Legacy of the Highlands

by Harriet Schultz

Diego reluctantly lowered her before he embarrassed himself. His physical reaction to her was no longer in his control and he sensed that Alex had been very aware of his body no matter what she’d said.

  He was right. Alex couldn’t blame her racing heart on anxiety — not this time. To cover her reaction, she bent down to stuff a small piece of tissue between the start of a blister and one of the sandal’s straps and they continued on their way.

  Blissfully barefoot on the kitchen’s cool tile floor, Alex made coffee while Francie gathered mugs and filled a small pitcher with milk.

  “So, is there anything you want to tell me about you and the gorgeous Señor Navarro?” The flush that crept up Alex’s face was answer enough.

  “Me and Diego? Are you crazy?” she erupted.

  “Not crazy, sweetie, observant,” Francie commented softly as she reached for a bag of cookies.

  “Nothing’s going on, so drop it. Just drop it.” Alex bristled as she stalked out of the kitchen, then did an about face a moment later. “Forgot something,” she mumbled as she picked up the coffee tray to bring to the living room where Diego and David sat in front of the TV, companionably watching the Yankees score two runs to tie the Red Sox four all.

  “Help yourselves,” she said, but the men were too engrossed in the game to hear. She shrugged, tossed a cushion onto the floor and stretched out. Why in hell would Francie think something was going on with her and Diego? She was just flirting for chrissakes. It didn’t mean they were having sex. And if that’s all it was, why was she so defensive?

  “Hey! We were watching that,” David said to his wife when she joined them in the living room and turned off the TV.

  “Why do you have to torture yourselves watching the Sox?” Francie asked. “You know what will happen. They’ll be ahead until the eighth inning and then pow! They start playing like our nephew’s Little League team and blow it. Besides, we’re here to talk, not zone out in front of the tube.”

  She poured coffee then cuddled next to David. She rested her hand on his thigh as he absentmindedly twisted one of her curls around a finger and watched it spring back into place when he let go. No one spoke. They sipped coffee and munched on the chocolate chip cookies Alex always stocked for those times when she thought she’d die if she couldn’t have something sweet.

  She looked from one face to another. Not only was this normally talkative group silent, they weren’t even making eye contact with her. Their behavior was pissing her off big time. “What? What’s going on? You people are freaking me out. If you’re worried that I’ll break if we talk about Will or even his effing parents, I can assure you I won’t. But I can’t stand this silence. Please, someone, talk!” she commanded looking directly at Diego.

  “All right, okay, I’ll start.” His back straightened as he shifted from a TV-watching slouch to perch on the edge of the sofa. “Alex and I are going to Scotland, and we need to leave soon.” He continued before anyone had time to react. “But first, you and I,” he said, his dark eyes fixed on Alex, “will have a long talk with John Cameron.”

  All hell broke loose as if Diego had said that he and Alex were going to run naked through the street. Francie jumped to her feet. David grabbed her hand and tried to pull her back down. “Let go of me,” she hissed and shook free of his grip. Alex was on her feet, too, and soon Diego and David joined them.

  “Darling, Francie,” Diego said condescendingly, which only irritated her more. “If you give me a chance to explain, you’ll see that if we have any hope of tracking down Will’s killer it’s perfectly logical that Alex and I have to go to Scotland. Serge is sure Will’s death is connected to that country. The sgian dubh left beside his body means something. We all know that. And the police here are clueless. Come on!” he railed, but was wise enough to close his mouth when Francie approached him hands on hips, eyes flashing with anger.

  “First of all, Mister Navarro, Alex is still a wreck and today, after she had a huge panic attack, we made a list of the things she has to do in Boston. In Boston, Diego, not Scotland! And who the hell is Serge, some goon you hired? Who do you think you are, fucking James Bond? No way are you going to take my best friend traipsing around the world to find a murderer. You’ll get yourselves killed and I won’t allow it!”

  “She’s right you know,” added David. “Alex should stay in Boston. Going to Scotland now to track a criminal is crazy. Let the authorities do it.” He sent a silent apology to Diego. After what he’d told him, David knew he had to cover his ass.

