirty-to forty-foot creature,” Dougal continued.
Kris turned back to her companion. “Baby Nessies.”
“Yes!” Dougal punctuated his exclamation by downing the rest of his whisky. Kris had given up on hers.
She cast another glance at the old man, thinking maybe she’d ask him to join them, but he was gone.
“Sounds like a solid theory,” Kris said.
“If creatures the size of Nessie can get in, then why haven’t others? Sure, they’d die in the freshwater, but then there’
d be bodies. Somewhere. Sometime.”
“And if Nessies were going in and out, wouldn’t someone have observed them in the sea?”
“Well, to be fair, out there they’d be seen as whales or dolphins or squids.”
He was right. People often saw what they assumed they’d see, whether it be truth or fiction. Kris had found just that in many of her hoax-hunting cases. If one person saw a ghost or a beast or a monster, everyone else saw one, too. If people expected to see a whale, they weren’t going to see a Nessie.
And vice versa.
“For me, it comes down to this,” Dougal said. “If Nessie’s been hanging out in Loch Ness for several thousand millennia, why hasn’t anyone proved it yet?”
Kris played devil’s advocate better than she played just about anything. “Maybe she’s hiding. Maybe she doesn’t want to be captured, then examined and analyzed and—” Kris shrugged. “Dissected.”
Which was what would happen if Nessie were actually caught. Luckily she never would, or could, be.
Kris, enjoying herself immensely, sat back and, in doing so, caught a glimpse of the room behind Dougal’s head. There, on the other side of at least two dozen people, stood the man who had kissed her last night.
He wasn’t looking in her direction, was in fact facing away, but she knew it was him as surely as she knew she really, really hated Scotch whisky.
Kris blurted an excuse to Dougal, shoving her unfinished drink in his direction before making a beeline to the place where she’d last seen the mystery man.
By the time she got there, he was gone. But she hadn’t fallen off the idiot tree—at least not lately—and when she saw the rear exit she took it. Unfortunately, if he had, he was quick as a bunny—or a ghost—because there was no sign of him.
She considered going back inside but, instead, headed out of town.
The night was clear and lovely. A bit cool, but she didn’t mind. The moon, only a day past full, glowed like a silvery sun, which was handy, because once she left Drumnadrochit and walked toward the cottage the moon was all she had to light her path.
She picked her way carefully across the fields, crested a hill, and became captivated by the shimmering bands of brilliant white that topped the waves of the loch. She was drawn nearer by the strange little blips of something darker that bobbed through the moonlit water like—
Moon Cursed Page 4
