Pencils, elastic bands, paper clips—all the innocent paraphernalia of work. Hazel’s appointment book lay open on her desktop; her case files were stored in a separate cabinet. Disappointed, he sat back and idly lifted the corner of the blotter.
The dog-eared photo was near the edge, as if it had been examined often. From its fading surface Hazel gazed back at him, smiling. She wore shorts, her tanned legs seeming to go on forever, and her face, younger and softer, was more like Holly’s than he remembered. Beside her sat a large man in jeans, his arm thrown casually, possessively, around her shoulders. His face was strong, blunt, his thick hair a bit longer than was now fashion-able. Behind them, the purple haze of a heather-covered moor. Scotland, in summer.
His first impulse was to destroy the photo; but no, let
her keep it. She would have little enough when he had finished with her.
A corner of white protruded from beneath one side of the snap. He nudged the photo out of the way with the tip of his finger, as if touching it would contaminate him.
A business card. Good God. The man had given her a business card, like a commercial traveler come calling.
Unlike the photo, it was new, still pristinely white, and it told him what he wanted to know. Donald Brodie, Benvulin Distillery, Nethy Bridge, Inverness-shire.
Tim felt an icy calm settle over him. He pocketed the card, returning the photo to its hiding place. Seconds seemed to stretch into minutes, and in the silence he heard the pumping of his own heart.
He knew now what he had to do.
“What if they don’t eat meat?” Louise Innes stood at the kitchen sink, filling vases for the evening’s flower arrangements. Although her back was turned to her husband, John knew her forehead would be puckered in the small frown that had begun to leave a permanent crease.
“Did you not think to ask?”
“I assumed someone would have said, if there was a problem,” John answered, keeping his voice even but whisking a little harder at the batter for the herb and mushroom crepes that would serve as that night’s starter.
Although the kitchen was his province, the house Louise’s, she didn’t mind questioning his menu choices.
“And venison, especially—”
“Och, it’s a Highland specialty, Louise. And Hazel Cavendish is your old school friend—I should think ye’d know if she didna eat meat.”
“This weekend was a bad idea from start to finish,”
Louise said pettishly. Her English accent always grew
more precise in proportion to her degree of irritation, as if to repudiate his Scottishness. “I haven’t seen Hazel since the summer after university, and I don’t approve of the whole business. She’s married, for heaven’s sake, with a child. You’ve always let Donald Brodie talk you into things you shouldn’t.” His wife pulled half a dozen roses from the pail of flowers John had brought from Inverness that morning, laid them across a cutting board, and sliced off the bottom inch of the stems with a sharp knife. The ruthlessness in the quick chop made him think of small creatures beheaded.
Louise had taken a flower-arranging course the previous year, attacking the project with the efficiency that marked all her endeavors. Although she could now produce picture-perfect bouquets that drew raves from the guests, he found that the arrangements lacked that certain creative touch—a last blossom out of place, perhaps—
that would have made them truly lovely.
“If that’s the case, perhaps ye should take some responsibility,” he snapped at her. “It was you introduced me to Donald, ye ken.” He knew he was being defensive, because he’d allowed Donald to wheedle him into taking Hazel and her friend without charge, and this meant they’d turned away paying guests on a weekend at the beginning of their busiest season. But then, he had his reasons for keeping on Donald Brodie’s good side, and the less Louise knew about that, the better.
Louise’s only answer to his sally was the eloquent line of her back. With a sigh, John finished his batter and began brushing mushrooms with a damp tea towel. It was no use him criticizing Louise. The very qualities that aggravated him had also made this venture possible.
Two years ago, he’d given up his Edinburgh job in commercial real estate and bought the old farmhouse at
the edge of the Abernathy forest, between Coylumbridge and Nethy Bridge. The house and barn had been in appalling condition, but the recent property boom in Edinburgh had provided him with the cash to finance the necessary refurbishments.
Louise, at first unhappy over the loss of her job and circle of friends, had in time thrown herself into the project with her customary zeal. While he did the shopping and the cooking, she took reservations and did the guests’
rooms, as they could not as yet afford to hire help.
Resting the heel of his hand on his knife, he quartered the mushrooms before chopping them finely. A glance told him Louise still had her back to him, her head bent over her flowers. He felt his temper ease as he watched her. She might not have approved of the arrangements for the weekend, but she would do her best to make sure everything went smoothly.
“You’ll be glad to see Hazel again, will ye not?” he asked, in an attempt to placate.
Louise’s shoulders relaxed and she tilted her head, her neat blond hair falling to one side like a lifted bird’s wing. “It’s been a long time,” she answered. “I’m not sure I’ll know what to say.”
“I’m sure Donald will fill in the gaps,” he said lightly, then cursed himself for a fool. Louise would never be able to resist such an opening.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” She turned towards him, a spray of sweet peas in her hand. “Donald always fills in the gaps, and never mind the consequences. He’s as feck-less as his father, if not more so. Heather’s livid, and we have to get on with her once this weekend is over.”
“I don’t see why it should make any difference to Heather,” he said stubbornly. “Hazel’s her cousin, after all. Ye’d think she’d be glad to—”
“You don’t see anything!” Spots of color appeared high on Louise’s cheekbones. “How can you be so dense, John? You know how precarious things are at the distillery just now—”
“I still don’t see what that has to do with your friend Hazel coming for a weekend.” He added a clove of garlic to his board and chopped it with unnecessary force.
Louise turned her back to him again just as the sun dipped low enough in the southwest to catch the window above the sink. She stood, backlit, the light forming an aureole around her fair hair, as if she were a medieval saint.
“Why are you suddenly so determined to defend a woman you’ve never met?” Her voice was cold and tight, a warning he’d come to recognize. If he didn’t put an end to the argument now, it would spill over into the evening, and that he couldn’t afford.
“Listen, darlin’—”
“Unless there’s something you haven’t told me.” She stood very still, her hands cupped round the finished vase of flowers.
“Don’t be absurd, Louise. Why wouldna I have told you, if I’d met the bluidy woman?”
“I can think of a number of reasons.”
Scraping the mushrooms and garlic into the melted butter waiting in a saucepan, he considered his reply.
He’d never learned how to deal with her in this mood, having tried teasing, sarcasm, angry denial—all with the same lack of success. But the longer he delayed, the more likely she would take his silence for an admission of guilt. “Louise—”