An Unfolding Trap

by Jo A. Hiestand

  ;-) Ta. Your sister

  He smiled, recalling the times he’d had to talk her through various things like programming the VCR or hooking up her computer. He didn’t fault her for her shortcoming. Her brain didn’t work that way. She was an artist, not a techie.

  He opened the attachment and was surprised to see a multi-paged handwritten document. Larger than a traditional girl’s memoir, it had probably been written in a ledger. The writing held the hint of past generations, the letters firm and rounded by hours of practiced circles filling the pages. McLaren noted the year at the top of the page—1949—and quickly lost himself in his grandfather’s jottings.

  20 April

  Gillian sent word that she couldn’t come to tea. Thrice this month, now. She declares she’s not sickly, but I suspect she’s trying to spare me grief if she’s terrible ill. Can it be serious?

  Lambing continues, though most of the ewes have delivered. Gillian’s suggestion last month, about selling the entire flock to her brother, have led to many hours of contemplation, I must admit. But the sheep tend to themselves, for the most part, and the output of cash is minimal, so I’ll wait a bitty to make my decision.

  23 April

  Gillian came to tea, though she couldnae stay long. She looks to be in good health but for paleness to her face. At times the flush came to her cheeks and she would lower her head. At such a time she would consult her timepiece. Powell saw her off and we talked about the brewery until he left.

  30 April

  Powell couldnae make the appointment with the bank this morning. He had the financial figures so I had to postpone the meeting for another fortnight. I’m anxious to get the loan so we may begin our expansion. But I must be patient, for I havenae the facts.

  Had the man in to quote a price for the roof repair.

  Gillian will have a flower arrangement at the village fete tomorrow. I must remember tae get someone else tae judge that event.

  1 May

  Rained for most of the May Day fete. Many exhibits could be moved into the kirk hll. The flower arrangements, bakery entries and artwork already were safe inside, which eliminated a disaster.

  The singing went well. Miss Lennox took First in violin, while Master Ewan succeeded in capturing his fourth consecutive First in piping.

  I couldnae find Gillian after the judging so I had tea with Lady Murdock.

  Cousin Alec accompanied me to the fete. He agreed with my purchase of the Coloured Ryeland ram—the winner in its division—and made arrangements to transport it to the farm. I feel the new bloodline will greatly improve my stock, if for no other reason than to sell next year. The sheep have been an interesting sideline, but am needing to focus on the brewery.

  Laurel’s Crown placed first in the stallion judging. I’ll increase his sire fees.

  6 May

  Rained all afternoon and into the evening.

  The church was broken into last night. Dogs and men searched the area but no evidence has been found as to the culprit’s identity. Nothing was taken other than a Hymnary. The sheriff found footprints in the soft ground, but the men and the dogs lost both the prints and any scent on the rocky ground on the ben.

  Word from Powell is that he’s been called to London to deal with his cousin’s estate. He’s postponed the bank meeting until the end of July.

  8 May

  Beryl accepted my offer to tea, which we had by the fire, since the rain spoiled my planned outing. She arrived punctually, which I put down to her father’s drilling and not her character. Still, she’s pleasant enough company, if not as handsome as Gillian. She commented quite sensibly on the foals in the paddock. She knows horseflesh and rides well. I may include her in the next ride, as she sits a decent saddle.

  Received a letter from John in Auckland. It’s unbelievable he’s been there four years already. He says he’s doing well, is married, and the sheep station is returning money. The land appears to yield bounty to those who seek it.

  10 May

  The rain hasn’t abated much, if at all. There are fears the road into the village may wash out due to flooding. I’ve instructed the staff to lay in provisions for all of us, as well as for the animals. We may very well be cut off from the town for some time if the road goes.

  15 May

  No word from Gillian despite my phoning her house and then riding over. The butler assures me she is well, but indisposed, which I take to infer too busy to see me.

