Legacy of the Highlands

by Harriet Schultz

  “Retail therapy is almost as effective as drugs or chocolate so give your AmEx a good workout. Sleep well, sweetie…and call me!”

  “Don’t worry. I will. Give my love to David, and tell him to give you a big hug and a smoochy kiss from me. Bye.”

  David had been listening to Francie’s side of the conversation and was now watching his wife intently from their canopied bed in a room bedecked with enough frou-frou floral prints to double as a Laura Ashley shop. She raised both palms in a gesture of bewilderment and shook her head from side to side.

  “I don’t know what’s going on with her. She still blames herself for what happened. You saw what a mess she was and now…she says the change of scenery was good for her and she wants to stay in Miami indefinitely. This isn’t like Alex. She’s usually so strong and rational.”

  David wasn’t going to offer his opinion on this subject without an invitation.

  After a few minutes of silence, Francie raised her eyes to him. “Aren’t you going to say anything? I’m worried about her. She wouldn’t do anything stupid like hurt herself, would she?” Alex’s hasty departure and her guilt about Will’s death, combined with John Cameron’s sudden interest in her, were troubling.

  “No. Alex isn’t the suicide type, she’s a survivor,” said David. “Maybe it was smart for her to start the healing process in a place she doesn’t associate with Will.” He paused, took a breath and dove into the deep end. “Don’t jump down my throat, but sometimes I think she’s right to believe that she’s partly responsible for what happened to Will.”

  “What!” Francie snapped, hands on hips and an edge in her voice.

  “Well,” he began then hesitated.

  “David, you better tell me what you mean if you expect to get any sleep tonight.”

  “Okay. I’ve walked from their apartment to that market with Will lots of times. He never went through that alley. He never even considered it. He always stuck to the street. He liked to watch the people. I think she’s right that she put the idea about the shortcut in his head that night. No guy is going to take his time when he knows his woman is naked and waiting for him at home.”

  Francie seemed uncharacteristically calm as she sat down in an overstuffed chair across the room from him and drew her legs up. She rested her chin on her knees, concentrating. When she looked up, her large gray eyes met his.

  “Maybe you’re both right,” she finally said. “If someone wanted to kill him — and even the police have hinted that this was a well-planned execution — they would have found a way to do it. If it didn’t happen in that alley, it would have been someplace else. So,” she concluded with her own brand of logic, “it wasn’t Alex’s fault. Like I told her, it just happened. There was no way to prevent it.”

  “Yeah, that’s true,” David conceded. “Hey, you didn’t tell me that John Cameron called. What was that about?”

  “Oh! In all of the craziness I forgot. He wanted to know how to get in touch with Alex. He said he’d left messages on her machine and on her cell and she hadn’t called him back. And not only that, he said Anne had been leaving messages for her too! Imagine — the in-laws from hell are finally showing concern for her. I told him that she’d gone away for a while. I couldn’t tell him where she was unless I asked her first, right? So…anyway, I said I’d pass along a message if I heard from her. That’s all.”

  “Maybe Will’s murder was like electro-shock therapy for them and they’ve undergone a personality change,” David offered and then stretched as his mouth opened in a giant yawn. “It’s late, Francie. We could both use some rest. Come to bed.”

  He held his arms out to her and she tossed her nightgown to the floor as she climbed in next to him.

  Chapter 8

  Anne Cameron glared at her husband’s back as she hurried to keep up with his long stride. “John, slow down,” she gasped, winded by the pace he set. His apparent indifference only increased her anger.

  “John!” she shouted in a tone that he couldn’t ignore. “Please!”

  He decreased his gait and allowed her to catch up as they left Beacon Hill and crossed into the Common.

  “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t realize.”

