by Hannah Reed
Which might actually have been true. If he hadn’t been such a bungler, the inspector wouldn’t have sent him off on a wild-goose chase that wasn’t really as wild as he’d thought, and Sean wouldn’t have found the golden egg (in this case, an incriminating sawed-through piece of wooden step). Sean may even have inadvertently saved our lives; thanks to him, we’d be much more cautious from here on in.
Vicki came over, and I left her with Sean while I hustled over to the inspector, who was wrapping up his phone conversation and looking pleased with himself. “Redundant?” I asked.
He nodded and turned toward Sean’s car.
I grabbed his arm, which startled him. It startled me, too. I had no idea I could be so forceful. And with a police officer besides.
“I’d like to plead his case,” I said. “Please bear with me for a moment.”
Inspector Jamieson sighed. “As though I have a choice.”
I began by highlighting Sean’s commitment and enthusiasm, followed by his sense of justice, honesty, and his real concern for others. The inspector looked bored, but too polite to give me the brush-off. So I went on, stating Sean’s role in finding out that I hadn’t taken an accidental fall. “Sean’s investigative methods are amateurish,” I said, “but those skills can be learned. The rest—integrity and passion—are innate. You have them or you don’t. And Sean has an extra dose.”
“Ye make a good case,” Jamieson finally said.
“Besides, you’ll only be assigned another volunteer, right?”
The answer was apparent by his involuntary grimace.
“The next one might not have any more thorough training than Sean, but might be sullen and refuse to take orders.”
“I hadn’t thought o’ that,” the inspector said. “Nor do I care tae think o’ it.”
“I tell you what—I’ll take Sean under my wing, find some online reference sites, and work with him to make sure he retains what he learns.”
“Ye don’t know a thing about our law enforcement.”
“It’s very much like in the States,” I gambled. “Please give me a chance. And if he doesn’t improve in a week, you can let him go. How does that sound? You don’t have anything to lose. But Sean has so much.”
The inspector looked resigned and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Despite that small victory, though, the inspector’s final words on the subject were anything but positive.
“Like the blind leading the blind,” he said.
CHAPTER 21
The fog had blown away with the northern breeze, and the sun temporarily poked through the clouds. I drove into Glenkillen without incident, parked near the Kilt & Thistle, and wandered the streets absorbing village life. Another procrastination from writing, perhaps, but I chalked it up to necessary local research. Never mind that pesky love scene I was avoiding like the plague.
The Whisky Stop was doing a brisk business, I noted as I walked through the aisles. I knew that Scotland was famous for its distilleries, both the large and the small, and after reading some labels, they were well represented on the shelves—Lagavulin, Glenlivet, Clynelish, Glenfiddich, Oban, and many, many more. I met the proprietor, Duff Ferguson, and learned that there was a huge difference between Scottish whisky and American whiskey.
“Fer one thing,” he told me, “Scotch whisky is made from malted barley. American whiskey is mainly corn mixed with all kinds of other grains. Pure barley fer us. That’s why ye see all the vast fields o’ barley around here.”
“Is that what all those tall fields of grass, are? I’ve seen them but didn’t know what they were.”
“And now ye do,” he said kindly, before other customers called for his attention.
Next I popped into Glenkillen Books and browsed the shelves, intent on the unlikely possibility of finding something to help educate Sean on police procedures. I hadn’t expected to find anything, and I didn’t, but I was pleased to see Ami’s latest book front and center in addition to several endcaps devoted to her other titles. Her entire backlist was found in the romance section and covered several long shelves. She’d said she was popular in the UK but I hadn’t realized just how popular.
Finding my friend’s novels so prominently displayed here brought me back to reality. If I wanted my name to appear on these same shelves, I’d better stop goofing off. For the first time in recent memory, I left a bookstore empty-handed.
Before I could make good on my determination to get back to writing, A Taste of Scotland’s window display brought me to a standstill. I might have been able to resist, except the door was propped wide open, releasing scrumptious aromas!
“I recognize ye,” a woman in an apron and wearing a scarf tied back behind her head said after I entered. “Yer the woman who found poor Gavin Mitchell, and ye also . . .” She hesitated, seeming uncomfortable.
“Have been accused of starting the inn fire,” I finished for her, hoping that item was the extent of the rumors that had reached her ears. “But I swear I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Well, I’m Ginny Davis, the owner o’ this establishment and ’tis a pleasure to meet you. Don’t worry yerself none about local gossip. Before long somebody else will be in our sights.”
I smiled at her kind words. I liked Ginny already. “Thanks. I’m Eden Elliott.”
“I hear yer a romance writer.”
I smiled. “Who told you that?”
She returned my smile. “Sean Stevens keeps me informed o’ all the goings-on in Glenkillen. He’s me cousin. So it’s true? Ye write romances?”
“I’m making the effort, yes.”
“Well, if ye run out of material, I could tell ye a story or two.”
“I might take you up on that,” I said with a laugh. “I’ve been having some writer’s block, to be honest! I’ve been wandering about looking for some inspiration and local flavor. Speaking of local flavors, what’s a Dundee cake?”