  I’ve had a few words with Cousin Alec about the brewery expansion. He cannae fund the work, so I must wait for Powell to return from The Smoke. He’s stayed longer than his fortnight and cannae say when he’ll be back. I’m very disheartened.

  The Sheriff has canceled the search for the church burglar.

  Priority has been given to the theft of one of my stallions from the northern paddock.

  4 June

  Cousin Alec informed me this evening that Gillian and Powell were wed on 29 May. Alec received the information from the Reverend Dunbar, who happened to be visiting his uncle in London. The uncle performed the marriage ceremony. They will be immigrating to New Zealand in two days. Powell has a position in a bank in Wellington.

  I will return Grandma’s jewels to the bank tomorrow.

  5 June

  Beryl arrived this afternoon with a bouquet of heather and laurel, as well as a Dundee cake. We took the horses for a ride until dusk and she stayed for tea. I saw her home.

  McLaren smiled, envisioning a ribbon tied around the plants’ stalks and the shy way, perhaps, that Beryl presented it. Heather was an obvious choice for a proud old-world Scot, and laurel was a stroke of genius. It was the clan badge, the plant denoting victory. But in this instance, was it the MacLaren bloodline or Beryl who was the victor?

  He turned back to the writings.

  6 June

  Beryl accepted ma marriage proposal. She seemed happy. I dinnae know if she realised I didnae say I loved her. Whether love will develop in time isn’t important right now. She’s an undemanding companion and will run the house well; I’ll have time for the business. We set the date for 6 August. Her brother and father are advancing me the money for the brewery expansion. I’ll talk to the bank tomorrow.

  10 June

  I met with my solicitor to begin proceedings against Powell. I’m ignorant of the laws regarding criminal flight to Australia, but I do need my money, especially now that Beryl’s father and brother cannae come up with the funding after all. Powell took every quid I’d set aside fir the brewery.

  McLaren looked up from the computer screen. The images of the house in Auchtubh and his relatives’ faces floated before him. His grandfather had suffered a lot—his fiancée running away with his business partner, his money for the brewery tucked away in some Australian bank, his future wife’s relatives reneging on the expected money.

  McLaren sat back, his throat tightening. His grandfather’s life had been defined by betrayal. No wonder he had suspected a trap when McLaren appeared on the doorstep. Every time the man had opened his heart to love or friends he’d been double-crossed. Just because the face before him was different didn’t guarantee he wouldn’t be betrayed again. The man had built a shell around him to deflect potential hurt. It wouldn’t be easy for McLaren to crack that shell.

  He scrolled down dozen of pages and stopped at a page approximately a year farther on. He read slowly, his eyes tearing.

  30 September

  Beryl miscarried of a son this morning. We had him baptized immediately before the burial. I named him Michael.

  McLaren leaned his head back and shut his eyes, ignoring the tear trickling down his cheek. Michael. My Christian name. Was that part of the reason for Granddad’s hostility? Was he looking at me as the son he would’ve had, the boy on whom he’d wanted to place his future and dreams, yet who betrayed him by forsaking the family and business?

  He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and fired off an email to his sister.

  From:M McLare
n
  Subject:inquiry info

  Date:10 December 12:14:02 p.m.

  To:Gwen Hulme

  Dear Brilliant Sis—I read most of the journal pages. I’m still reeling…from shock, joy, grief, pride. Of course I had no knowledge of any of this, neither gran’s being married on the rebound, her less than love-filled life, the brother that could’ve predated dad… And the misery granddad dealt with through the betrayals. I can’t quite comprehend it all. It’ll take me a few days to absorb it. But it explains a lot about his personality, so even though I’m despondent about his life, I empathize with the man. He’s suffered a hell of a lot, and none of it from his own fault, evidently.

  I’ll read the rest later. Right now I have a few other things to get done. Thanks again for scrounging through the dust or attic or the horrors of your dresser drawer to find this and send it along. All kidding aside, Gwen, I’m very grateful to know about The Auld Laird.