  Aside from those few words, neither of them spoke. They’d aged since Will’s murder. Lines marred the fine skin around Anne’s mouth and it wasn’t drifting mascara that caused the dark crescents below her eyes. John’s usual tan had been replaced by splotchy, ashen skin. He wore rumpled khakis and a blue oxford shirt that needed laundering. Beautifully tailored designer slacks now bagged on Anne, reflecting unnecessary weight loss. Her black cashmere sweater had a few small stains on the front and looked no different on her skeletal frame than it would have on a hanger. The flawless veneer they’d always presented to the world had cracked the day after the very public funeral and no longer mattered.

  An hour earlier John had shouted for Anne as he’d left his study after ending a lengthy phone call, one he‘d been expecting with dread since the night Will died.

  “What do you want?” Anne had said coldly in response to his shouts.

  “Get your coat and we’ll walk over to the Common.”

  She’d never responded well to commands, but he’d piqued her curiosity. John’s news could only be about Will. They no longer spoke to each other unless it was about the investigation into their son’s murder.

  Anne used to easily cram shopping, the gym, lunch, some tennis, and an evening charity gala into one day with energy to spare. But that was before. Now she was constantly tired, so she was happy when John stopped so she could rest on one of the Public Garden’s benches. He motioned to the space beside him, but she sat at the opposite end. The bench overlooked the pond where Boston’s fanciful swan boats would soon resume their seasonal glide over the water. Will had loved coming here as a child. The routine was always the same. First, a ride on a swan-shaped boat, then a visit to the eight brass ducklings commemorating Make Way for Ducklings, where Will’s quacks would grow progressively louder as he neared the mama duck. They’d laugh when the ice cream cone they’d bought him would cover his hands in stickiness as they wended their way up Beacon Hill to Louisburg Square and home. They’d been a happy family — once upon a time.

  “What was so important that you had to drag me out here?” Anne pulled herself back to the present and turned impatiently toward her husband. “Do you know why our son was murdered or who did it?”

  “No. His murder had to be deliberate or the bastards would have taken his wallet, but for the life of me I still have no idea why someone would want to kill our boy and neither do the police. Good Christ, it still doesn’t make any sense.” He reached for Anne’s hand, but she yanked it away. “Don’t touch me,” she snapped.

  If she’d slapped his face he could have dealt with it. Her indifference hurt worse than any physical pain and he tried to compose himself, to swallow the lump in his throat, before he began again, more gently this time. “You hate me now, I know that, but I’ll always be grateful that you kept my secret. Maybe I should have told the detectives everything, but I have to believe that this horror isn’t connected to my activities. I want you to know that I’ve got someone I trust looking into it. And I pray to God every day that I’m in no way to blame because I couldn’t live with myself.” John’s voice cracked and he gazed straight ahead, focused on nothing, as tears welled up.

  Anne didn’t reply. Nothing John said could shake her belief that Will’s death was connected to the money John quietly funneled to a group dedicated to independent nationhood for Scotland. What he did was illegal so they couldn’t tell the police, but Anne was tempted, so tempted. John had been upset when some of the group’s members began to advocate violence in their quest to finally win freedom from England. But his political activities bored her. That bullshit about hindsight was right. She should have paid attention to her husband’s clandestine meetings and quiet phone conversations.

  She’d always assumed his secrecy involv
ed a mistress. Would that it were so simple. John was always discreet with his women, as she was with her lovers. Anne knew that John would never bed a woman who wanted anything from him but sex and perhaps money. He’d never tolerate one who imagined she could ever take Anne’s place, who would harm his family and his position.

  “We have to talk to Alex,” John began. “She may know something — or have something — that she shouldn’t. If Will was assassinated, the same people who did it could come after her next.” He turned toward Anne. “Look at me Anne. I beg you. Can’t you see that I’m bleeding, that my pain is as deep as yours?” He needed absolution, and the only person who could give that to him was a woman who wouldn’t even look at him.

  “You’ll never make me believe that the Scottish dagger placed next to Will wasn’t a calling card, some message for you,” she snarled as her eyes flashed in his direction.