  Alex was steaming as she clapped her hands to get their attention. “Stop it! Just stop it! Sit down and shut up. All of you!” To her surprise, they quieted and sat. “Am I invisible? Why do any of you have the audacity, the arrogance, the chutzpah to think you can decide what I will or will not do?” She glared first at Francie and her husband and then at Diego. “Since I finally have your attention, I’ll tell you what I’ve decided. And don’t say anything until I’ve finished.” She knew it would require all their strength to follow that last request, but she hoped that her three friends recognized glimmerings of the spunky Alex they used to know. She threw another of the sofa cushions to the floor and gracefully lowered herself onto it, facing them.

  “I’ve already told you that I need to start doing things for myself. You’re my best friends in the whole world and I love you, but I need to prove to myself that I can be strong again. Will wouldn’t want me to remain a blob of Jell-O and neither do I. Okay so far?” They nodded their agreement.

  “First, I agree with him,” she pointed at Diego. “I have to see John Cameron and find out what the hell he wants from me. I can do this alone, but I’d prefer that you come along. Will you?”

  “Of course, Preciosa. Anything, you know that,” he said softly. Because of what Serge had told him about John’s possible connection to the Scottish nationalists, he had questions for Will’s father too.

  “And I still have to go through Will’s things.”

  “I can help you do that,” Francie volunteered.

  “Thanks, but that’s something I want to do myself.”

  “Okay…fine. I guessed you would say that,” she muttered and slumped into her seat. “But if you change your mind…”

  “Great. Next, I want an update from the police. They seem to have forgotten about Will and I want to know if they have any new leads.”

  “As your lawyer, I’ve been checking with them regularly and they haven’t forgotten, but there’s still nothing new so you can skip that one. I’ll stay on it,” added David.

  “Good. I can always count on you, can’t I?” she smiled warmly at him. Diego felt a pang of jealousy, but let it go. “And that makes me more certain about the next item on my to-do list. Diego’s right. In about a week or so, he and I should leave for Scotland and see what we can turn up there. Will’s murder is connected to the week we spent in the Highlands. I know it. And since Serge is already there, we’ll be safe. He’s Diego’s bodyguard,” she added for Francie and David’s benefit. “And he’s no goon. He was with Mossad.” To Francie, whose grandparents had survived the Holocaust, Israel’s agents were the gold standard.

  Chapter 13

  Alex shivered and pulled the covers up over her shoulders, but a familiar scent — which, in her Pavlovian response, meant ‘wake up’ — tickled her nostrils. A moment later, her groggy brain registered that the aroma teasing her senses was coffee. She forced her eyes open, ridiculously buoyed by the familiar smell and the sound of footsteps in another room. For the briefest moment, she thought she’d had an extremely vivid, horrific nightmare and that, as usual, Will had woken up first and made coffee. It only took an instant for that comforting image to shatter. It wasn’t Will; the footsteps belonged to Diego.

  She dragged herself to the shower and let the steaming water soothe her tight shoulders. It was going to be strange to share this space with another man, however temporarily, but she couldn’t very well ask Diego to leave, not after he’d been such a gener
ous host. On the other hand, a Boston apartment, even one as large as hers, wasn’t a luxury villa, and they’d be in closer contact here.

  Although Diego had assured her that he’d never come on to her, she was aware that the promise was becoming harder for him to keep. The strong embrace he’d wrapped her in when he’d arrived the night before, the way he touched her whenever the opportunity presented itself, and the more frequent use of his pet name for her were all signs that she couldn’t ignore. And she wasn’t immune to him either. Her physical reaction whenever he was near made her question her own willpower. There was unmistakable electricity between them and each knew the other felt it. These feelings shamed her, yet what could be more natural than to want the solid comfort of a man’s body? She didn’t want sex necessarily. What she craved was skin-to-skin contact, although it was a given that sex would be the price she’d have to pay. It would be up to her to decide whether that price was too high.

