He noticed her green eyes sparkling. Apparently, she did have a fondness for animals. The pretty lass had left her hand atop his, but he didn't notice.
"Fortunately, for me, so is Skye. I've not much experience—"
"Uhm, uhm."
Duncan gave a start and so did the blonde waitress. Angela cleared her throat, one brow raised high on her forehead. She'd materialized from out of nowhere. He followed her gaze to the table, where Rachel's hand rested upon his.
"Ah won't let ye keep me, Duncan. Best be getting back to me work," she said with a charming smile. She rose, emerald eyes still twinkling and eyelashes batting. "Dinnae fash yersel aboot yer lack of experience. Ah'm sure ye're a natural," she added with a wink before sashaying away.
"What a fine lass," he said, smiling at Angela. "She's Andrew's sister and our future neighbor."
"Quite. But she should see a doctor about that facial tic."
"What facial—"
"The storm's let up. I think we should head out," she interrupted, her finger tapping the package she cradled in one arm.
Per her directions, Duncan dropped her at Trotter's house then drove back to the cottage, just a few meters down the road. She'd insisted she see the carpenter alone. After checking that electricity and water had been reinstated as he'd requested, he settled down in what would be his study and tried to read. On his last visit, Donald lent him two chairs and several lamps from an unused stash of furniture at the inn. Now, he pulled a chair to the window, nestling into its plush cushion, and glanced from time to time in the direction of Trotter's place.
Angela plastered her most demure smile on her face and lifted the heavy door knocker, allowing gravity to sling the iron circle topped with a patinaed Scottish thistle against its metal receptacle. Surprisingly, it did not produce much of a noise. She repeated the process, this time adding her own muscle and getting a slightly better bang.
"Haud yer wheesht! No need to wake the—"
A bearded man with tousled hair jerked the door open with one hand while tucking his shirt in his trousers with the other. He looked as if he'd just awoke.
"Ah'm . . . Ah'm . . ."
Angela smiled sweetly and waited for the man to compose himself.
"Ah'm sorry. Can Ah help ye?"
She allowed her smile to widen, revealing her pearly whites.
"Yes. I love how you've restored this door!" Angela exclaimed, rubbing her hand against the wood. She continued, "And this antique knocker . . . it's brilliant! I'm Angela Smith, by the way. I do hope you like lemon curd." She handed the package to him while glancing over his shoulder into his home.
"Uh. Aye, aye, that Ah do. Ah'm Michael Trotter."
She offered her hand which he took, but he appeared dumbfounded as to what to do with it. Finally, he bowed slightly and gave her fingers a squeeze.
"Yes, I know. Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Trotter. I'd love to see what you've done with your place. It's positively beautiful." She allowed her eyes to grow wide as she scanned the room beyond the entry. In fact, the home was exceedingly attractive, in a masculine kind of way.
Trotter beamed with pride, stood to the side, and said, "Where are me manners? Please, do come in. It's downright Baltic out. Would ye fancy a cuppa?"
Angela skirted past him into the parlor. She lifted her chin, gazing at the open hand-hewn beams supporting the ceiling.
"How divine," she murmured, almost breathless. She turned to face him. "I'd die for a cup of tea just now, Mr. Trotter."
"No need for that, Miss. Please call me Michael, or Mike. Feel free to look arooond, while Ah put me kettle on," he said, his rosy cheeks bunching in mounds under his eyes, unable to control his expression. Michael Trotter was not used to having a pretty lass in his cottage, let alone one who was familiar with his work. His face fell when Angela lifted the cup to her lips and he noticed the ring on her finger.
"Michael, please open it." She gestured towards the box wrapped in brown paper. "I can't get over what you've done with this kitchen. It's just fabulous!"
Angela didn't lie. Trotter was obviously a master craftsman. Modern appliances fit nicely with the bespoke rustic cabinetry. Somehow, he'd struck a balance between the two and nothing seemed out of place in the centuries-old cottage. They'd be lucky to have him work on their house. The smile returned to the carpenter's face when he removed the paper, then the lid from the food carrier.
