“Tell me you’re not going to hunt him down.”
“You’ve got my promise. But don’t forget I have a personal interest in this, Jamie. I could’ve been killed, too.”
“What makes you think it’s anything other than an accident? The victim wasn’t specifically targeted, was he?”
“Not that I know of. But he was doing some research on a big project, and—”
“And you’re envisioning spies and gangs and underworld schemes. Drop it, Mike. You’ll live longer. You’ll also be welcomed back if you return to Scotland. Your face looks bad enough in the flesh. I don’t want to see it on a wanted poster.”
“I don’t know what your wife means when she says you have a sense of humor. Look, I’ll be fine. Just ring up your mate and ask him that one question. I swear I won’t even show myself at the police station.”
“It’s not the station I’m worried about. It’s those people standing with you at the bus stop.”
“Ring me tomorrow when you’ve talked to him.” McLaren hung up and phoned his sister.
Gwen was twelve years older than he, so probably remembered their grandfather. McLaren waited impatiently while the phone rang, doodling on his sightseeing list.
“Hello?” Gwen’s voice burrowed into his ear.
“Gwen, it’s Mike.”
“You decided not to go to Scotland?”
“I’m in Scotland.”
“Grandfather’s house?”
McLaren snorted and walked over to the window. A bus labored up Minton Street and past the guesthouse in an exhale of engine exhaust. A dog walker ambled down the pavement, the end of his cigarette glowing red whenever he took a puff. “In my dreams.” He told her about the encounter, aware he sounded tired. “You were fourteen when we moved to Derbyshire. Is his behavior in character with him? Do you remember what he was like?”
Silence greeted him and he could imagine Gwen on the sofa, her legs curled beneath her, coffee mug in her free hand. He assumed he was at least partially correct in his assumption when he heard her take a sip of something. “Even when we lived near him, Mike, I didn’t see much of him. He was always at the brewery or in his office or shut up in his castle.”
“Castle?”
“Well, his house. It seemed like a castle, with all that stuff from the clan dotting the walls.”
“What about him? Did that sound like him, the way you remembered him?”
“You mean, he invites you to something, then changes his mind? I don’t know, Mike. Mum and Dad would’ve known. They’d be the ones grandfather would’ve extended invitations to. I was just there, as it were.”
“Right. You just tagged along to dinner or whatever.”
“Though I must say it sounds a bit odd, doesn’t it?”
“That’s why I wanted your expertise, Gwen. You knew him. I was too young.”
“Careful. You’re treading on thin ice, laddie. I don’t need to be reminded I’m fifty.”
“I wasn’t going there. I simply meant you were a teenager when we left, so you’d been around him, knew him.”
“I’ll take your implied apology, then.” She swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “He was larger than life. That’s the way I remember him. Tall and barrel-chested and Scottish with a capital S. I was always slightly afraid of him, he was usually so serious and had little time for any of us. But on the occasions when we did get together, a picnic on the moor or a birthday celebration, he could be charming. I think it depended on his mood.”
“How the business was going, perhaps?”
“That I didn’t know about. I just remember my awe and trepidation. Not that he did anything physically to frighten me. But his manner. His way of talking, his orders to his staff, the purposeful way he walked. Like he measured time in seconds and rushed to get things accomplished.”
“We’d label it a workaholic today, probably.”
“Could do, but I think, at least I had the impression, that work didn’t really rule him that much. I think he was rather an angry man. Maybe hurt by life and people, and so he threw a shell around him, as a protection against future wounds.” She stopped, and McLaren had the feeling she’d just described his personality and behavior last year. The teaspoon clanked against the side of the mug, rather longer than usual. Was she hoping he would think she stopped to stir her coffee, covering up her near faux pas?
McLaren pressed her for details. “When did Grandmother die? Could that have affected him?”
“Could have done. Anything could have done. But we left thirty, thirty-five years ago, Mike. Grandmother’s been gone only twenty.”
“So something else colored his outlook on life, then.”
