A Small Death in the Great Glen (48 page)

How will I face Bill's parents—and my sister? She reached the war memorial.

I hope I don't end up in hospital again. She was crossing the suspension bridge that led to the infirmary, stopping in the middle, looking down through the galloping flow, now a steel gray flecked with silver, cold blue snowmelt swelling the river to halfway up the grassy banks. The incoming tide added to the flow and counterflow, setting off crests of white horses that pranced in irregular silver ranks across the wide waters.

He is always sorry afterward—so he says. She reached the opposite bank and turned toward town again.

He came to the hospital to visit me that time he broke my collarbone. It was turning to dusk although only two o'clock in the afternoon.

He said he was really sorry. She was shamed by the remembrance of her cowardly gratitude when he walked into the hospital with a box of chocolates.

I stay for the girls. That was ever the excuse.

On her left, the cathedral was melting into the sky, and downriver, the bridges and churches and distant hills, in various
shades of a nothing color, made Joanne feel she was walking in a dreamscape.

Passing through the final stone arch of the bridge back into town, the idea sparked.

“One thousand pounds.”

She rushed up Bridge Street, hurrying so as not to lose courage—yet again. Panting, she stumbled into the sudden warmth of the reporters' room, her feet painful, protesting against the sudden change in temperature. Don was alone except for the paraffin stove set on full blast, a pile of copy and a cup of tea that smelled distinctly of a distillery.

“Pleased to see me or have you been running?”

Until Joanne had worked with him, drunk with him and begun to know him, Don McLeod would never have seemed a likely candidate for the role of Sir Galahad. A Celtic Sam Spade? That was more like it.

“Don, can you do something for me?”

“Can? Probably. Will? Maybe.”

“I need to warn Bill that someone may come looking for one thousand pounds.”

He looked her over. He took his time. She could feel the blush spread from her cheeks down her neck.

“Mrs. Ross, one thing I will
not
do is get involved in family matters—”

“Fine.” She turned away. “Forget I asked.”

“—unless you can give me a very good reason why I should.” He finished.

“Well, it might mean I don't come into work covered in bruises and unable to sit at my typewriter,” she snapped.

And knowing how much it cost her to admit this, he said, “Good enough.”

“Really? You'll help?” He nodded. “Then maybe you could
call, or meet, or somehow let Bill know all about the matter of the one thousand pounds.”

“Aye, I could.” He nodded again.

“Then I want you to help me figure out how I can hold that over my husband and buy myself out of a marriage.” Her look, as she said this, was defiant and scared and she suddenly seemed three inches taller to the much shorter Don.

“I've taught you well, lass.” He winked. “Leave it to me.”

“Gazette.”

“Joanne, my dear. How are you?” They were almost finished with the edition and Joanne was weary, so the sound of Margaret's voice was more than welcome. “I'm looking for that scallywag son of mine to see if he will be home for dinner tonight.”

“He's not here but I'll get him to call you.”

“Thank you.” She paused. “I don't suppose you would be free? It's press night; I know the children are at their grandparents', so why don't you join me? There's a delicious supper prepared. Don't worry, it wasn't me that cooked,” Margaret McLean gushed on. “I'd love the company. Angus has some meeting or other, and I'm sure Rob will be out chasing some girl. Could you possibly join me?”

“I'd love to. I've to pop into the Corellis' to check my dress for the wedding, but that will take half an hour at most.” She hesitated. “Margaret, could I possibly stay the night?” Bill would never find her there.

“My dear, of course. That will be fun.”

Margaret put down the phone, pleased Joanne had not seen through her subterfuge.

My oh my, she said to herself. That wonderful young woman is being slowly smothered; we'll have to sort something out.

“Gazette.”
Rob took the phone call from WPC Ann McPherson.

“We have to talk,” she said.

“Uh-oh, it's always serious when a woman says that.” He certainly hoped it wasn't serious. I like her, he thought, I really like her. But I'm too young for serious.

They met in the café near the post office. As usual, she took the lead.

“First, can we pretend I'm not a police officer when I ask these questions?”

She didn't wait for an answer, just plowed on.

“I know you, I know what a nosy parker you are, and I get the feeling you know more than you think you do about the goings-on in the house next door to you—if you get my meaning.”

Rob hated the way, at nearly twenty years of age, he always looked guilty when caught out. He couldn't do blasé; he'd practiced in front of the mirror and just looked plain glaikit. He couldn't recall anything in particular that he had done wrong. But then again, this very morning, he
had
been considering how to get into the locked mansion again—just for a wee nosy around.

“I want you to think on this—is there anything, anything out of the ordinary, anything at all, that makes you suspicious about Father Morrison?”

She paused, speaking carefully, not wanting Rob to see her dilemma—not yet. As a woman police constable, she was the lowest of the lowly. A glorified typist to most of her male colleagues, someone to bring along when women and children were involved and even then, many of the men thought her presence unnecessary. But WPC Ann McPherson wanted to be a real policewoman.

“Another thing. I want you to trust DCI Westland.” She held up a hand. “I know, I know, you don't like the police, but if you do think of anything, tell
me.
I promise it will go straight to him and not to your favorite inspector.”

Rob wondered what she was trying to say. The memory of those shots of the defenseless boys, beaming at the camera for the most part but embarrassed to be photographed in the more compromising poses, made him take her suggestion seriously.

