Ann squeezed lime into her vodka.
“Mind if I join ye?” A man who looked to be in his seventies whisked a tweed cap off his head, then smoothed the remnants of his hair.
“Not at all.” She was glad to divert her gloomy thoughts.
He climbed onto the barstool next to her. “Whar ye fae?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Where are you from?” he repeated in clear English.
“Pennsylvania.”
A Polish bartender approached and asked him, “What’ll it be?”
“A half of Bell’s,” the man replied. To Ann, he asked, “Yank or Canadian?”
“Yank.” She hoped he didn’t launch into a tirade about America’s foreign policy. They’d encountered a healthy dose of that earlier while waiting for fish suppers at a chippy van.
“Always have to ask nowadays,” he said. “Canadians get so upset if we assume they’re Americans.”
“Are you from Glasgow?” she asked.
“Paisley.”
“I was there yesterday.”
“Oot to see the Burrell Collection, were ye?”
“No, we went to see the cairn on Renfrew Road. It’s supposed to mark the site of the Battle of Renfrew. Sign said there used to be a plinth, but it’s been moved.”
The bartender returned with the man’s drink. “Top up?” he asked Ann.
“I’m fine, thank you.” She was already tipsy from drowning her discontent. Finding Somerled was turning out to be more difficult than she imagined. Few Scots even knew who he was. She expected to feel something at the cairn marking the place where he fell in battle. She hadn’t. Same with Saddell Abbey, one of the places presumed to be his final resting place. They tempted fate by driving there. Now, there was a dead ewe lying along a Kintyre road and a dented Mondeo back at Enterprise.
So much for adventure. So much for finding herself. If the current trend continued, she would leave Scotland with a huge credit card bill and a suitcase full of disappointment. Meanwhile, Mike rocked the new meaning in his life.
As if reading her thoughts, the man asked, “Ye here wi’ your husband?”
“I’m not married.” It still felt strange to say that.
“’Tis a sorry world when a beautiful rose goes unpicked. Och, if I was twenty years younger, I’d clip the thorns aff ye.”
She laughed. “I was married. He left me for someone younger.” Why was she telling him this? Ease up on the vodka, Annie.
“The bloody fool.” He jabbed a stubby finger at her nose. “A Scot would-nae make that mistake, I tell ye. Mark me, lassie, ye stay here any length and a sleekit one will nip ye.” He grinned, revealing rows of surprisingly healthy teeth for man his age.
“I think you might be the first native Scot I’ve met in Glasgow.” It was a bustling place, full of foreigners in business suits.
“It’s only Wednesday.” He sipped his whisky. “Things change on the weekends when the Heelanders bring the trains in for a night oot.”
“That’ll certainly make my friend happy.” She already decided to insist Maggie remain in Glasgow. She would travel west alone. Maggie had done her part. Ann wasn’t going to drag her all the way to Iona and back.
“What aboot ye, then?” Mischief glinted in his eyes. “Ye gleekin’ for a Heelan’ laddie yersel’?”
“I’m heading to Iona tomorrow.”
“Och, on a pilgrimage, then?”
“Of sorts.”
“Only been to Iona once.” He leaned in and whispered, “It’s a thin place.”
“What do you mean?”
“A place where the veil between here and there is thin. A place where ye feel there’s mair to the world than your senses allow. It’s a healing place, Iona. Weather can be changeable, and by jiminy, it’s a michty journey in gettin’ there, even wi’ the sun splittin’ the trees.”
“You’re right about that. I had to buy tickets for a train, a bus, and two ferries.”
“It’ll take ye all day the morrow. Ye stayin’ on the island?”
“Across the sound, in Fionnphort.”
“Och, ye should stay on the island.”
“My reservations were rather last minute.”
The bartender brought him another glass of whisky. “Here’s to a safe journey. May ye find what ye’re looking for on Iona. Slàinte.”
“Cheers.” She touched her glass to his.
He emptied his drink in one gulp. “That’s me.” He slid off the stool. With his cap tucked under his arm, he held out his hand. “Eamon MacKenzie.”
Ann shook it. “Ann McConnell.”
“A pleasure.” He bid her farewell, then disappeared through the revolving door leading to the street. He passed Maggie on her way in.
“That is some city,” she exclaimed, her mood revitalized. She climbed onto Eamon’s seat, then ordered a martini.
Ann laid a hand over her friend’s. It felt like ice. Maggie hated to be cold. “Listen, I’ve been thinking. I want you to stay in Glasgow.”
“Aw, Annie, really, I thought we were—”
“Hear me out. I love you. I really do. You are the best friend anyone could ask for, but you’re a city girl at heart, and an atheist. You’d be miserable on a one-mile-wide island renowned for holiness and dominated by a Christian cathedral.”
“Then stay here with me.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. What’s so important on Iona anyway?”
“I don’t know. I just feel something pulling me there. The MacDonald Centre is there, and some say Somerled’s grave.”
“I thought that’s why we went to Saddell.” Sadness tugged down the corners of her mouth. “That poor sheep . . .”
“Please don’t bring it up.”
“Sorry.”