"Mmm, lemon's me favorite!" he enthused, examining the pan of lemon curd-topped delicacies. She'd packed sixteen identical biscuits into the container, making sure those chosen had perfect golden brown crust and an equal amount of thick, tart, gooey topping.
"Please, have one. They're called cracker bars and I won't be happy until I know they're good," she said with a nod.
He grabbed two small plates from a cupboard and asked, "Ye cooked them yersel?"
She nodded, her face filled with anticipation as he placed one on the plate before her and took a bite of another. She'd made these treats from Margaret's recipe, usually reserved for Christmas baking. Trotter patted the roof of his mouth with his tongue and rolled his eyes heavenward. He closed his lids and took a second, larger bite before his eyes sprang open.
"Delicious!" he proclaimed, then sat down across from her and poured his own cup of tea.
"I'm so glad. It's the first time I've made them."
In spite of working in construction, the man displayed excellent table manners. They made pleasant conversation about the sudden change in the weather and important events in the village. Angela got around to inquiring as to how long it took to refurbish his home and where he sourced his materials and fittings. By the time they'd finished their tea, they chatted like old friends.
"Now that Ah've figured ooot who ye are, Ah can imagine why ye've coom," he said, lifting one side of his bushy unibrow.
Angela knew this was do or die, the make or break moment of her visit.
"I don't get out to Taye very often, but in future, that may change. I heard from my good friends, Donald and Skye Merriwether, that you were the best carpenter around, a real genius, in fact. So, I wanted to see your work and introduce myself properly as your future neighbor."
"Ye dinnae coom to ask me to refurbish yer cottage?"
"Of course I did!"
Her face broke into a grin, then a broad smile as she awaited his response. Trotter's laugh began as a deep, rumbling chuckle. His shoulders began to shake, and he threw his head back and roared, joined by a relieved Angela.
He insisted on walking her back to the cottage and lending her a pair of wellies. Trotter offered his elbow and helped her as they took a shortcut between the two houses and through the small wooded glen which separated the properties. A creek gurgled through the miniature valley and they laughed again, skipping across the protruding stones to the other side.
"Later in Spring, this trickle turns into a burn. Ah fish here—it's good fir brownies. Yer Duncan may like to give it a cast, if he's got some skill."
"I didn't even know this was here," she said, looking around in amazement.
"Aye. It marks the property line, so Ah'm guessing yer Duncan will fish on this side while I cast on me own," he said, jerking his thumb to the opposite side of the stream.
"Nonsense!" She squeezed his arm with hers and smiled. "And you'll join us for tea, when we're here. After you've done up my kitchen."
"Aye. Ah moost say, ye're a sly one, Angela Smith. Who told ye aboot me craven fir lemons?"
Angela feigned innocence as they hoofed up an incline, breaking through the trees as the cottage came into view.
"Why, there's yer Duncan now! Ah do believe that's a glower on his face."
"Nonsense! Come in and let's share the good news with him."
"Nae. Ah think Ah'll leave you to it, neighbor."
"But what about the wellies? Let me wash them off in the cottage before you leave."
"Nae. Ye keep them, Lass. Ah've got me own pair and nae need fir those anymo
re. Ye'll be wanting them when ye tramp arroond the property, and thank ye fir the biscuits."
"Thank you, Michael."
They said their goodbyes, and she made a dash for the house. Sleet began to fall again.
"I see you and the caveman got quite cozy."
Duncan met her at the front door, his tone deadpan along with his expression.
"He's a nice fellow, Duncan, and he's agreed to work on the cottage. You'll have to go over and see all he's done to his own house. It's magnificent. His kitchen is so efficient. You should have seen him make tea. He wants me to send him magazine clippings of what I like, to give him an idea of what we want done. For the first time, I'm actually excited about this place!"
"Well, zippety do dah and giddy up!" he said in his best cowboy impersonation. He'd seen plenty of westerns during the years he spent as a child in the States. Angus was the one who preferred that type of lingo, but for some reason, it seemed fitting to him now.