  “That’s being looked into. It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with me, but it may be connected to a man named Mackinnon. He’s that shopkeeper Will and Alex met when they were in Scotland. You know, he’s the guy who gave Will that rolled up parchment to give it to me.”

  “How do you know this? Who gave you this information and don’t you dare lie to me,” Anne hissed as she jumped to her feet.

  “You can’t repeat this to anyone, even the police.”

  “Someday I’m going to explode and all of your little secrets will spill out.”

  “That’s a chance I have to take.” John leaned toward her although there was no one nearby to overhear him. “Our English friends, Nina and Tom Addison, are agents for British intelligence. They’ve been very helpful.”

  Anne’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Nina and Tom? But they’re...” she paused, unsure of how to complete the thought. “I never would have guessed.”

  John continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “Because of the sgian dubh and my own involvement with the cause, I asked Tom to quietly check into Will’s murder. The only thing he’s come up with so far is this connection to Mackinnon. It might not mean anything, but I promise you I won’t stop until we have answers.” His final plea, “so you’ll stop blaming me” was unspoken.

  Chapter 9

  Alex poured coffee into a large mug as she nibbled the crisp edges of one of the sweet Argentine croissants called medialunas that the Navarros’ cook baked each morning. She’d slept well after last night’s talk with Francie and she was glad to feel a bit more human. But should she? Was it too soon to start to feel a tiny bit normal? Then she pushed this internal conflict aside to be examined later. First things first she ordered herself.

  “I need to go shopping today,” Alex announced as she put her cup in the sink before the ever-attentive Luisa could do it for her.

  “Of course, of course,” the housekeeper replied, shaking her head. “I knew that you arrived with no luggage…”

  Alex cut her off mid-sentence. “Don’t worry about it. Can I use one of the cars? And I hope it’s all right if I borrow some jeans and a T-shirt from Mrs. Navarro since I don’t think a swimsuit is appropriate for the mall, even in Florida.”

  “I will have the car brought around in about an hour. That should give us time to find some clothes for you in Señora Navarro’s closet. Miguel will take you wherever you want to go. You’re not familiar with Miami and they drive like crazy people here.”

  “Tell Miguel I don’t need him to take me anywhere. I’m from Boston so I’m used to crazy drivers.”

  “Please, Señora, allow us to spoil you. I insist.”

  “Fine,” Alex shrugged, bowing to Luisa’s determination.

  The staff was under orders from Diego to protect his guest, but Luisa recognized that under her grief Alex was an independent woman. She wasn’t surprised that Alex balked at Diego’s very masculine need to take care of her.

  A half hour later, Alex checked herself out in the mirror. The black pants that would have been a perfect length on Giovanna Navarro were capris on her longer legs, but at least she’d found something simple in Diego’s mother’s somewhat flamboyant, colorful wardrobe. It would be good to wear her own things and she looked forward to buying everything from underwear to makeup.

  Luisa instructed Miguel to take their guest to the Bal Harbour Shops, an open-air mall with Saks, Neiman’s and smaller stores ranging from Prada to the Gap. “I’m sure you can find whatever you need there,” Luisa assured her as she gave Alex’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

  A few minutes after the elegant vehicle began to crawl up congested Collins Avenue, past South Beach’s Art Deco trendiness, mega-hotels, and innumerable white, high-rise condos that crowded every inch of beachfront space, Miguel’s cell phone chirped. Alex understood enough of his rapid Spanish to know that he was talking to Diego and wasn’t surprised when Miguel passed the phone to her. The handsome Argentine was still her strongest link to Will, despite the lingering unease about the men’s estrangement.

  “Diego,” was all she managed to utter before her composure cracked.

  “Shhh, hush, please don’t cry,” he crooned. “God, I’m so far away. I feel helpless.”

  Alex hadn’t realized how lonely she was for a familiar face until that moment, but she pulled herself together. “You, Diego Navarro, are the least helpless man I know,” she said then quickly changed the subject. “How come no one knows where you are or when you’re coming back to Miami?”