“This might just be his personality, you know. Not everyone’s as easy going as you.”
McLaren conceded the possibility.
“But it is odd that he’d send for you and then change his mind on seeing you. You didn’t make him mad, did you? Like, insult him or something?”
“I didn’t have time! He wouldn’t let me into the house. Besides, I wouldn’t insult him.”
“I know. I’m just trying to think of a reason for his about face.”
“Yeah, well, think of something else. Something that makes sense.”
“Do you look like someone?”
McLaren coughed and leaned forward to get his breath. “What the hell’s that mean? Of course I look like someone. Me!”
“Mike, I meant maybe you look like a family member. You know, Uncle Aengus, or Cousin Muira. Someone who’s a black sheep or on grandfather’s hit list. Figuratively.”
“I don’t know. I could do, I suppose. I’ve got that old family album.”
“Well, there you are, then. Leaf through it and see if you resemble Cousin Sinclair or whomever. It might explain his action.”
“Like, he originally thought it a good idea to invite me up, but I turned out to resemble Aengus or someone, and he changed his mind. Wouldn’t have been able to have me around because I stirred up old memories.”
“Don’t pooh pooh it, Mike. Stranger things have happened.”
“Well, little good it does me right now. I’m in Edinburgh and the photo album’s back home.”
“We all have our cross to bear, dear.”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you to learn the brewery business, Gwen. With dad gone, you’re next in line.”
“Grandfather’s too old school for that, Mike. Oldest male type thing. You know.”
“If he’s desperate for a family member to take the helm, he might not be too picky.”
“Thanks.”
“You know what I mean, Gwen. I don’t know his plans, of course, but Uncle Brandon might not have any children.”
“You think that’s why grandfather invited you up? To talk about the brewery and you taking over? You’re awfully old to start learning the brewery business. No insult intended.”
“Like I said, I don’t know his plans. But it’s possible.”
“Well, when you get home, Mike, you can see if you look like a masculine version of Cousin Gemma. It could explain a lot.”
“She had to have been gorgeous, then.”
“In your dreams, dear brother.”
McLaren rang off, drank another cup of tea, and went to bed.
Chapter Five
Neill McLaren sat over his dinner and pushed the last bite of Welsh rarebit around the plate with his fork. He seemed not to have the appetite tonight for his usual heavy fare; tension knotted his stomach, making swallowing difficult. Brandon faced him at the other end of the long table, setting them up like lord and lady of the manor. Except the lady in Neill’s life, his wife, had been in the churchyard these past twenty years. A space waited for him, too, his half of the headstone blessedly empty of engraving. He’d join her soon enough, but not just yet. He was too cantankerous to die right now; he had things to do, to set right.
Brandon laid his fork on his empty plate and asked if the older man was feeling well. “Y
ou haven’t eaten much, Dad,” he observed. “Shall I ask the cook for something else?” He started to get up but Neill waved him back into his chair.
“It’s not the food. I havenae the appetite this evening.”
“If you’re sure…”
“I’d think by this time of my life I know my own mind, Brandon. Ye’ve no need to question me.”
“Sorry, Dad.” Brandon folded his serviette and laid it beside his plate. “I understand Michael was here today.”
The room grew deathly quiet and the older man’s face reddened.
“Is he in the area?” Brandon felt his face growing red in the panic for something to say to relieve the sudden tension. “Is he coming back? I’d like to see him. It’s been years since he left…after Colin—” He broke off and glanced at Neill. The man’s face had drained of color and his fingers choked his table knife.
“He’s not coming back. He wasnae invited here and he didnae stay.”
“That’s too bad. I’d have liked to talk to him. Is he still here…Edinburgh, perhaps?”
“I don’t know where he is. He can be with the devil for all I know or care.”
“I’m sorry, Dad. If I’d known you felt like this I wouldn’t have mentioned Michael. I just thought he came up here to see the brewery, to come back to us.”