The row that followed was a thing to see. Angela brought up the pretty waitress and the partial discussion she overheard about his lack of experience. She didn't appreciate him flirting or sharing personal details with the first good looking woman who batted her lashes at him. Duncan pounced on her tea party with Trotter and their intimate, arm in arm stroll through the woodlands of Taye. Then, he brought up Moses MacDonald.
"One of his gang actually accosted me when you were getting cozy at his table last night!"
"I didn’t see that. Why didn't you say something?"
"Because I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. I never saw you as a gun moll."
"How dare you? I have to put up with girls ogling you all the time. They still gossip about the Dashing Duncan in the office. And remember that horrid Cassandra Baines? I’m nice to one of your mum's customers and you treat me like I can't be trusted, spying on me and Michael out of that window! Honestly, Duncan!"
"I wasn't spying. I was worried. I didn’t like the idea of you going over to Trotter's alone to begin with, and you were over there for more than an hour."
"Skye said he was a nice fellow. She's known him for years. And let's not forget about Skye. I'm sure there was something between you two at one point. Come clean, Duncan!"
"We've only ever been friends. Sure, she's a beautiful lass, and no doubt, Donald hoped—"
"Oh, shut up!"
Duncan met her glare. He couldn’t help but notice how lovely her eyes were, a periwinkle cast dominating their color at the moment. He grabbed her hand and yanked her towards him. She started to protest as he enveloped her in an embrace.
"Haud yer wheesht, Woman!"
Angela bit down on her lip, holding her tongue for the moment.
"Do you know how beautiful you are when you're angry?"
He ran his fingers through her hair, tugging on a stray tendril and drawing her chin up so she'd meet his gaze.
"I think Dr. Brightly might be mistaken about the people pleaser thing," he said, allowing his eyes to roam over her lovely features.
They both broke into a laugh. Things were right with the world once again, even after she refused his latest runaway wedding offer at Gretna Green.
Chapter 12
Cat and Mouse
Duncan leapt from the street to the wet pavement, just missing a car that came squealing around the corner. If he didn't know better, he'd think the driver, a young male, had aimed for him. He looked after the old sedan, but before he could make out any numbers on the auto's plate, it had rounded another corner out of sight. The license had been mostly covered in mud, as had the automobile. He breathed in deeply, placing his hands on his knees to relax and calm the nerves one feels after a near-miss. Certain he'd recognized the driver as the homeless man who parked nearby, he shook his head and proceeded to his meeting with added caution.
"Ah, young Duncan! Glad you could join me," Clarence said, waving as he rose to greet the investigator.
This should be interesting.
The Cat in Cradle was an upscale pub near both their offices and within walking distance of several posh hotels. The place touted itself as a whisky bar and had a reputation for providing an authentic Scottish experience with nouveau cuisine to match. A large blackboard outside read, Coffee served all day. Housed in an ancient building, the restaurant was marked by large windows, a modern dropped ceiling, and hardwood floors. Outside, the owners had covered the meter-thick stone walls with welcoming light sage green paneling. Well-heeled customers filled the modern leather and wood-backed chairs and funky floating upholstered benches bolted to fake brick walls. Thin wood tables, each with a lone stainless steel support, and ample lighting gave the restaurant a light and airy ambiance—not exactly the traditional Scotland tourists craved.
After shaking hands, Begbie slid back into his red-tufted, leather-backed booth bench while Duncan pulled out a chunky brown leather square stool with an odd slab of wood poking up from its rear. He guessed it was a mini back rest. A well-dressed family of four, including two children, sat beside them in identical circumstances, happily enjoying a meal.
"I'm having a ten-year-old Macallan Ruby," Clarence said, taking a sip of whisky and sliding a slim menu in his direction.
Duncan perused the selection. In addition to countless Speyside malts, an assortment of whiskies from far-flung places such as Taiwan, India, Japan, and New Zealand were available. They even carried the prestigious Tomintoul, aged an impressive thirty-three years.
"I'll take a Cragganmore, twelve-year-old," he told the waiter.
"Another fine spirit. Add a splash of soft spring water to it, please," his host instructed. After their server left, he explained, "You don't want it neat, Lad. The alcohol must be diluted so your senses aren't numbed to the flavors. And you certainly don't want it on the rocks. The ice dulls the taste and freezes the aroma. Never use tap water, either. Who knows what chemicals might be present to affect the essence of the drink?"