  ;-) Ta. Mike

  He remained where he was, his back sagging against the headboard, his head throbbing. The sunlight had shifted in position and color, the deep yellow of afternoon slanting into the room. His stomach complained that breakfast was too long ago, yet he made no attempt to get up. The sins heaped upon his grandfather angered him. It was unjust. And he fought injustice.

  And maybe he needed the reminder of the laurel. He might get through all the problems after all.

  He got up, grabbed his car key and mobile, and went out to look for a lunch place and Liza Skene. Not necessarily in that order.

  ****

  McLaren spent the hours after lunch talking to Liza’s colleagues at the library before explaining to the police about the hit-and-run accident and his suspicion that Liza was a bona fide missing person. The session hadn’t gone well, as he’d privately bet with himself as he entered the building. He’d sat for nearly twenty minutes in the lobby before a sergeant led him into an office replete with wanted posters, missing persons appeals, and prints of nineteenth-century police uniforms.

  When McLaren had finished his explanation, the officer asked for a photo of Liza, which McLaren couldn’t provide. The officer then wanted details of her friends, relatives and coworkers, none of which McLaren knew and, therefore, had no information. Nor was he helpful with particulars of places Liza frequented.

  The officer was less than enthusiastic about looking at hours of CCTV video for a sign of her possible abductors or a street accident. Had McLaren any suggestion which camera tape to view or on what time span to focus? And as for a possible medical condition and hospitals to phone…

  The officer’s irritation poked through his practiced poker face as McLaren recommended a search of her home, stating an appointment notation or phone message might direct the investigation. His suggestion that a constable procure her DNA from her toothbrush, hairbrush, bed linen, or fingernail clippings was quickly nixed; besides needing a crime scene, suspect, or body for the genetic match, the DNA sample would require entering Liza’s home. And the officer, at least at this time, had no motivation to do so, unless McLaren wanted to provide a mouth swab or fingerprint inking to match to anything found in the home, should they need to collect such items later… McLaren readily agreed to do it, saying he’d been in her home just the once, and that was in the front room and kitchen, but to go ahead and look if that would propel the hunt for her. When the officer asked which relative would grant them search permission, McLaren could only shrug and say there must be a relation some place, and if they’d only look for a card index or Christmas card list or perhaps a scrapbook or box of cards…

  The officer had thanked him for his ideas, and kindly but firmly dismissed him, saying he’d record Liza Skene as missing and provide the information to other constabularies within the next two days. McLaren had left the station, angry and frustrated and feeling an utter fool.

  He drove around the city, half determined to break into Liza’s house despite the officer’s non-cooperation, half determined to let it go and see as much of Edinburgh and the area as he could before he left for home. He berated himself for failing to convince the sergeant to instigate the search, and tried to ignore the man’s parting statement that Liza Skene was an adult and, as such, had every right to leave the city, should she desire, without contacting anyone.

  McLaren slammed his fist onto the steering wheel. He’d rattled off that same phrase often enough when he was in the job, trying to console distraught kin—didn’t need the officer’s reminder. But it echoed in his head the rest of the day.

  It whispered so loudly at one point that he nearly missed seeing her in the crowd.

  He was in the outside lane opposite Greyfriars Kirkyard. A red head sporting a red, green, and blue muffler hurried from the pavement toward the churchyard. Even though her back was toward McLaren, he recognized Liza.

  He jerked the car out of the traffic lane and screeched to a halt along the curb. She was a hundred feet or so in front of him and about to disappear around the corner of the graveyard’s east wall. The car barely halted before he was sprinting through the iron gates and onto the path.

  The snow offered little help with his pursuit, having melted from the sexton’s liberal casting of salt. McLaren dashed in the direction of his last sighting, desperate to glimpse the red plaid muffler against the gray stone monuments.

  The cemetery was more crowded than he would’ve thought for a Wednesday, but it was a tourist destination, he recalled. Several clusters of people were scattered about the area, no doubt on a tour, and he jogged past them. When he came to the northeast corner, he stopped.