  By the time Alex finished her shower and padded barefoot to the kitchen, Diego was gone. She spotted a note next to the coffeepot and was amused that he knew her well enough to realize it would be her first stop. Caffeine fix in hand, she sat at the table and opened the folded sheet of paper.

  “Alessandra” it began. Diego’s mother always called her that — Italian for Alexandra — and she wondered why he had, then she continued to read. “I have to take care of some business today. I know you’re surrounded by memories and I don’t want to intrude on your privacy. I’ll be back by 6:00. Let me choose the restaurant tonight...one that takes reservations and has waiters.” His attempt at humor made her smile, probably the response he’d intended. “I hope today isn’t too difficult. If you need me for anything at all, you can always reach me on my mobile.” It was signed with a flourish, “Yours, Diego.”

  A few streets away, Diego stood at the window of his Ritz Carlton suite gazing at the tranquil greenery of Boston Common directly across Arlington Street from the luxury hotel. He’d been working since early morning and the sleeves of his fitted white shirt were rolled up to just below the elbow, revealing deeply tanned, muscular forearms sprinkled with silky black hair. He’d abandoned his necktie hours earlier and the shirt’s collar was open. He slowly ran his knuckles over his eyebrows to massage away the tension in his forehead while he gazed at the park, hoping some of its calm would transfer itself to him, but he couldn’t get his mind off Alex.

  He wasn’t sure whether it had been wise to leave her by herself, but she had his mobile number and she hadn’t called so she must be okay. She insisted that she was strong and although he knew it wasn’t true yet, he vowed do everything in his power to help build her confidence even though that conflicted with his equally strong need to protect her. He told himself that if she were to move on with her life, she’d have to have absolute belief that she was strong again, so for now he’d hold back. When she was ready to start the next phase of her life, he had no doubt that it would be with him.

  He forced thoughts of Alex aside to focus on everything Serge had told him when he’d reported in from London a few hours earlier. He was making progress, but it was a slow and tedious business. “This is like peeling back the layers of an onion. You’ve got to be patient,” he’d reminded Diego although they both knew that admirable trait wasn’t one that Diego possessed. The former Mossad agent’s intelligence sources in the U.K. had confirmed that Will’s father was part of a covert Scottish nationalist group. For Alex’s sake, Diego hoped that John Cameron wasn’t even remotely involved in his son’s death, although it was starting to look bad.

  Serge’s contacts told him there’d been chatter about schisms in Scotland’s oldest and most secretive independence movement. Some of its members, frustrated by the snail’s pace of the mainstream Scottish National Party’s political efforts, were determined to win Scotland’s freedom from England by any means, including violence. His sources confirmed John Cameron’s tie not only to this Group of One Hundred, but also to a man named Mackinnon, the same one Alex remembered meeting when she and Will were in Scotland. Serge told Diego that he would check into the man’s well-established retail business in Inverness to see if it was a front for the group.

  “Mackinnon’s son was convicted of conspiracy to commit terrorism and is serving a long jail term,” Serge told his employer. “Evidently he was involved in building bombs to use in I.R.A.-type terrorist attacks. His group came pretty close to detonating them in London. I imagine the senior Mackinnon’s not a happy man, and his connection to John Cameron and Alex is of interest.” He assured Diego that he’d check it out.

  Diego poured himself a whiskey and began to pace as he tried to tie the various threads together. While he and Alex were in Miami, he’d pushed her to recall every detail about the week she and Will had spent in Scotland. He wasn’t surprised that the Mackinnon that Serge said was connected to Will’s father was the same man Alex had told him about. She’d remembered that they’d gone into a gift shop in Inverness and its proprietor had talked Will’s ear off about his family’s history. The man had asked a lot of questions and then gave Will a replica of some old document to pass along to John, but she didn’t know if Will had ever followed through.

  “Was there a reason that you and Will went to that particular store?” Diego probed. “There must be a lot of gift shops to choose from in a touristy city like Inverness.” Diego had probed.

