Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3) (19 page)

“And your dress,” Tamsin asked, popping a Nicorette in her mouth. “You’ve got that all sorted?”

“Mmm.” Her heart sank. Better not to dwell on it, though—after all, Jo was in charge. “Were you able to establish Alexander Donnell’s alibi?”

“I’ll get the CCTV tomorrow and have a look.” Tamsin let out an exasperated sigh, running fingers through her spiky hair, which held firm. “God, if I could get hold of this case all on my own, we may be somewhere. All Blakie can think about is his bloody parsnips. I can’t get him to look at even the little evidence we have. Tomorrow’s his last day, but we’re nowhere near to wrapping the case up. No witnesses—only your neighbor who found the body—no one with both a motive and the opportunity. I suppose it’s possible that it was just an accident—he slipped, hit his head, and fell in the water. They found tiny flecks of stone in the head wound. We’ve examined the steps and found no traces of blood or tissue”—Pru swallowed hard and hugged the mug of tea to her chest—“and it isn’t as if we can test every stone in the Water of Leith to find the one, now can we?”

“But you said his wallet was nearby?”

“Mmm,” Tamsin replied and took two plastic bags out of her satchel. “That’s the other reason I stopped.”

Inside one bag, Iain’s leather wallet lay folded flat. It didn’t look water damaged—Tamsin had said they found the wallet on the bank—but the leather appeared worn, well-used. Pru’s stomach lurched to think that this was what his life was reduced to—bits and pieces of possessions.

DS Duncan handed Pru the other bag, which contained an old color photograph, now slightly faded. It was a snapshot of a man and a woman—a younger Iain, handsome, serious, with his arm loosely around a good-looking blonde, whose tousled hair fell to her shoulders. She looked up at Iain, a coquettish smile curling up the corners of her mouth.

“This was in his wallet?” Pru asked.

Tamsin nodded. “The thing is, it hadn’t been there for long. Paper or photos become worn at the corners, especially when they’ve been in a wallet for long, but this one is spanking new.”

“But not really new—it must be twenty years old, at least. Iain’s a lot younger here.”

“It’s a scanned copy of an old photo—not the original. Does the woman look familiar at all?”

“No,” Pru said slowly, something trying to pull the word back. “But, I don’t believe Iain has lived in Edinburgh all that long. And his partner is male.” She thought about Rosemary. “Now.”

DS Duncan reclaimed the photo and dropped it into her satchel. “I’ve shown it to Mr. Donnell and his aunt—no joy there. Well then,” she said, “we’re back to the Botanics, aren’t we? I’ll go over everyone’s statement again.” She took up her mug again. “Meanwhile, I was at least able to get approval for the second-level blood test. We’ll see if that turns up anything.”

Murdo and his notebook, Pru thought. “Christopher thought you should…”

“He rang looking for Blakie this morning,” Tamsin said. “I wish him luck with that. Blakie’s making himself scarce, I can tell you.” She set down her mug and stood to go. “Thanks for the tea. I’m off to a lunch meeting with the florist.”

Pru followed her to the door. “Did you know that Iain taught in England before he came to Edinburgh?”

Tamsin buttoned her coat and shrugged. “I believe it’s in the file—someplace in Surrey?”

“Merrist Wood College. Saskia was a student there. Did you know that?”

The DS frowned, and the hand reaching for her bag stopped in midair. “No, I don’t remember she said that. They were there at the same time?”

“One term,” Pru said and shrugged. “That’s all. I doubt if they knew each other. And as for them both ending up here, well…” Pru’s words began to swell and fill the room with an accusation she didn’t intend. She waved her hand back and forth in an attempt to deflate them. “It’s a coincidence, really. The gardening world is small in Britain—it’s easy to cross paths.”

After Tamsin left, Pru finished her sandwich and made another cup of tea. She pushed the wedding-dress problem to a back corner of her mind, stacking it up with the rest of the plans, duties, and arrangements, and put off worrying about Saskia and her mum. Instead, she logged on to her email.