Neill pressed his lips together and snorted. The phone rang in the hallway and was promptly answered. “He’s abandoned the business, just as he’s abandoned us. Three hundred years of work, and he’s turned his back on all of it: his ancestors’ struggles, his family, our dreams. Not a letter or phone call these past thirty six yearsthat’s how much the brewery and we mean tae him, the bloody Sassenach.”
“He’s got his own life in Derbyshire, Dad.” Brandon tried to smooth the waves. He’d experienced his own choppy water with Neill; he knew the anger that ran as deep as the sea, as unrelenting as the tide once the older man chose to hate someone. “He’s certainly got his own career. Even if he thought of returning to the business, he couldn’t do it overnight. Perhaps he wanted to come back first, see how we felt about him before he quit his job and moved up here.”
“He didnae get the prodigal son’s welcome, if that was his intention.” Neill leaned forward, his chest against the edge of the table. Now that he was closer to Brandon, the light behind Neill haloed his head and threw his face into shadow. “You know what I think? I think he needs the money. I think he’s run into debt or lost his job and he needs the steady income the brewery could hand him.”
“Dad, you can’t be serious!”
“I think he believed he could waltz through the front door, I’d throw open my arms and put him on the payroll, add his name to the company stationery. Well, he learned this morning that it was a bloody daft idea. If he wants to make amends for the past, he’ll have to do something a might better than appearing on my doorstep.”
“But Michael’s kin, Dad. He could take over the brewery when I…when it’s time. We need him. He’s a McLaren, a part of you through Colin. You can’t just turn him away.”
Neill slammed the hilt of the utensil onto the table. “He’s no longer any relation I recognize. That woman—”
“Michael’s mother’s name was Elaine, Dad. She married Colin legally, regardless of your insinuations then and now. A church wedding with dozens of guests and two clergy to perform the ceremony. Elaine deserves to be referred to as a decent person.”
Despite Brandon’s reprimand, Neill roared on. “That tart took my grandson and my son out of my house, out of the business, away from our land. Growing up in that…south of the border wasnae my idea. Michael turned his back on us and on Scotland. If either of them had wanted to make amends, to come back, they had thirty-six years to do it. But they did nothing.”
“You can’t blame Michael, Dad. You don’t know how he was reared, what he was told. He might not have known about the brewery or you. You can’t just erase him like that. The brewery—”
“The brewery survived world wars and poor economies and staff turnovers. It’ll still survive, without Michael McLaren.”
“But can it survive without a McLaren to guide it?”
The silence again seeped between them, lying heavy and oppressive. The tick of the clock barely made itself heard, muffled as draped drums for a funeral. Indeed, Brandon felt as though he’d heard his nephew’s death knoll as regards to the family business. He eyed his father, preoccupied with staring at his beer. It had cost the older man to voice his feelings, to admit to his fears. His dad faced seeing the McLaren business dying out with him. Three hundred years of McLarens and he was seeing its end if he didn’t relinquish and eventually turn it over to Michael. Brandon was the last of the line if Michael didn’t step in. When the time came for Dad to pass, would he really hold to his opinion and watch the company gasp its death rattle in his hands? Will he really let the tradition die—let the creation from more McLarens than they would ever know pass away?
Brandon pushed his plate back and reached for the platter of cheese and oatcakes. He held it toward Neill, who shook his head and glared. Brandon set the platter on the table and considered another topic of conversation. He didn’t feel like talking. His dad was behaving like an old-time clan chief, the supreme head of the extended family. When would he realize it wasn’t the 1700s? Oaths of allegiance and blind acts of fealty no longer mattered. The clock broke into the quiet, striking the hour.
“I’ve no need for ye to sit and hold my hand, either. We’re both too old for that. Go about your business.” He excused Brandon, making it sound more like a command than permission, and slumped back in his chair.
The chair legs scraped across the flagstone floor as Brandon rose from the table. He picked up the chair and replaced it noiselessly in its spot. Nodding to his father, Brandon left the room, the heavy door closing with a whoosh as the air rushed into the space.
