Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 146289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 731(@200wpm)___ 585(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 731(@200wpm)___ 585(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
“What can I get for you?” he asks.
“Whatever’s local on tap, amber preferred, and the special for lunch.”
He fills the glass. “American, aye?”
“Aye,” I say, still feeling silly when I say it with my accent.
“I remember ya. You were the one taking over the Galloway place down the road.”
“That’s me.”
He sets the amber pint in front of me. “I’m John MacLeod. Welcome back.”
It’s a small thing—welcome back—but it does something to me. Makes me feel like I’m slowly becoming a part of the land. Either that, or it’s becoming a part of me.
He brings me a plate of haddock and chips with the kind of mushy peas that come from a can, and a lemon wedge. The haddock is good, the same fish they use in the Cullen skink (I know, I was dismayed too when I learned skink was not a fish).
After I’ve had half my pint, and the lunch rush seems to slow, I work up the courage to blurt, “Mr. MacLeod.”
“Aye? You can call me John.”
“What if I meet another John? I’ll get confused.”
“You’re sooner to meet another MacLeod.”
“Okay, well, John…you know the castle across the bay from my cottage?”
“Ob Gorm Mor.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, thinking maybe he’s had a stroke.
“Ob Gorm Mor is the name of the bay between you. Means big blue-green bay.” He doesn’t look up from the glass he’s cleaning. “And the castle is Caisteal Eachainn.”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“What about it?”
“Is anyone living there?”
The glass goes onto the rack. He picks up another. He takes his time.
“Officially, no. The trust that owns it considers it uninhabited.”
“And unofficially…?”
He looks at me then and I can see him trying to decide how much info to give me.
“Unofficially,” he starts, “there’s been a man in that castle, off and on, longer than I’ve worked this bar. Quiet. Doesn’t trouble anyone. Comes in here once in a while for a drink. Pays in cash. Doesn’t stay long.”
Oh, thank god—Alasdair isn’t a ghost. He exists.
“Does he have a name?”
“He’s never given me one.”
“Has anyone?”
“Lass.” MacLeod sets the glass down. “If a man comes into my pub and pays for his pint and minds himself and makes no trouble, I don’t ask after his name. That’s how this pub stays a pub. You follow?”
“Sure do,” I agree, feeling slightly reprimanded.
“Aye.”
He goes back to the glasses. I work on the chips, squirting some brown sauce on them, then dipping them in tartar. I let a beat go, and another.
“My great-aunt…” I trail off.
“Yes?”
“Did she come here much?”
He almost smiles. “Effie Galloway sat where you’re sitting once a fortnight for forty years. Half-pint of bitter, a full if she was feeling fine, a packet of crisps and a stare at the door like she was waiting for someone to walk through it.”
The chip in my hand goes cold.
“Did anyone? Come for her, that is?”
“Not while I was serving.”
That sits in me. I drink some of the pint to push it down.
“Did the man at the castle ever come in here and talk to Effie?”
He shakes his head. “Never saw them together. Man from the castle was always alone. He preferred it. So did Effie, mind you.”
Hmmm.
The door opens behind me. MacLeod glances up and his shoulders go back.
“Inspector.”
Oh god, please don’t let it be MacRae again.
The man who’s come in takes the stool four down from mine. He doesn’t look at me, but at least he’s not MacRae. The bartender pulls him something dark without being asked. Inspector, apparently, says, “Fine afternoon.”
“Same to you, Sinclair.”
“Quiet today.”
“Tuesday. Always quiet.”
A pause. The man clears his throat. “I’ve news, if you want it.”
“I never want it.”
“Aye. Well then.”
I stare down at the chips and hope he keeps talking because last time I was here I got a boatload of information and I don’t want to pass that up again. Even though that information did me more harm than good.
Sinclair lowers his voice. “Body washed up at Gairloch last night. Tide brought her in.”
My eyes widen. That’s not too far from here. Just a couple of lochs over.
“Christ.”
“Aye.”
“Same?”
“Same. We’ve a witness this time. Hill-walker through the trees up the slope. Couldn’t see clear, the light was failing, but he saw enough.”
“What did he see?”
“A woman on the shore. Screaming. And then she wasn’t on the shore anymore. He says it was a man. Dark hair. Tall. He says she was being dragged into the water.”
The fork in my hand goes very still on the plate.
“He couldn’t see her face,” Sinclair goes on, low. “He couldn’t see the man’s face either. By the time he got down to the water, the shore was empty. Blood on the rocks. A shoe.”
“Fourth this summer.”
“Fourth.”
“Christ.”
“Aye.”
A long silence. MacLeod polishes a glass that does not, by any measure, need polishing.
“They should be scared,” Sinclair says, quiet. “The women on this coast should be very scared, MacLeod, and I don’t know how to tell them that without telling them what they already know.”