Bowwowbabe refused to give up. This subject line read: “I’m on my way.” Pru laughed to herself. On your way where? she thought. And wouldn’t that be a surprise to someone. She opened the message. “We’ll have this out face-to-face, Pru Parke.”

The radiator creaked, and Pru jumped. It all became clear. Not wrongly addressed emails, but threatening messages making not-so-veiled references to what the sender had done. Pru’s mind hopped, skipped, and jumped to the realization that the emails came from the person who had killed Iain, and who was now on his way to her. She had no time to think it through. She was a target—a sitting duck. She grabbed her phone and hit speed dial.

“Pearse, leave a message.”

Crap. “Christopher, hi, look, I know this is something I should’ve mentioned before, but I didn’t think it was important and it probably isn’t, it’s just that I’ve gotten three emails from someone I don’t know and I thought it was a mistake, of course, although the first two did seem a little creepy now that I think about it”—her voice shook; she took a quick breath and glanced out the window behind her desk, as if she might recognize the killer striding up the walk—“but this latest one…I just wanted to tell you about them so that you could tell me not to worry, and also, just in case, you know, that it’s really Iain’s killer who sent them, I’m going to ring the police this minute, it’s just that I thought I’d talk to you first…” She heard the door to the building open and footsteps approaching. Clack, clack, clack.

She hit “end” and stole behind the door, looking at her phone and judging its usefulness as a weapon. She reached over to pick up the electric kettle, heavier, although it might slosh and give her away. Through the frosted glass, she saw a figure in the doorway. A hand with cherry-red fingernails wrapped itself around the door and pushed it open.

“I told you I was coming. We need to get a few things straight.”

Pru stared at the woman before her—a woman with an American accent. Check that—a deep Southern drawl. Highlighted with a few stands of gray, her blond hair framed her face and cascaded onto her shoulders in a mass of soft curls. She might’ve been a few years younger than Pru, but just. She wore a brown leather coat and tall, skin-tight leather boots with thin heels and carried an oversize matching leather handbag.

“Well—what do you have to say for yourself?” the woman asked, putting a hand on her hip.

Confused, Pru could only come up with her own questions. “About what? Who are you?”

“Who
am
I?” she asked. “I’m Krystal, Marcus’s girlfriend.”

Pru frowned and cocked her head. After a moment, she began to laugh. She leaned forward on the tea table and clapped a hand over her mouth, as Krystal took a tiny step back. “I’m sorry,” Pru said, holding one hand up with a gasp. “But—did you send me those emails?”

“Of course I did. Who did you think it was?”

That seemed beside the point now. “But why? We don’t even know each other.”

Krystal remained in the doorway. She frowned and bit her bottom lip. “Because of Marcus,” she said, looking down into her brown leather gloves. “He won’t stop talking about you.”

Marcus, it’s true—you are a jackass
. “Oh, Krystal, you’ve got the wrong idea. Marcus and I are old friends—if he talks about me, it’s because I remind him of Dallas, the arboretum.” Krystal crossed her arms and held firm her doorway position. “Come in and sit down, please,” Pru said, remembering her manners once the threat of danger was over. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

Krystal dropped her arms and softened. “Well, now that you ask—I’d love a cup of tea. It sounds so…British. You put milk in it, right?” She walked in the rest of the way, set her handbag by the wall, and sat on the edge of the chair, her back ramrod straight.

Pru nodded as she switched on the kettle. “You don’t sound like you’re from Dallas,” she said, as they moved onto a friendlier playing field.

Krystal shook her head, and her blond curls bounced around. “Born and reared in Atlanta—I’m a Georgia peach,” she said with a wide, winning smile, and a tilt of her chin. “But you’re not wiggling out of this,” she said, shaking a finger at Pru.

“I don’t know how you got the idea that I was…after Marcus. He misses you.” Pru didn’t know that for a fact, but it seemed a good assumption.