“I want you to have a good time. We only have a few days left. Hey!” She elbowed Maggie. “Just before you came in, an old man sat there and said the Highlanders come in for the weekends by the trainloads. You don’t want to miss that, do you? Men in kilts? Heck, you might even catch a Scottish husband.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “My future husband would never leave his booming oil rig for a weekend in filthy, old Glasgow. If he did, he certainly wouldn’t bring the train. He’d fly in on his own plane. How many times have we been over this, Ann? I’m not settling for less.”
“Oh, Maggie, someday love is going to smack you right in the forehead.”
“Nope.” Maggie grinned. “I’m smarter than that. Still, I’m up for some fun. Why not just abandon your plans. Let’s pub crawl across this city, baby. We’ll drink to your ancestors.”
“I can’t. Something’s pulling me to Iona. I have to go . . . alone.”
“Okay, I get it. You have some soul-searching to do.” Maggie’s face turned serious. “But you’re emailing me every night.” She pulled out her phone and flicked her chin toward Ann’s tablet, which lay on the bar to her left. “Have you tried it yet?”
“No,” Ann said. “We should, though.”
“Yeah, if we’re going our separate ways, I want to make sure we can contact one another. Wish you’d brought your damn phone.”
“I didn’t see the point in hauling it around when the only one calling me is Janet Morelli.” Ann booted up her tablet. “It works.” She checked the TreasureFinders.com forum while Maggie composed a test email.
Doctor McFadden had responded to her message, acknowledging receipt of the torc photo she sent. He was delighted to hear she was traveling to Scotland and asked if they might arrange a meeting.
She replied with her travel plans and let him know she could see him in Edinburgh the day before she flew home.
There was another message from Lynch_Mob. “Good lo
rd, this guy,” she said. “He doesn’t seem to want to take no for an answer.”
“Who?” Maggie looked up from her phone.
“A guy on that forum I joined.”
“Let me see.” Maggie took the tablet from Ann and read the message. “Seems all right. Hey, did you share a picture of the torc on the forum?”
“No.”
“Then how does he know about the dogs’ heads?”
“What?” Ann read the message again. He seemed to know a lot about torcs. Maybe he was an armchair expert.
“You should message him. Just because he doesn’t sit behind a university desk doesn’t make him an idiot. He might know more than that other guy you’ve been messaging.”
“I don’t know, Maggie, something about him seems . . . creepy.”
“All men seem creepy to you. It’s a side effect of being dumped, Sugar Lips.”
Was that possible?
“Message him back,” Maggie said. “You never know.”
“What if he wants to meet?”
“Come on, Ann. Is Mike the only guy you ever dated?”
He was, but she wasn’t telling Maggie that.
“Just meet him in a public place. Don’t give him details about where you’re staying or anything, and don’t ever leave your drink unattended.”
“Okay, Mom.” Against her better judgment, Ann drafted a message.
Ho Lynch_Mib,
Thonks for your massage.
She giggled at the typos. Her hands shook with nerves, making it difficult to strike the correct keys on her tablet’s digital screen.
“Give me that, you nervous Nellie.” Maggie took the tablet and finished the message.
How did you know the torc had dogs’ heads on it? I’m in Scotland now with my friend, but short on time. We leave for Iona tomorrow. Will be back in Glasgow Sunday. Flying to Newark on Tuesday. Where are you located? Will check messages from Oban.
–Moles_Gold (Ann)
“There, it’s done,” Maggie said. “I said ‘we’ so he doesn’t think you’re alone. Now, check your flippin’ email and let me know if you got mine.”
Ann signed into her Gmail account and opened Maggie’s email.
Did you get this, Chicken Shit? I love you.
Ann draped an arm across her friend’s shoulders. “I love you, too.”
“I hope you find what you’re looking for. And so help me, Annie, you’d better email me every night or I’ll kill you.” She held out her pinky finger.
Ann hooked hers around it.
“I will, I promise. We’ll meet back here on Sunday, okay?”
“Okay. Now tell me more about these trainloads of Highlanders . . .”
Chapter 10
Nigel quivered as he read Ann’s message.
Yes! She took the bait.
And she was in Scotland!
Ann. Her name is Ann.
He launched out of the chair to pace the width of the hotel room. A plan. He needed a plan! He was in Belfast. She said she’d be “back” to Glasgow, which meant she was there now. Could he get a ferry to Stranraer and a bus to Glasgow tonight?
He halted mid-stride. She said “we” in her message. Was she with a man? His cheeks burned. He ground his teeth together. He’d soon put that bloke out of her mind.
A check of timetables revealed that if he left now, he would arrive in Glasgow by 10:00 a.m. tomorrow. That was too late, since she was leaving the city in the morning. Besides, Glasgow was too crowded for what Nigel had in mind. He wanted to meet her someplace remote, someplace where he would have her undivided attention.
Think, Nigel, think!
He re-read her message.
Where the hell was Iona? Something deep inside him said it was a place he never wanted to see, but he Googled it anyway. There were only a few inns on the island. All of them were booked solid, according to their inquiries pages. She’d be in one of those, he supposed.
Iona was a tiny island. There’d be an equally small ferry.