  “We’d met some guy in our favorite London pub, a Scot…I’m pretty sure that his name was Ewen...and when he heard we were going to Scotland, he suggested that we go to this store since the owner was a friend and wouldn’t rip us off.”

  Diego had passed the information along to Serge who agreed that Alex and Will might have been set up. He said he’d try to track down this Ewen character.

  Serge effortlessly slipped into the role of a well-bred English barrister to visit the upscale Mayfair pub where Alex recalled meeting Ewen. The former spy was clothed in a Savile Row suit, hand-sewn leather shoes and completed the metamorphosis with an expensive black umbrella carried like a proper Londoner. He impressed the barman with his generous tips and the after-work regulars with his skill at darts and his knowledge of English football. They took no notice when he began to slip some questions about Scottish politics and the elusive Ewen into their comfortable male banter.

  “Oh, that bloke’s been gone for a while,” recalled the barman as he expertly built another Guinness for Serge. “I remember your Ewen because we don’t get many Scots in here. This one was pleasant enough when he was sober, but he’d shoot off his mouth whenever he’d had a bit too much. Liked to drink the expensive stuff — single malt whiskey, I recall.”

  “Shoot off his mouth?” Serge replied, urging the publican to elaborate as he took a sip of the dark brew.

  “Oh, he’d go on about how the Scots were oppressed and exploited by us English pigs, that we’d stolen their country and now we were robbing them of their oil. That talk may be fine in Scotland, but here in London it’s none too smart. I’d toss him out for his own safety when he got like that. First it was the troubles with the Irish and now it looks like the Scots may be up to the same business. Ah, well.” He shook his head in resignation as he wiped the bar with a clean white cloth then smoothly filled orders for other patrons before resuming his conversation with Serge. “A posh Mayfair pub like this isn’t the place for brawlers. My clientele won’t have that and neither will I. Talk is that this Ewen went off to America. The last time he was in — it was about two, maybe three months ago, I seem to recall — he had another Scot with him…a strapping young lad, but Ewen did all the talking. He blathered about the two of them having some job in the States, but he didn’t say what it was they’d be doing. Personally, I was glad to see him go. He was trouble, he was.”

  He slid another Guinness across the bar to Serge, its creamy head forming a perfect dome atop the black liquid. “Might I ask what your interest is in this man? Is he in trouble with the law? Or is it that he’s heir to a
huge fortune left to him by one of your posh clients?” the barman asked, grinning at this improbability.

  “I wish I could tell you, but it’s to do with a legal matter. Confidentiality, you know. Might anyone else have some idea as to his whereabouts?” asked Serge.

  “I’ll ask the gents then, shall I?” the barman said genially as he moved toward a small group of regulars. “Ned, John, Charles — a question, gentlemen, if you please. Our barrister friend is trying to find that big Scot who was fond of shooting off his mouth. You know the one. Have any of you seen him recently or do you recall what he was to do in America?”

  “Nah,” came the chorus of responses.

  “He did boast that he’d have enough of the ready to buy a round for the bar when he got back. I wouldn’t forget a promise like that,” recalled Charles.

  “Right, Charlie! So we can add liar and braggart to our Ewen’s list of less than admirable traits,” added Ned.

  “He’s gone and good riddance I say,” commented John as he waited for the barman to draw his pint of bitter. Glass in hand, he moved closer to Serge, casually leaned his elbows on the bar and slowly sipped his drink. He ran a hand through his copper-color hair and turned toward Serge.

  “Not many Scots in London,” he began softly, “but you might try a pub called the William Wallace over in Marylebone. It’s near the Baker Street tube stop. That’s where I’d look for this Ewen if I had a mind to.”

  Serge morphed into a Scot on holiday to visit the Wallace pub that evening, but no one there seemed to know Ewen. The man had obviously left London. It was time for him to move on too.

  He spent the next couple of days gathering the tools of his trade from a few trusted former associates, then loaded it all into a rental car and headed to Scotland. Everything he’d learned so far led back to James Mackinnon and his Inverness gift shop. It was time to pay the man a visit.