Krystal gave a shrug of one shoulder. “I miss him, too. And he did say you’re getting married.” Christopher, Pru thought, and reached for her mobile to leave him an all-clear message, but Krystal’s fading smile caught her. “It’s just that”—she glanced at Pru and then away—“we know that Marcus has been known to…shift the focus of his affections, and I just thought…”

Pru could see Krystal struggling to put into nonjudgmental words what she had done to Celia, and what Celia had done to Pru. “All that was a long time ago,” Pru said, handing Krystal a mug. “Marcus and I are just old friends. I’ll bet he’s thrilled that you’re here. When did you arrive?”

Krystal’s eyes shifted to the door. “I came straight from the airport, but I didn’t tell him. It’s a surprise.”

Pru brightened. “I love surprises. Let’s ring him, shall we? And I’ll just say he needs to stop by my office,” she said. “What fun!” But her finger stopped before hitting Marcus’s extension. “How did you know where to find me?”

“The taxi dropped me off at the gate, and I walked in and asked the first person I saw—some guy with a green knit hat—he was cleaning the tables in front of the coffee stand. He knew exactly where you were.”

Pru peered out the window to see if Murdo peered back as she rang Marcus and asked him to come round. He didn’t ask why.

Krystal wrapped her hands around the mug of tea. “I should get used to drinking this,” she said. “I’ll probably be over here a lot on business.”

“What business are you in?” Pru asked.

Krystal’s face fell. “He didn’t even tell you that?”

“We never see each other,” Pru said. “We work in completely different areas.”

Krystal picked up her bag, reached in, and pulled out a pair of spike heels in a neutral shade. She caught Pru’s raised eyebrows and said, “I always carry a spare pair—you never know when you’ll need them.”

“Yes, of course,” Pru said, although she thought even one pair too many.

Krystal handed Pru a crisp sales brochure from her bag. “I’m BowWow!Babe—I’ve designed a line of high-end doggie chew toys made from organic rubber. We’re in all the best pet-friendly boutique hotels, an original BowWow! waiting on the pillow for each guest’s little precious. These are keepsakes—a distinctive memento of the dog’s visit to that city.” She opened the brochure and pointed to a chew toy in the shape of the Empire State Building. “This is our Big Apple BowWow! and here”—she tapped on a Golden Gate Bridge—“is our Frisco BowWow! I’m going international—soon we’ll have a Big Ben BowWow! and I want something for Scotland, too, but I haven’t decided on the design. Maybe a kilt—or, what’s that hairy thing those kilt guys wear between their legs?”

Pru choked on her tea and coughed out, “Sporran,” just as her mobile rang.

“Is everything all right?” Christopher asked.

In the background, Krystal hooted with laughter at her own joke, as Pru said, “Oh, hi, I’m so sorry I didn’t ring back right away. It’s great. Marcus’s girlfriend is visiting from Dallas.”

“But the emails?” Christopher asked.

“Oh, that was Krystal, just a misunderstanding, but everything is fine. We’re having a cup of tea.”

“You sounded upset on the message,” Christopher said, pursuing his point.

Pru had forgotten the panic she’d felt when the final email had arrived. “Yes, that was silly, wasn’t it? I’m sorry to worry you.” He didn’t reply. “Christopher?” She looked at her phone’s display and frowned. “Dead battery.” She reached in her bag for the charger, but heard Marcus’s boot steps in the hall. Her eyes met Krystal’s.

He pushed open the door, and said, “Hey,” before noticing the new arrival. His eyes cut back and forth between the two women, ending on Krystal. He said, “What…”

Don’t do it, Marcus,
Pru thought.
Don’t say “What are you doing here?”

“What…what a surprise,” Marcus said. He looked surprised all right.

Krystal, who had been hovering an inch above her chair, threw herself into his arms. “Oh, baby. I was so lonesome at home—I couldn’t stand it any longer. And I wanted to meet Pru, of course.” They both looked over at Pru, who sat at her desk and smiled. “So I set up meetings here and in London—might as well mix business with pleasure.” She twirled a curl of his black hair around a finger. “Are you happy to see me?”

