"Thank you," she said in a controlled voice. "I'll consider that." And she strode resolutely to the doors.
Outside, still slightly irritated by this attack on her newly-found gift, Maggie practically ran down the steps to the sidewalk, not paying attention and almost running into a man walking by.
"Hello, Maggie," said the man.
Maggie looked up and her still half-boiling blood ran cold.
"Hello, Mr. Sinclair," she said as calmly as she could manage.
"Are you a suspect now?" He asked with an uncharacteristic grin and a nod toward the police station she had just exited.
Maggie resisted the urge to say, 'No, but you are,' and instead settled for a rueful smile.
Sinclair examined Maggie's face closely, a frown creeping across his own.
"I know I said I wouldn't renew my offer, but—"
"Good," Maggie barked. "Then don't." And she walked briskly away.
Sinclair looked after her for a few seconds before glancing back up at the door of the police station. There stood Elizabeth Warwick, also watching after young Maggie Devereaux.
Sinclair smiled and nodded to the policewoman, then continued on his way. Sgt. Warwick returned neither the smile nor the nod but ducked back into the precinct and closed the door behind her.
36. Glenninver
From Aberdeen, perched proudly on the easternmost shore of the Scottish Highlands, it's a long drive to the west coast of Scotland, the last land before the narrow body of water known as The Minch and the Hebrides beyond it. Luckily Iain's car was comfortable and there wasn't much traffic early on a Sunday morning.
"Remind me again where we're going?" he asked politely enough.
"Glenninver," Maggie replied simply.
"Och, aye," Iain nodded. "And remind me why?"
Maggie turned and smiled sweetly at her traveling companion. "Because I want to," she purred.
"Aye. That is the right answer, I think."
He paused for a moment as Maggie turned and looked back out the windshield.
"And, if I might ask," he ventured again. "Why is it that I'm coming along?"
"Oh, that," Maggie smiled again, but kept her gaze on the rolling blacktop road ahead of them. "Well, there are three reasons, actually."
"Three reasons?" Iain repeated grandly. "I'm sore honored. What might these reasons be then?"
"Well, first, you have a car."
"Och, I'm your chauffeur then, am I?"
Maggie ignored the jab and continued. "Second, you know the area."
"And your tourguide," he laughed. "Please, go on."
Maggie glanced up at him with a crooked smile. "Third, I don't want to go alone."
Iain looked over at her with a quizzical expression.
"I want you to be with me," she explained.
Iain looked back at the road and thought for a moment. Then a smile crossed his own face.
"Good enough for me," he said and pressed on the gas.
* * *
The drive took a bit longer than Maggie had anticipated. After all, they were essentially driving all the way across Scotland. Then again, Scotland is not the largest country in the world. So, sometime shortly after noon, the highway finally came to its end and the car rolled into a quaint village nestled on a small sea-worn peninsula. As they had approached the town, both of them had noticed that the road signs had changed to Gaelic-only; Iain with dismay, Maggie with excitement. They were in a Gàidhealtachd, one of the regions, mostly on the west coat and the islands, where Gaelic was still the primary language.
A large blue sign with white letters marked the entry to the village: "Fàilte chun Gleainn Inbhir," it read. 'Welcome to Glenninver.'
In short order, they found a parking spot on the street and were finally able to get out of the car and stretch their legs. After a quick stroll through what appeared to be the downtown, Maggie spotted a pub and grabbed Iain's arm.
"Come on," she pulled his arm.
"Where are we going?"
"Tha sinn a' dol dhan taigh-seinnse," she explained.
"Come on, woman," Iain pleaded. "I'm from Glasgow. Speak English. Or at least Scots."
"We're going to the pub," she translated. "I'm thirsty."
Iain didn't really believe this last part but he let himself be tugged along just the same.