  “I’m not used to giving my schedule to the household staff, but I should have left a note for you. Can you forgive me for being so thoughtless?”

  “You whisked me out of Boston, so I’ll give you a pass this time. Where are you anyway?”

  “I flew back to Abu Dhabi. We’re in the final stages of negotiations for a complicated project here and my guess is that I won’t be able to get away for another few weeks at least. Will you still be there when I get back? Do you need anything?”

  “I need clothes, but I’m going to take care of that today and as for your question, I don’t expect to leave for a while. The house and staff are wonderful, but can you please tell Luisa that I’m not an invalid? She wouldn’t even let me drive myself to the mall today. I’m sitting in the back of your chauffer-driven Mercedes as if I’m too far gone to be trusted with one of your cars.”

  “I’m afraid that’s my fault. I may be halfway around the world, but I feel responsible for you. And before you start to argue, I know damn well it’s not politically correct to be chivalrous, but it’s how I am. You’ve always known that, so indulge me a little.”

  Alex groaned, but she was also grinning. “I know that you mean well even if you are an alpha-male control freak.”

  “I disagree, but we can talk about that when I get back. Meanwhile rest, get some sun, and let Luisa take care of you until you’re strong again. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Take care of yourself…please.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me. And you be careful too.”

  Diego’s face was grim as he ended the call and ran his hands through his hair. The hotel’s luxurious suite was fit for a sultan, but it felt like a cage to him. He’d stretched out on the bed in the middle of their conversation and wasn’t surprised that just the sound of Alex’s voice had made him hard. He needed a woman badly, but he only desired one, and he couldn’t have her. Alex was right; he was a control freak. He should have asked his father to take over their company’s negotiations to build a resort in the oil rich country, but oh, no. He’d stubbornly insisted that he had to see it through.

  Witnessing Alex’s grief made him ache and he was determined to shield her from anything else that could hurt her, including himself. He wanted his hands on her, but that was the last thing she needed to deal with while she was so vulnerable. He promised himself that he wouldn’t seduce her, only he wasn’t absolutely sure that he could trust himself. If it ever happened, it would have to be her decision. He was powerless and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.

  Alex had no heart for sho
pping — as clear an indicator of her mental state as any since shopping always had the same therapeutic effect on her as meditation did for others. It took just an hour in Saks to buy everything she’d need for an indefinite stay. She had another two hours to kill before Miguel would return for her, so she wandered into the mall.

  As she passed a hair salon, she impulsively decided to get her shoulder-length hair cut. One of the shop’s top stylists had a cancellation and fifteen minutes later as she fidgeted in his chair she declared, “cut it,” then covered her face so she wouldn’t have to watch the dance of scissors and razor. An hour later, she couldn’t wipe the grin off her face when she saw the result. “I love it. Thanks.” she said with relief, then headed toward the mall’s exit to meet Diego’s driver.

  “Are there more shops you would like to visit?” Miguel inquired as he stowed her shopping bags in the trunk.

  “No, thanks, I’m exhausted.” She might fool herself into thinking she was emerging from the cavernous pit of grief, but the few hours at the mall made her feel like she’d run a marathon. She needed a nap and was anxious to get back to the villa.

  “Your hair, Señora! ¡Qué bonita!” Luisa said approvingly as Alex pirouetted in front of her, delighted that a change she’d feared had turned out so well.

  “I’m happy you like it. I do too,” she said as she bit into one of the gooey chocolate chip cookies the cook had baked especially for her.

  “It pleases me to see you smile, Señora,” Luisa said. “It makes me sad to see one so young and so beautiful in such obvious pain.”

  Alex didn’t want to wallow in sorrow so she quickly changed the subject. The cookie’s sugar had already hit her bloodstream and ramped up her energy. “I spoke to Diego! He called on the car phone.”