“I hope you’re not counting on me to do all the cooking and the cleanup, because it’s not going to happen,” I said.
He laughed. “We’ll have to order in and eat off paper plates.”
“Any developments in Blair Bazillionaire’s case?”
“It’s working its way through the system. The big news is that he fired his lawyer.”
“Don’t tell me he’s going to try to defend himself! I know he thinks he’s the best lawyer there is anywhere on the planet, but what is it they say about lawyers who defend themselves?”
“They have fools for clients. Baldwin isn’t a fool whatever else you might say about him. No, he’s retained Desmond Crane.”
“I thought they disliked each other. No, stronger than that, I thought they loathed each other.”
“Maybe some of that was for show in court, part of the performance. Really, though, isn’t that exactly the kind of person you want to have in your corner, the opposing lawyer who gave you the most trouble? I think it’s smart of him. It’s bought him some time, too, which may also have some thing to do with it. Crane has petitioned the court for more time so he can prepare the case. As a result, you will have a longer wait before you’re called as a witness.”
“What would he want to buy time for, given he’s going to spend it in jail? I could understand it if he were still free and wanted to prolong that. I wish I were completely convinced he did it, given I’ll have to testify about both finding the body and the little dustup at his party. On a happier subject, at least I think it is, have I ever mentioned how happy I am not to be sleeping with a ghost?” I told him briefly about the fund-raiser at the Alexanders, and my visit to their home in Hoxa.
He chuckled. “No, you haven’t mentioned it, and I sup pose this is where I’m supposed to confess that I’ve had a few bad moments about your still being in business with your ex. I’m getting over it, though, and I never figured I was sleeping with him.”
“Good,” I said.
“Where are you and these people you’ve met exactly?”
“Orkney. It’s the most wonderful place. I’m quite infatuated. I want us to come here for a real holiday next spring. It has all these Neolithic sites to visit, tombs and houses and there were Vikings here, too. It’s beautiful, and the people are really, really nice.”
“But where is it?”
“Islands off the northeast coast of Scotland.”
“Scotland! This isn’t about the Neolithic, is it? It’s about Mackintosh writing cabinets. Get over it, Lara! Everybody makes a mistake from time to time.”
“I’m trying. I know it wasn’t the first mistake I’ve ever made, nor will it be the last. I’m not naive. I know forgers are getting to be awfully good at their trade, and unfortunately science and technology is helping them. But usually my mistakes do not involve murders for which my client is charged.”
“This isn’t about you, Lara. It’s about a conman by the name of Trevor Wylie who gambled big and lost. And it’s about someone else with a terrible temper, a wife-beater after all, who consorted with violent criminals. Maybe some of it wore off on him.”
“You consort with violent criminals. It hasn’t worn off on you as far as I can tell.”
“Maybe that’s because of you, you and Jennifer. Maybe Blair drove away the person who kept him grounded when he scared away his wife. And by the way, promise me if it ever does start to rub off on me, you’ll smother me in my sleep.”
“Count on it,” I said, and we both laughed.
“Come home,” he said. “I miss you.”
“I think I will,” I replied.
That night I dreamed about a windswept hill and a derelict castle in which lived an old, frail, ill man who sat in his wheelchair near a window, watched over by the ghost of a woman. He sat looking at a cracked and dry fountain that I was trying to reach, but I kept getting lost in the trees which sprang up along the paths created in the geometric garden. Across the burned countryside there was a desolate shore where human skeletons with guns and binoculars sat watching the sea. As I awoke a thought sprang unbidden: the Wasteland, the maze, the wounded king. I’d have to tell Percy about that place next time I saw him. It was difficult to believe salvation lurked in such a pathetic spot, but I suppose one never knew.
I couldn’t get a seat on the plane for Glasgow the next day, so I decided to give my mission just one more try. I was on my way back across the Churchill Barriers to widen my search out from St. Margaret’s Hope when a motorcycle overtook and passed me on one of the causeways. I don’t know motorcycles, so couldn’t swear it was the same one I’d seen in Stromness. However, there were two people on it, the passenger a woman with long dark hair blowing out from under her helmet, and the rider wore what looked to be the same skintight red and blue leather gear. I stayed with them across two more causeways, and the islands in between, and then as they swept past the turnoff for St. Margaret’s Hope. They were going faster than I was actually comfortable driving on these roads, but I tried to keep up with them with some success until I got trapped behind a farm vehicle. With so little traffic, this would have to happen right then! I saw them turn off the road to the left some distance ahead of me, at least I thought I did, and when I came to a road that I thought was more or less in the right place, I turned, too.
I followed a country road signed for something called The Tomb of the Eagles, slowing to look down side roads for any trace of the motorcycle. There was none. When I reached this Tomb of the Eagles, it turned out to be another five-thousand-year-old Neolithic tomb, this one managed by the farmer on whose property it had been found. There was a parking lot with a couple of cars, and a rather jolly exhibit center where family members explained what there was to be seen, but there was no Willow. I listened to the presentation anyway, hearing all about the tomb and how it was named for the eagle bones and talons that had been found in it along with the bones of more than three hundred people, and then walked with three fellow tourists some distance across fields to actually see it. The tomb was another grassy mound, but much smaller than Maeshowe, perched high above the sea. I could see how these tombs were still being found, as Percy had told me, given that they looked like an ordinary part of the natural landscape, a grassy knoll, a pile of earth long since covered over. They would be easy to overlook.
A motorbike with two riders shouldn’t have been easy to either overlook or lose, but I could see no sign of them, and even lay on my back on a dolly and pulled myself into the tomb with the rope provided to make sure they weren’t in there. They weren’t. The others did not recall seeing a motorcycle on their way in. Discouraged, although I’d enjoyed the place, I made my way back to St. Margaret’s Hope and continued my still unsuccessful search for the craftsman who made the reproductions at the Alexanders. Everybody knew the Alexanders’ place, but not much about them. It seemed they kept to themselves.
I had decided it was time to let this ridiculous notion of mine go, a feeling I thought might be quite liberating if I could manage it, and head back to Stromness to pack up my bags so I’d be ready to head home. It was then that once again a motorcycle with two riders roared past me. By the time I had reached my car, it had disappeared down the road that led to Hoxa and the Alexanders’ home. I took the road right to the end, but Willow, if indeed it had been Willow, was long gone. Still, the sun was going down and the sky looked absolutely wonderful, the pink just starting, shot through with brilliant azure and clouds with a touch of purple. I decided to park where I had before and hike up the road to the cliffs above the sea.
I was just standing there breathing in the fresh air, and trying to imprint this view on my memory, when I heard something, I wasn’t sure what, a groan, perhaps. It seemed to be coming from the concrete bunker just a few yards away.