“Ooh, it’s lovely,” Ginny said, leading me to an attractive display farther inside the shop and pointing out a cake that looked exactly like an American fruitcake except for rings of almonds on top. “It’s filled with currants,” she told me, “and almonds and bits o’ fruit. We have more orders than we can fill around the holidays. But our specialty is our shortbread.”
We returned to the front of the store, where several varieties of shortbread dominated Ginny’s displays: traditional and blueberry shortbreads, chai and Earl Grey shortbreads, mint tea and lemon-rosemary shortbreads. She even had one that was gluten free.
“It’s the butter that gives shortbread that wonderful flavor and texture,” she told me. “The secret is tae use unsalted butter—rich and pure. Ye take your time. I see customers needing a ring-up.”
Finally, after a lot of delightful indecision, I opted for a package of traditional shortbread.
“Don’t make yerself a stranger,” Ginny said after making change for the ten-pound note I’d handed to her.
“I won’t. And thank you for your kindness.” Which I meant with genuine sincerity. It was immensely reassuring to make the acquaintance of this friendly business owner.
Outside, I opened the bag which turned out to be my downfall, since I wasn’t able to stop at just one and continued to chow down while walking slowly back to the Kilt & Thistle.
This time, the inn owner was awake and alert in a corner of the crowded pub when I entered. Even though it was barely afternoon, he had a glass of beer in front of him. Who knows how many he’d already downed? If he didn’t pass out cold again later, at least he wouldn’t have far to go, since the inn was right next-door.
The pub owner’s redheaded twin boys, Reece and Ross, ran past and out the door, noisy with devilish grins and mischief up their sleeves. No wonder the innkeeper was awake.
He squinted up at me when I presented myself at his table. Up close he had several days’
growth on his face, red-rimmed eyes, and a bulbous nose. “Ye be the one who near burnt doon my inn,” he snarled after I introduced myself.
“I had nothing to do with the fire,” I said, instantly regretting my impulse to do a good deed for the man, but it was too late now. “But I’d like to talk to you about your insurance. It might pay for the smoke damage as well as your lost revenue.”
“Goo away.”
“I’m trying to help.”
“Ye’ve done enough, thank ye very much.”
“You do have insurance?” I asked.
“And plenty o’ it, not that it’s any o’ yer business. Like I said, goo away, lass.”
“That’s a relief.” I’d wanted to help, but it wasn’t my fault that he wouldn’t let me. At least I’d tried. I’d done what I felt I had to.
After that, I ordered tea at the bar, then hustled off with it to my new writing cave in the far reaches of the pub. The more I thought about whoever may have started that fire, the more convinced I became that either the inn’s drunk of an owner or his daughter was behind it. Maybe both. She wanted out and he couldn’t possibly run the place without her. Torching it was a simple solution. This was all speculation on my part, but I intended to mention it once again to Inspector Jamieson at the next opportunity.
With my computer powered up and the pages on the screen, I turned my attention back to my work in progress. I backtracked to the preceding chapter and began reading. Going back to a point in the past like this usually gives me a jump start into the next scene. When I come to the end of that last chapter, my fingers will be flying again.
This time I had the dreaded writer’s block.
I forced a sentence, hoping for a few words that would convey the necessary sexual tension. Instead it just felt forced. He gazed into her eyes and she felt as though he was touching her soul, reading her mind and her runaway emotions. She shivered with excitement.
And then my mind went totally blank.
I did what I always do when I’m stumped, I took a break to check my e-mail. Nothing new from Ami, but I had plenty to write home to her about. I started with the abundant presence of her novels in the bookstore. After that, I told her about my fall and the brief stint in the hospital, and went on to reassure her that I was feeling perfectly fine. I decided to let my friend believe the fall had been an accident, at least for right now. No sense worrying her.
I’d barely shot that e-mail off, when a reply came back. “Sure is exciting in your part of the world compared to mine. Relieved that you weren’t more seriously hurt. Please be more careful. I’d hate to have to come and pick up the pieces (only kidding). Now, tell me about the kilt guy.”
“Nothing to tell. He’s involved with someone.”
“Darn! Doesn’t it just figure? How’s the book coming? How many sex scenes have you written?”
Um . . . “I’m writing one of those not-all-the-way scenes right now.” There is something about lying to your best friend in an e-mail that is so much easier than lying to her face.
What was wrong with me? What was the holdup? Well, I did have excuses for my lack of focus—murder along with a fall instigated by an unknown attacker. Was it any wonder I couldn’t write about love at the moment?
I waited a few minutes before a response came back.
“I have to sign off,” she wrote, “but in the next day or so, I’ll expect a full-blown sex scene attached to an e-mail from you!!!!”
Okay, then.
I picked up my tote, rifled through it, and removed several of Ami’s novels. I tossed them on the table and stared at them.
A moment later, I heard close by, “What’s that yer reading there?” I jumped about a foot before whipping my head around to find the owner of the pub peering over my shoulder.
“Dale, you startled me.”
“I can see that,” he said, his goateed face expressing amusement.
Why did I feel like I had to explain myself? But I did.
“You know I’m a romance writer, right?”
