cute but faint table lamp, and sat down on the tartan cushion lining the window seat.
The tiny screen of the phone displayed a Missed Call notification. Ah, Rebecca Campbell-Reid, the distaff half of good friends in Edinburgh, had left a message just about the time Alasdair was dealing with a distraught Tina. Either he hadn’t heard the phone ring or he’d ignored it. Good for him. There were times Jean wondered just who was the slave, the phone or its owner.
Rebecca’s voice mail was delivered in a good-natured American voice whose accent had been moving eastward ever since she’d married Michael, Scot and proud of it. “We’re still on for the wedding, bagpipes and all, no worries there. We’ll be obliged to bring Linda, though. The child minder’s got the flu, drat and double drat. So much for that child-free interlude. Can you ask the MacDonalds if they’ve got a cot? If not, we’ll rig something up. At least the bairn’s not crawling yet. Gotta go, emergency meeting over a collar that’s turned out to be a fake.”
Jean eyed the now mute face of the phone. She’d have to tell Michael and Rebecca about the death at Dunasheen, although she could spare them the ramifications until the official team had sifted through them.
The Campbell-Reids had been, if not helping hands, then peripheral nerves at all four of team Cameron and Fairbairn’s earlier cases. Investigations. Things. As historians and employees of the National Museum of Scotland and Holyrood Palace, respectively, their knowledge of and connections to the art, artifacts, and antiquities business had proved invaluable.
They’d given Jean and Alasdair a hard time about Fergie and his Flagon, no matter how much she insisted it had been old Lord Dunasheen, Fergie’s uncle, who claimed the alabaster cup was an artifact of the world beneath, or beyond, or even inside, wherever supernatural beings came from. And now…well, Alasdair was right, she was operating with only a wisp or two of straw. She’d check with the Campbell-Reids once she had a brick or two, not to mention a crib for the baby.
On the gilded chair, Dougie’s ears pricked forward, then back again. Jean, too, heard a faint crunch of gravel. She looked through the window to see a figure muffled in a yellow raincoat walking swiftly away from Lionel Pritchard’s cottage and down the drive. Shutting the gates, as Diana had directed, would discourage the reporters. But with the pleasant village of Kinlochroy providing food, drink, and sanitary facilities, they would roost for a while, if only to justify being called away from their Hogmanay celebrations.
Jean reminded herself just as she had reminded Diana that she was a journalist, not a reporter. Either way, she needed to check with base camp. Michael and Rebecca were valuable references and moral support, but Miranda Capaldi was both Jean’s partner and her employer in the travel-and-history magazine, roles that Miranda balanced as gracefully as a fine Royal Doulton cup in its translucent saucer.
Jean pressed a number and was momentarily startled when the call was answered by a male voice: “Great Scot.”
It only seemed like midnight. In real time, the office was still open and receptionist Gavin was duly minding reception. “Hi,” Jean said. “It’s me. You mean Miranda’s making you work all the way to six p.m.?”
“Oh aye,” the lad returned. “My filing wants sorting before I’m allowed away on holiday. How are you getting on at the Misty Isle?”
“It’s misty,” Jean said. “Downright murky, even. Put me through to Miranda, please, and she can tell you all about it.”
“Righty-ho.”
A click and a buzz and Miranda’s smoke-and-honey voice answered. “Miranda Capaldi.”
“Hi. It’s me,” Jean said again.
“You’re supposed to be honeymooning, Jean.”
“No, I’m supposed to be writing a puff piece about Fergus MacDonald, advertising executive turned stately homeowner. The honeymoon doesn’t come until after the wedding.”
“Tell Alasdair that,” Miranda said with a laugh, and then her laugh trailing away into caution, “Please tell me you’re not phoning because there’s been criminal activity.”
Really, Jean thought, Miranda’s ESP was uncannier than her own, and much more useful. “I’m afraid so. An Australian visitor’s been stabbed to death on Dunasheen Beach, mere minutes after getting here. Alasdair’s in full police mode and the troops are assembling.”
“Ah,” Miranda said. “Well then. Pity.” After a suitable moment of silence, she asked, “Australian, you’re saying?”
Jean told her everything she knew, little as that was, of Greg MacLeod’s artificially shortened life: Townsville, Queensland. Clan societies and genealogy. A souvenir factory. Property. The art market. A museum of religion a la St. Mungo’s. “Although,” she concluded, “I bet his museum has another attribution, since St. Mungo is peculiar to Glasgow.”
“There’s something to be said for, say, the Woolloomooloo Museum of Religious Life and Art.”
Jean surprised herself by laughing, if shortly. “You went Down Under year before last.”
“Aye, that I did, attending a benefit in Sydney for the descendants of the Scottish masons who built the harbor bridge. Whilst I was there I spoke to several clan societies, including the MacLeods, and made the round of galleries and museums as well. The Ozzies lay on lovely receptions, all in the interest of British/Australian business and cultural relations, of course.”
“Of course,” said Jean, with a knowing nod. She heard either the soft chatter of Miranda’s keyboard or the discreet jingle of her jewelry.
“No Greg MacLeods are named in my notes, nor have I a business card on file. You’ve tried an Internet search on the man, have you?”
“If you’ll look in the next office, you’ll see my laptop sitting on my desk.”
“Oh aye. And here’s me, saying, no, you’ll not be wanting your computer, being a blushing bride and all. Half a tick.”
Jean refrained from pointing out that she and Alasdair were past the blushing stage, even though, with Jean’s fair to fish-belly-white skin, flushing was always an option.
“There’s more than a few Greg MacLeods in the world,” Miranda announced. “Here’s yours, though, in a newspaper article from last year. He sold Waltzing Matilda Gifts to Gung Hay Fat Choy International for a tidy sum, however you’re defining tidy.”
“That confirms what he told Fergie, though I don’t know why he’d lead Fergie on.”
“Here’s another bit in the same newspaper, last March. MacLeod gave a donation—another tidy sum, I reckon, or it would not be in the papers—to the Bible History Research Society for excavations in Israel.”
“That connects him with the museum.” Jean frowned—somewhere in the storage closet of her brain, the name Bible History Research Society rattled like a skeleton shifting uneasily.
“Just coming, Gavin!” called Miranda. And, back into the telephone, “Sorry, Jean, must run.”
“Fergie says I can borrow his computer,” Jean told her. “And maybe Tina MacLeod will be up to answering questions when D.C.I. Gilnockie gets here. The guy who replaced Alasdair at Inverness.”
“You’ll