Caledonia MacBrayne’s website revealed that The MV Loch Buie ran hourly from the pier at Fionnphort to the Isle of Iona. The ferry office looked useless for surveillance, but Google’s street view led him to a nearby café overlooking the jetty. He could wait there. She’d come back from Iona eventually, probably Saturday morning, if she wanted to make it back to Glasgow by Sunday. He could be in Fionnphort by then, but how would he identify her?
He booked a charter to Kintyre, then reserved a rental car to get him to Oban. Both were expensive, but what was a few bob when your da was rotten with money?
Now, to draft a message she couldn’t resist. He pounded a fist against his forehead. Think! Why, after four unanswered messages, did she suddenly reply? It had to be because he described the torc. Wasn’t that her first question?
How did you know the torc had dogs’ heads on it?
Yes, that was it. He rubbed his hands together and typed.
Ann,
How very nice to know your name. My name is Nigel Lynch. I am English, but my grandfather was an American soldier stationed in Surrey during World War II. He was from Philadelphia, as luck would have it. When he immigrated to England, he did so with few belongings, among them a gold torc my sister now keeps in a safe. It features two dogs biting a green stone. Does it not seem too coincidental that two such torcs made their way to America, to Pennsylvania, in particular? Perhaps our ancestors knew each other. Am anxious to meet and compare notes.
Glasgow is fine. I’m in London. My wife and I will catch a train in time to meet you Sunday night. Could we meet at a restaurant near Queen Street Station? Name the place.
I am attaching a photograph of me and my darling wife. Could you send one of yourself so we can identify you?
I’ll be offline for a few days, so just pop me a message as to where and when, and we’ll see you there. If plans change and we can’t make it, I’ll be sure to find a way to message you.
–Nigel
He downloaded a photograph of a normal-looking couple, attached it to his message, then hit Send.
Chapter 11
Ann drafted a reply to Nigel while eating a sandwich in the onboard café of The Island Princess, a seventy-car ferry connecting the Scottish mainland to the Isle of Mull. She’d been silly to think Nigel a creep. He was married, after all. The couple in the photograph wore clean, fashionable clothes. They stood in a manicured garden outside a lovely upscale home. A weirdo looking for his next kill wouldn’t look like that. He certainly wouldn’t bring his wife along. Besides, Maggie would tag along for their meeting in Glasgow.
She attached her author’s headshot and hit Send.
There. That was that.
She sent an update to Maggie, who immediately replied with a smirking selfie taken in front of a group of kilted men. She was in line at Starbucks, at the train station, no doubt enjoying the kaleidoscope of tartans sashaying past.
Ann’s editor would stroke out if she read her typo-littered reply.
Din’t be greddy. Save one or two for me. I’ll email you when I git to the inn. Love you.
The weather had deteriorated. It was difficult to balance the tablet on her lap, thanks to the pitch and roll of the ferry. She slipped it into her bag, then staggered out of the café toward the observation lounge, clutching handrails and nearly tripping over WET FLOOR cones teetering near the restrooms.
In a stifling lounge, seasick passengers languished on every upholstered surface. Condensation on the windows spoiled any hope of viewing the passing coastline. Using the handrail, Ann shuffled her way to the ferry’s port side, where she wiped the glass in time to see Duart Castle perched on a crag like a bird of prey. Loch Linnhe would be to the northeast. It was said that Somerled lived in a cave there duri
ng his time of exile. She didn’t want to miss it.
Passengers watched her wobble across the lounge to the starboard windows. She found no reward for her determination; fog obscured everything past the southern tip of the Isle of Lismore.
The captain’s voice sounded through the overhead speakers. “Your attention, please. We will arrive in Craignure approximately twenty minutes late.”
Twenty minutes!
Ann bit her lip and looked at her watch. If she didn’t make the bus, she’d be stranded in Craignure, which had a population of two hundred, including the sheep. Worse, the room she reserved in Fionnphort would be wasted.
Cha-ching! More squandered dollars.
To her relief, the bus depended upon the ferry for its livelihood, so it waited. She climbed aboard, soaking wet from the short walk, then dropped onto a window seat. A girl sat next to her and offered a smile before putting buds in her ears and closing her eyes. She looked Eastern European. Ann guessed she didn’t speak English.
As the bus pulled away from Craignure, Ann rested her head against the glass and watched the passing landscape. Clouds obscured mountaintops and boiled above inland lochs that reflected the angry sky. Sheep and wild goats grazed on impossibly steep slopes. Shaggy cattle chewed their cud along the single-track lane.
The bus driver tooted the horn to coax a stubborn herd off the road.
A German man in the front seat photographed a cow and said to the driver, “Zey are beautiful.”
“Och, they’re a bloody nuisance.” The driver blared the horn a second time.
“It is so dark. Do you sink it vill rain?”
“Aye, well, it is Scotland.” The driver wiped steam from the windshield. “Forecast is for gales, but ye never know. It can be raining buckets on one coast and sunny on another. Ye’re lucky ye caught that ferry, though. There might not be another oot of Oban the day.”
The Scent of Forever Page 5