“Fine. I'll think about it. If I come up with an idea, I'll tell you. Promise.”

“At first I was really excited about working on a murder case. We never get anything like that around here. But now, every time I think of that wee soul, I feel ashamed. I want this solved, but we seem to be getting nowhere and, well, I feel we're letting him down.” She was closely examining the swirls of pattern on the Formica tabletop as she spoke. “Rob, we have to find whoever did this.”

The silence was about five seconds. And for once, Rob had nothing to add. Ann rescued them.

“Anyway, as per usual, I'm breaking the rules—passing on police information, and especially to you.” She had him now. “All I'll say is”—she grinned—“ask Gino about the convoy.”

“Convoy?”

“It's driving Inspector Tompson nuts. And it's a great story.”

“That's Inspector Tompson. …” They sang out together: “Inspector Tompson, without an H, with a P.”

“Tell me more.”

Ann shook her head and repeated, “Ask Gino.”

Joanne had felt a presence—No, she thought, an absence—as she walked down the path to the McLeans' front door. Wee Jamie disappeared from here. She was glad when the door opened and she could step out of the dark and the shadows.

She and Margaret sat by the fire and chatted. No more, no less; no deep and serious discussions, no philosophizing, nor revelations, unless they were amusing. Joanne loved the novelty of a
good listener who was genuinely interested in her work at the
Gazette
and her dreams of a career. Margaret in turn enthralled Joanne with stories: Paris in the thirties, Edinburgh society, Highland balls, staying with stuffy relatives in freezing baronial castles for New Year parties.

“I wore woolen underwear—long johns and vest—under a Fortuny gown on one particularly cold Hogmanay in a castle where it was colder inside than out.”

The gin and the stories were working well.

“Speaking of gowns, what are you wearing to Chiara and Peter's wedding dance?”

Joanne confessed she was planning on wearing her matron of honor dress or even her Highland dancing dress and sash.

“You may remember, last time I got dressed up, it didn't go down too well with some.” The recollection still hurt, but a smidgen of revenge had been exacted. The face of Mr. Findlay Grieg as he peered down her cleavage was the least of the unpleasant memories. And who's had the last laugh, Mr. Grieg?

Margaret squinted down the long slim ivory holder she habitually used, and peering through the cigarette smoke, she sized Joanne up.

“I think it would be about right. Come on, let's see.”

The small room, off a large bedroom, was filled down one side with dresses and ball gowns, hidden in protective bags. Opposite, a table was laden with makeup and unguents of the most expensive variety. Lights set around the mirror made Joanne think of a dressing room of some famous star of stage or opera.

“This one, I think.” Margaret held up a floating, shimmering dress of pale blue silk, studded with star clusters of beading, looking critically at Joanne, then back to the dress. “No, not that one. Let me see. Aha! This one.” She held it up. “This one definitely.”

Joanne looked doubtfully at a most peculiar garment. It hung straight. No form, no shape. Delicate uneven pleats ran from shoulder to hemline, with a deep V neckline front and back.

“And this.” She threw a cape at Joanne. The soft, deep, glowing fur made her want to bury her face and hands in the pile.

“I'll be back in a minute. Try the dress on. And put on a pair of the highest heels you can find. Luckily, we're the same size.”

Joanne wriggled into the gown. It fitted. More than fitted: it hugged every contour of her body. Her breasts were clearly outlined, the cleavage accentuated. The deep ruby silk set off the red in Joanne's hair. The silver fox-fur capelet, much lighter than it looked, draped gracefully over her shoulders. She breathed in its warmth. She pirouetted. The gown rippled with a soft swooshing sigh. Catching herself in the mirror, she was amazed at the transformation. For the first time, she glimpsed her own beauty.

“Margaret.”

Joanne tiptoed through to the sitting room, three inches taller in a pair of snakeskin sandals.

“Oh, my dear.” Margaret clapped her hands. “Perfect.”

From the sitting room doorway, four other hands clapped in appreciation.

“Rob. Mr. McLean. I didn't hear you come in.”

Rob grinned. “You look a complete smasher. Doesn't she, Dad?”

“Absolutely! Couldn't agree more.”

Joanne laughed and did a mock catwalk prance toward him. He opened the record player, put on a Viennese waltz, bowed and, still in his leather motorbike jacket, asked, “May I have the next waltz, Princess Cinderella, or are you a Highland Mata Hari?”

“Idiot.” Joanne mock-punched him, then curtseyed—“Thank you, kind sir”—and they waltzed around the carpet, Margaret
and Angus McLean joining in, laughing, smiling, good friends together.

Later, Joanne snuggled under the eiderdown with the hot water bottle Margaret had insisted on filling for her. Tired, emotional, happy, she was halfway down the spiral to sleep when a stray thought, insistent as a wasp after the jam, dragged her back to consciousness.

“What was it Annie had said about the hoodie crow? Where did she say she had seen it?” But it refused to come to her. Thoughts of new beginnings, a single life with two children, working full-time on the
Gazette,
her mother-in-law's reaction and her sister and brother-in-law's, the condemnation from town and kirk, the challenge of living up to her own expectations, how she would tell Bill and the girls, and what would McAllister think. … She heaved the quilt right up to her nose. The frost could be sensed, smelled almost, hard, bright and clean. She smiled. Her breathing slowed again. Her last thought in the strange bed was, Well, I won't be able to say my life is dull anymore.