“Of course I am,” Marcus said and kissed her lightly, a kiss that Krystal returned a hundred and fifty percent. Pru leaned back in her chair and observed the show with a mixture of relief and a memory of what it felt like to be in those arms.

Marcus pulled away slightly from Krystal and looked over at Pru, who wiggled her eyebrows at him. He blushed. “Look, K, I’ve got a meeting in five minutes—would you wait for me? Maybe…”

“I’ll take Krystal to the Pickled Egg for a drink, and you can collect her from there,” Pru said. “We have loads to talk about.”

“Yes,” Krystal said, pumping a fist in the air, “I am ready for warm beer. You won’t be too long, will you, baby?” She ran her finger down his jawline.

“Are you sure?” Marcus asked Pru. He didn’t appear entirely happy with the idea.

Pru nodded and waved him out of her office. “We’ll see you later.”

Pru lay on her sofa, her feet—in their spike heels—propped up on the arms. Krystal was lovely, really, once she had been convinced that Pru was not a threat to her relationship with Marcus. But by the time he had come round to the pub to collect her, Pru had had more than her fill of sustainable and organic methods at rubber plantations, South American farmer-owned co-operatives, and squeaky versus nonsqueaky chew toys. She spent the rest of the evening watching back-to-back
Dr. Who
reruns, and had just turned off the television.

The rap on the door sounded like a bullet. Rap. Rap-rap-rap. She sat up and froze, her skin cold and sweaty. It was late. No one ever came to visit her. Marcus and Krystal—well, she was quite sure they were otherwise occupied. Who could it be? A small part of her mind tried reason—if someone meant you harm, would he knock first?—but a second rap-rap-rap shouted reason down. She got up and silently made her way into the front hall, straining her ears for another sound.

All quiet. She crept toward the door, staying on tiptoe so that her heels wouldn’t clatter on the stone floor, and bent down. If she caught a whiff of Fairy liquid, she would ring 999 straightaway and let someone else deal with Murdo. Her nose was six inches away when the letter flap opened and she cried out, falling back into the wall and grabbing hold of a coat hook that kept her from landing on her bottom.

“Pru?” the voice through the slot called.

“Christopher!”

Her heart pounding and her hands shaking, she had trouble turning the lock and opening the door. He stepped in, dropped his bag, and she flew into his arms, pulling him close to let her heart thump-thump-thump against his chest. “I thought you were…I didn’t know…this is wonderful. I’m so glad it’s you.” She looked up—almost eye level with him in her heels. He cupped her face in his hands and gave her a long kiss, but she hadn’t caught her breath and had to come up for air.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into her hair. “I didn’t mean to give you such a fright. I wanted to surprise you.”

She wheezed a laugh. “Mission accomplished.” She laid her head on his chest and panted as her heart rate slowed.

After a moment, he held her out at arm’s length and gave her an appraising look. His eyes traveled slowly down her body, past her trousers—rolled up to midcalf—and to her feet. She wiggled her toes, and his eyes moved slowly back up again.

“Jo sent them,” she said, turning pink. “I’m to practice.” She saw that ghost of a smile, and it made her giggle. “Walking. I’m to practice walking around in them. Would you like a brandy?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“I’ll just get the glasses.”

“I’ll just watch you get the glasses,” he said.

She prayed she wouldn’t topple over from the attention. She threw her shoulders back and lifted her chin, turned, and walked down the hall. When she rounded the corner to the kitchen, she looked over her shoulder, fluttered her eyelashes, kicked one heel back—and turned the other ankle.

“Ow.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine—stay there,” she said from around the corner rubbing her foot. “I shouldn’t have pushed my luck.”

She returned with bottle and glasses in hand. Ignoring the slight twinge in the turned ankle, she walked straight up to him, put her arms around his neck, and said, “There. Not bad.”

“Not bad at all, I’d say.”

She led him into the front room, delighted with the way her day had ended. “Is this why you were working on case notes all night—so you could get away?”

He answered with a smile. “I decided to ring you when we landed, but your mobile was off.”