  Liza had disappeared.

  He dashed down the path curving between the headstones, then paused as he came to the Y-branch. Which way to go? He saw no indication of her presence or her having come this way. He ran back to the corner and dashed several hundred yards down the opposite path before he again stopped. A group of old age pensioners stood around a monument but harbored no one resembling Liza.

  He cursed his bad luck and raced ahead, thinking she might be on the other side of the kirk.

  A woman wearing a red muffler sat on a bench opposite a large marble tablet. McLaren paused for breath, then jogged up to her. She turned to look at him, and in the first second it was evident the woman wasn’t Liza. She laid a camera on her lap, her expression questioning his sudden appearance, and asked if he wanted something.

  “Sorry,” he said, disappointed and apologetic at once. “I thought you were someone else. Someone I’ve been looking for.”

  The woman shrugged and glanced around her. “What’s she look like? Maybe I’ve seen her.”

  “Rather like you, which is why I thought you… Well, she’s a trim, fairly short, redhead, maybe your age. The last time I saw her she wore a muffler in the Skene tartan.”

  She glanced at the wool scarf dangling from her neck. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that sett. I should be embarrassed, not knowing a part of my Scottish heritage, but clans and things never appealed to me. Are the colors like this, then?” She held up the garment, its red-and-black checks as regimented as a chessboard, and stared at him as if expecting him to transform it into the correct pattern.

  “Not really. It’s red, blue, and green. A plaid woven in intervals.”

  “Kind of difficult to tell at a distance. Dark blue and green often are indistinguishable.”

  He nodded, feeling foolish and impatient at the waste of time. Liza could be anywhere in the churchyard by now. “Well, thank you. Sorry for the intrusion on your photography.”

  “Not at all. I’m just waiting for the light to shift.”

  He nodded and walked on, thinking a shift in light might help him see Liza’s disappearance more clearly.

  ****

  The clock downstairs in the entryway later that night chimed one o’clock, and McLaren eased his room door shut. The landing was dark and quiet, the last of the guests having come in over an hour ago and now sleeping. He tiptoed
to the end of the hallway and grasped the railing as he leaned over. Light from a small table lamp splayed across the linoleum floor, the harlequin pattern looking bizarre in the dimness. With the black tiles merging into the darkness, the white squares of flooring appeared to be the only solid footing. No sound other than the soft ticks of the clock and a gurgling radiator wound up the stairs. The house had settled comfortably for the night.

  He moved down the stairway, his bare feet hardly touching the carpet, most of his weight on his left hand as he inched along the banister. A step squeaked under his foot and he froze, fearful the sound would summon Jean. He stood in the faint light, trying to blend with the wall behind him, his heart racing. No one responded to the squeaky step; no one called out.

  At the bottom of the stairs, he again paused, wondering which room to try. The guest lounge wouldn’t have Jean’s personal computer but perhaps the front room, where she’d been talking on the phone yesterday, would. He crept past the closed lounge door, watching his shadow stretch before him as he passed the small lamp, and stopped at the front room. He bent over.

  No light shone from beneath the door. He laid his right palm on the door and turned the doorknob. It opened easily, without a sound, and revealed a black void.

  McLaren slipped into the room and shut the door. He stood with his back against it, listening. No alarm sounded; no dog yapped. He snapped on his small torch and played the beam around the room. The windows seemed bedded down for the night, the curtains drawn securely to let in no chink of light. Or inquisitive eye. He let out his breath in one long, slow release.

  The computer monitor threw back the reflection of the torchlight and he went over to it. He opened the desk drawers and carefully searched the contents, looking for letters or notes that would explain more fully the connection between Jean, Lanny, and Harvester. All he found were notecards, guesthouse stationery, postage stamps, bills and receipts, pens and pencils, paperclips, a magnifying glass, envelopes, and a ruler. He shut the drawers. Was he looking for something that didn’t exist?

  He moved the computer mouse and the screen jumped to life.