The pub was actually rather small, but very bright, with large windows lining one entire wall. Somehow Maggie had expected it to be dark. Bars were always dark. But then she reminded herself that this was a 'pub,' or 'taigh-seinnse.' In English it was short for 'public house'; in Gaelic it meant 'house of singing.' And that was the reason she had come to Glenninver. She hoped to find some members of this town's public, singing or otherwise, who were old enough to remember a series of murders that had taken place almost twenty years ago.
She was not disappointed. There were several men in their late forties to early fifties sitting in the pub. Three sat at a table playing some game Maggie couldn't quite see. The other two were perched at the bar, their conversation with the bartender rolling along in the lilting and guttural contradiction that is Gaelic.
As they walked up to the bar, the bartender quickly looked them up and down, then asked, in English, "What can I get for you?"
Maggie was genuinely disappointed.
"Uh, just a pint of stout for me," Iain replied as he took a seat at the bar.
"Er, bu toil leam uisge-beatha ri deigh, ma 's e ur toil e," she ventured, ordering a whiskey on the rocks. At least she hoped that's what she'd said. This was the first time she'd ever actually gotten to use her Gaelic in a real world setting. She hoped she hadn't just said something unpleasant about the man's mother.
The bartender just stared at Maggie. He was a large man, some six feet tall, well over 200 pounds, and bald as an eagle. Finally, he responded, in Gaelic, "
"What did he say?" Iain leaned over to where Maggie had sat down next to him.
"I think he said he was going to get us our drinks. Man, this is so cool." She could barely contain her excitement. "I'm actually speaking Gaelic."
The bartender returned with a pint of dark stout and a small glass of ice cubes with a bit of whiskey in it.
"Here you are," he said in English. "So where are you two from? Your Gaelic has a strange accent, lass."
"Aberdeen," Iain replied first.
"Aberdeen, too," Maggie started, then realized that when speaking English her accent quickly betrayed her true origins. "Well, the States actually, but I'm studying in Aberdeen this year."
The bartender nodded, bottom lip protruding slightly as he considered this information. Then a smile pushed onto his face.
"An American who speaks Gaelic, eh?" He laughed. "That's a first. Around here anyway. It's hard enough to find a Scot what speaks it."
Iain didn't have to look up from his stout to know the bartender was looking at him. He elected not to explain that, to the best of his knowledge, his ancestors had been speaking English since probably about 1300.
"So how do you like Scotland, miss?" The bartender smiled broadly.
"I like it a lot, thanks," she replied, sipping from her whiskey. "Mm, this is good. Where's it from?"
"A local distillery nearby. They use a special peat to dry the barley."
Maggie took another sip and made an approving face.
"Better than the whiskey in Aberdeen?" the bartender asked, looking at Iain. Iain was starting to get a little irritated, but decided not speak up just yet.
"Oh no, Aberdeen does just fine with its whiskey," Maggie replied. "It's just so interesting how each town seems to have it's own blend. But no, I like Aberdeen very much. Well, all except—" She stopped.
"Except what?" the bartender asked.
Iain took another drink through his smile. He should have known she was up to something.
"Well," Maggie looked down at her drink, "except the murders, of course."
&
nbsp; The bartender's brow creased above his frown. "What murders are those?" Maggie noticed that the two men next to her had stopped talking and were listening in.
"Well, there's some lunatic loose killing girls," Maggie explained with another sip of her ice and whiskey. "Cutting them open and drawing occult symbols in their blood and everything."
The bartender crossed his arms and stepped back. He slowly cocked his head to one side and looked at Maggie through narrowed eyes. Maggie guessed he was about 30 or so. He would have been about ten when the Glenninver murders had taken place; definitely old enough to remember. The ensuing tension caused Iain to look up.
"What are you up to, lass?" the bartender asked at last.
"What do you mean?" she asked sweetly. Iain set his beer down hard and squared his shoulders to the bartender.
"I've not heard of any such murders," the bartender said matter-of-factly, "so I want to know why you've come—"
"No, she's right," one of the older men at the bar came to Maggie's rescue. "I read about them in the paper this week. Three murders in two months."