“Aye. The whole toon knows that.”
“I’m struggling with some serious writer’s block.”
“Thought ye might like a top-up for your tea.” He set a fresh teapot on the table and picked up my empty one. “Maybe that’ll clear out the cobwebs. Oh, and Vicki McBride called for ye.”
“What?”
“She called and asked if ye were here. When I said aye, she said tae tell ye the appointment with the solicitor is at two o’clock.”
“Uh, thanks. But I’m sorry she bothered you.”
“No trouble at all.”
“I haven’t been making calls from my phone,” I explained. “The cost is so high, so I’ve been doing all my communicating through e-mail.”
“Ye can rent a temporary mobile, ye know. It’s cheap and reliable.”
“Yes, thank you, I should do that. And I will. Soon.” Especially if Vicki’s going to track me down through the locals and make my business their business.
On the other hand, I’d gained a certain freedom in ditching my phone. It was so rare these days to be unreachable for a while. Why was it that at home I’d taken the darn thing everywhere? It had become almost an addiction. Panic would set in if I realized I’d left it behind at home. How had the world managed before the invention of the cell phone?
“Let me know if ye will be needing anything else,” Dale said before disappearing from sight. “And good luck with yer story.”
I glanced at the clock on my laptop. The appointment with Vicki’s attorney didn’t give me very much time to write that love scene.
Oh darn.
CHAPTER 22
I recognized Vicki’s solicitor, Paul Turner, from the service at the cemetery for James MacBride. He’d been standing slightly ahead of me, and he’d stood out in my memory where others hadn’t because of the enormous walrus mustache he sported. He’d been with the woman who had pointed out the corbie.
Paul Turner’s office was on a side street right off the main shopping area. Judging from its simple decor, the attorney’s practice wasn’t exactly thriving. I guessed his age to be mid to late seventies, so perhaps he wasn’t taking on any new clients these days and so didn’t feel a need to modernize his office.
He was properly attired for his role as defender of justice in a black blazer, white button-down shirt with a conservative tie, and gray slacks. But in the same vein as his messy hair and overgrown mustache, his clothes were wrinkled and worn threadbare.
“We have a battle before us,” he told Vicki after we were seated at his cluttered desk. His accent wasn’t as strong as that of others I’d encountered in Glenkillen, making me suspect he’d been educated elsewhere. “This could drag out for years if we aren’t careful,” he warned. Vicki was mute, simply staring across the marred wooden desk at the man on the other side.
When she didn’t respond in any way, I jumped in on her behalf. “Have you been James MacBride’s solicitor for long?” I asked. “And have you represented his children in the past?”
He frowned before glancing at Vicki, seeking her approval to address my questions. She nodded.
“James and I were childhood friends,” he told us. “He trusted me with his personal affairs, and requested that I act as his executor-nominate. If you are suggesting a conflict of interest, the answer is a negative. I have not represented his offspring in the past.”
“If I understand correctly,” I said, addressing Vicki, “Gavin Mitchell was the one who called and broke the news to you of your father’s death, not Mr. Turner.”
“That’s right,” Vicki said in a timid voice, unlike the woman I’d come to know. What was wrong with her?
“Sadly, I was away on holiday when James passed on,” Turner explained. “Gavin Mitchell was also a good friend of the MacBride family and took on the responsibility of
notifying his heir in my absence. Fortunately, Kirstine located me and warned of her father’s impending death. Sadly, I returned the next day to find I was too late to see him one last time.”
I turned to Vicki. “Did Gavin tell you the terms of the will when he called you?”
She shook her head. “But he insisted I come immediately.”
“It wasn’t Gavin Mitchell’s place to do so,” Turner said to me, “even if he knew of the terms. I am the executor of the estate, and therefore the only one with that power. Ms. MacBride and I met first thing on my arrival back in Glenkillen to discuss those details.”
I had a meaty question, now that he had opened the door on the topic. “And is it true that Vicki’s father hadn’t updated his will since the birth of his other children?”
“You are an inquisitive young lady, but I believe I represent Ms. MacBride in this matter, not Eden Elliott.” His mustache twitched with annoyance. “Now, if you will allow me to continue.”
“My apologies. Please do.” With that deserved scolding, I went into silent mode and listened, but it was clear from the start that Vicki didn’t have enough experience in these matters to ask any questions at all. And she seemed pathologically intimidated by the attorney.
“The other side will present their case to a judge,” Turner told her. “The date is set for the second Tuesday in August, three weeks from now. Because the opposing side wasn’t specifically disinherited in the bequest, they have an excellent case and undoubtedly will be awarded the right to claim a share of their father’s estate.”
Vicki’s solicitor looked pleased with his pronouncement. Paul Turner might be Vicki’s attorney in theory, but his support was obviously with Kirstine and Alec. And why not? He’d lived in the same town where they were born and raised, had probably held them in his arms as babies, could even be a godparent to both for all I knew.
I wanted to snap at him, ask if he was counseling both sides and favoring the other. But I held my tongue.
“However,” he continued with a trace of regret, “if they should win, their shares will be held in moveable property only.”