Neill stared at his plate, suddenly tired of fighting and tired of struggling. The beets had been easy to eat, as had been the green beans. But the beer caught in his throat, produced a coughing fit that had turned his face red and given Brandon a fright. All of which puzzled Neill. Especially the beer. He’d always been able to drink pints of the stuff, non-stop. Why could he not even get one swallow down tonight?
The fire crackled and a log settled into the thick bed of glowing coals, sending sparks up the chimney. A blast of wind rattled the casement windows and a wisp of cold air seeped into the room. It brushed against a small tapestry hanging near the window, moving its edge in a slow undulation.
Neill inched his chair closer to the fire. The flames fascinated him, mesmerized him. He stared at the yellow and red tongues lapping the logs, the embers winking from the blackness beneath the logs. Did they wink because they knew his secret? He’d told no one of his feelings, not even Brandon. He shared most things with his son, feeling the family business would be handled more efficiently and profitably if Brandon knew of problems or acquisitions or daily operations. Especially in the office. But Neill had never revealed that part of his heart that held his grandson, Michael. It was difficult for Neill to acknowledge the truth right now, so how could he talk about it to Brandon?
Neill grabbed his glass of beer and raised it to his mouth. He was getting soft in his old age. He’d damned his daughter-in-law after she convinced Colin to move their family to Derbyshire, to take over the family farm from another branch of the family. She’d broken up the McLaren business, all because she felt sorry for a distant relative. With Colin in England, working the land instead of working with hops and yeast, the family business depended on Brandon. And Brandon had no heir, so everything the McLarens had worked for these past three centuries meant nothing.
He tilted back his head and downed a mouthful of beer. He gritted his teeth as he swallowed it. Damn his grandson. Showing up unannounced, lying about it. Michael hadn’t turned out well. He wouldn’t, being reared without his grandfather’s strict hand to guide him. He had the blond hair
of his mother, the hazel-colored eyes of her father, the speech of her people. If Michael had been reared in Scotland, he’d be a different man. One not concerned with other people’s problems. He’d not have time: he’d be too busy with the brewery.
Neill rested the glass on his lap and looked around the room as though seeing it for the first time. Or after a return home after a long trip. What would happen to the family heirlooms, the furniture and silver and paintings? Brandon would take them over on Neill’s passing, but who’d get them when Brandon passed?
The mantel clock ticked into the silence, as though commiserating with Neill. Or mocking his life. Tsk tsk tsk. The taps drummed over the snapping of the fire and reverberated around the room. There was someone to whom he could pass the business, the pounding seemed to remind him. During the war. Had he forgotten about that girl, about their baby?
He stared at the fire. The flames wove themselves into Liesbeth’s blonde hair. Long and sleek. It’d nearly reached her mid back. She’d had a habit of kneeling over him in bed and letting her hair fall around his face, like a curtain. He’d never experienced such softness and sweet scent as Liesbeth’s hair.
Neill stirred uneasily, the memory growing stronger. He’d forgotten about her until now. A Dutch girl barely seventeen. They’d met in Kleve, a town on the Germany-Dutch border when he’d been stationed with his regiment. They’d been thrown together during a bombing raid by the Allies. Whether the war had accelerated their attraction, urged them to seek what comfort they could, or whether they’d merely sought some sanity in the midst of the horror exploding around them, Neill didn’t know. Hadn’t stopped to analyze his feelings. The glory and adventure he’d enlisted for had quickly turned to revulsion. He remembered only that he’d found her exquisite and shy and needing to be loved.
Needed love as much as he did. Two lonely, scared teenagers—he, who had never been out of his village before the war; she, whose world had been invaded by foreigners who took her normalcy and replaced it with a nightmare.
They’d met many nights after that, whenever he could get leave or she could sneak away. He hadn’t thought about their future, didn’t even know if she was engaged or not. He knew her name and that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. That was enough for him for the present.
An Unfolding Trap Page 5