Duncan nodded. Begs appeared to be a connoisseur of whisky, as well as antiquities and curiosities.
He continued, "Do you know why the Scots have no e in our spelling of whisky?"
"No."
"We'd rather spend the time drinking it than waste time writing the extra letter!" Begbie laughed at his own joke.
"Well, that's one way we know it's a Scottish malt—the e is missing on the label."
"Exactly! I'm glad you didn't go for one of those New Zealand or Japanese brews."
"I almost tried the one from India."
"Ach! No, Lad. Those areas are all contested. The only real thing comes from Scotland, but Ireland, two states in America, and Canada are also accepted as producers of the spirit. Slainte mhath!" he added as the waiter placed Duncan's order down.
"Slainte mhath!"
After gulping down the alcohol, he looked through the extensive luncheon menu. The steak pie with beer gravy tempted him, but in the end, he went for the gammon steak, feeling more like pork. Clarence chose the spicy haggis with traditional neeps and tatties. While Duncan rarely ate haggis, he was used to his mum cooking turnips and potatoes. Their food arrived in no time, and he admired the artfully arranged fried egg and grilled pineapple wedge atop his gammon. His companion's dish included the sauce that had almost swung him in favor of the pie.
"I imagine you've just about wrapped up your investigation," Begs said nonchalantly.
"Just about," he agreed with a smile.
"Hadley Cocoran said everything would be settled soon."
"I suppose it will be."
The sound of chair legs scooting across the floor caught his attention as the family next to them prepared to leave. He'd guessed they were Americans by their accents.
"By the way, is that seat comfortable?" Begs asked, nodding towards the now vacated chair next to Duncan.
"Surprisingly so," he replied. "A little low for someone my size, but still comfortable," he added, grabbing a bit of egg on the end of his fork and stuffing it in his mouth along with the por
k.
Begbie smiled, crinkling the skin around his eyes into deep furrows. The blue of his irises reflected light and danced as if excited by a game of cat and mouse. Duncan realized the man enjoyed the thrill of his business—the adrenaline rush that accompanied outsmarting the law. He didn't expect it in a man his age. Although Angela had mentioned that crew of seniors that had robbed a respected jewelry storehouse in London. In this case, a man was dead. Clarence had gone too far.
"You know, Duncan, I'm thinking of taking a vacation—somewhere warm, where the sun shines every day."
"Really? That sounds agreeable," he said, gesturing towards the window where a perpetual mizzle had been falling. He kept his expression pleasant and took another bite of his meal before raking the juicy pineapple wedge between his teeth. "How's that spicy haggis?"
Clarence Begbie slowly chewed a mouthful, raising his eyebrows while nodding. After swallowing he said, "Wonderful. Does your mother serve anything like it at Cocina Gaélico?"
A smirk crept across the old man's face, transforming his visage into something Duncan hadn't seen before. He fought the urge to reach across the table and grab the scoundrel by the neck. The next impulse he had to overcome was the itch to run his fingers through his hair and rub his scalp. Steady man.
"I don't believe she does," he said as amiably as possible before taking another bite.
"Well, someone will have to teach your lovely Angela how to prepare it. I can't think of anything better than coming home to a plate of haggis prepared by one's own wife."
Steady. Somehow, he knows what I'm about. Duncan's thoughts raced. The old geezer had researched and now threatened his loved ones. Perhaps Hadley had said something to him.
"Not much of a fan of the stuff."
"Well, you see, I've always been an enthusiast. The whole idea of a sheep giving its life and man utilizing its organs. I guess it appeals to the primordial," he added, slurping in a small bit of food that had stuck to his lip before dabbing a serviette to the corners of his mouth.
His expression had shifted from evil smile to threatening leer. Back straight and shoulders broad instead of hunched, he appeared years younger, so invigorated was he by the situation. Duncan immediately thought of Wilde's Dorian Gray.
The Siamese Suicides: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder & Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 6) Page 11