"Right." Maggie turned to the man. He was probably 55, with a bright pink face and snow white hair that shot from his head in a collection of barely tamed waves.
"Hhmph," grunted the bartender and he walked away to find some glasses to clean.
"Hallo," said the man next to her. "My name's Tormod. This is Dòmhnall."
Tormod pointed to his friend seated next to him. Dòmhnall just grunted in greeting and returned to his drink.
"He doesn't like to speak English," Tormod explained.
Maggie smiled. "Well, then. Feasgar math, a Dhòmhnaill." Dòmhnall looked up at the greeting with a smile.
"Ciamar a tha sibh?" Maggie asked in Gaelic, inquiring how he was doing that day.
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Iain looked up at the sound of his name among the otherwise unintelligible sounds.
"I just told them you didn't speak Gaelic," she explained out of the corner of her mouth.
"I figured as much," Iain smiled weakly. "Bartender?"
The large bald man returned to refill Iain's glass and Maggie continued her Gaelic conversation.
"Hallo, a Mhagaidh," Tormod replied, translating Maggie's name into the Gaelic. Dòmhnall sat quietly, content for now to let his friend do the talking. The sun-tanned face with windswept wrinkles obviously belonged to a quiet man.
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"Hmph," the bartender replied. Seumas the Bartender. Sounded like a medieval surname.
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They all paused for a moment. Iain looked up again. He had been inspecting the grain pattern of the wooden bar. Maybe Maggie was done.
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Seumas the Bartender just shook his head. Maggie figured he must have been too young to remember any of the details. She was sure he was just glad that his sister wasn't among the victims.
"" Tormod said at last. "
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Maggie looked at her own empty drink as a somber silence fell across the bar. Iain's drink was empty too.
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"Are we leaving then?" Iain asked, standing up.
"Yes, we are," Maggie explained in a sugar sweet voice. "Pay the man."
Iain looked up at Seumas the Bartender, who stood with a broad smile across his face and a thick palm extended.
"Here you go," Iain handed him a bank note. "Keep the change."
"All right then. Thank you, lad. Perhaps we'll see you again?"
"Perhaps," Maggie called back as she reached the door.
"Not likely," Iain muttered as he exited behind her.
The weather had worsened slightly while they were inside. Rather than cold and overcast, it was now cold and raining lightly. Iain pulled his collar up around his neck.
"Are you all right, Maggie?" he asked. "Do you need to fetch your umbrella from the car?"
"No, that's all right," Maggie smiled up at Iain. "I'm used to rain."
"So what did you all talk about with your 'achs' and your 'oots'?"
Maggie laughed despite herself. "That's not what it sounds like," she insisted. "Anyway, they said that there were murders here twenty years ago just like in Aberdeen now."
Iain stooped dead in his tracks. Maggie took two more steps before she realized it. She turned around.
"What?" she asked, palms turned toward the sky.
"That's reason number four, isn't it?" Iain's arms were crossed as he recalled their conversation on the drive over.
"Of course," Maggie smiled.
Iain wanted to be angry, and he did feel a bit used, but he couldn't help but be disarmed by her honesty. He fought it for a moment, but then smiled.
He shook his head. "I don't know about you, Maggie Devereaux."
"Well then, stick around," she grabbed his arm. "There's a lot to learn."
And they headed off toward the waterfront.
* * *
After a nice lunch at a small restaurant near the docks, Maggie and Iain took a stroll into the residential area of Glenninver. It was a relatively small town, and looked like it could probably be traversed on foot quickly enough. They walked past the rows of diminutive fishing shacks and through a small business district tucked away from the road and waterfront. They passed two parks and found the local school. Throughout their walk they maintained a pleasant conversation about nothing in particular, but Maggie was having a difficult time focusing on their discourse. Her mind kept searching for additional ways to find out more about what had happened in the quiet little village of Glenninver so many years ago.
Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1) Page 28