Pru pointed at her phone. “The battery died while we were talking earlier, but I plugged it in when I got home. Oh,” she said and slapped at the switch that turned on the outlet. “I forgot that.” The screen on her phone lit up immediately.

They sat on the sofa, and she poured them each a measure of brandy.

“Do they hurt?” he asked, eyeing her heels.

“A bit—I’ve had them on all evening.”

“Give them here.” He nodded his head toward her feet.

She scooted sideways, put her feet in his lap, and leaned back. He slipped the heels off, set them on the coffee table, and began rubbing at the red marks the straps left, as if to erase them. He pressed his thumbs into the balls of her feet; she moaned slightly and closed her eyes.

“Did you wear them today for your dress fitting?”

Her eyes flew open. “Um, no. I didn’t get quite as far as shoes.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You did have your fitting today?”

She looked at him without speaking for a moment, weighing her options, and then sighed and sat up. “All right, pour me another brandy, please, and I will tell you the tale of my dress fittings.” She edged the box of tissues closer, preparing for the worst.

She started with Little Bo Peep and left nothing out. She held out her hand to show how puffy the sleeves were and heard a snort from Christopher. She stopped and eyed him narrowly—could he not tell the difference between comedy and tragedy? His face could’ve been made of stone, except she saw the corner of his mouth twitch. She continued with the bouffant skirt, and when she indicated the size and placement of the blue satin bow, his face reddened until he gasped for breath.

She stopped and pressed her lips together, but it was too late—a giggle escaped. She started in on the torch-singer outfit—the glittery, form-fitting, midnight-blue material, the flounce, the problem with keeping the dress up. At the end of it all, neither of them could speak for laughing.

“The thing is,” she said, wiping away a tear and taking a sip of brandy, “I had a dress just like it for my Barbie doll. But at least Barbie’s boobs stayed put.”

“Ah, if I had been a fly on the wall for that,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Nonsense,” she said, “you can see them anytime. I just don’t want everyone else seeing them.”

“And so,” he said, as he put his arm around her and they settled back on the sofa, “it’s back to the drawing board with Madame Fiona?”

She shook her head and sighed. “I can’t go through that again. I like Madame Fiona, but I need a dress, not an ongoing production. Jo will find a dress for me. I told her to have it waiting the day of the wedding—I don’t even want to think about it until I’m ready to walk down the aisle.” She raised up to see him better. “Some aisle. Someplace.”

Without looking up, he said, “I spoke with Alan yesterday.”

An alarm bell began clanging in her head. She felt as if they still walked a fine line with Alan. “Did you? Is everything all right?”

“Yes.” She saw that ghost of a smile. “It was just a chat. But we could ask him about a place for the wedding—or perhaps we should resume our tour of Edinburgh’s kirks on Saturday.”

She nodded. “There must be something out there.” She watched as he traced a pattern on the back of her hand with his fingertip. “Any word on my Laird?” she asked.

Christopher’s keen brown gaze penetrated her thoughts, taking stock. “Why don’t we talk about that in the morning? It’s late.”

She translated that to mean, yes, there is news, and you aren’t going to like it. “Now,” she said. “Please. I don’t want to wait until morning—I wouldn’t be able to sleep.” She straightened herself up. “I can take it—go ahead.”

He sat up, too, taking her glass and setting it on the table. He took her hands in his.

“M-O-R-A-Y,” he said. “It’s pronounced ‘murry,’ and it’s a county north of here, near Aberdeenshire. Laird—that isn’t actually a Scottish title, but a description of a landowner.”

“So, he’s the Laird of Moray?”

“No,” Christopher said. “His estate is near a village in Moray. He is the Laird of Dallas.”

“Really?” She laughed. “So that’s the other Dallas—a village in Scotland? How bizarre.” She took up her brandy. “But just because his estate is Dallas, why should he care that I’m from Dallas? How did he even find out about me? Why would he want to pay my wages? What does he expect me to do in return?”

“I have names and a few facts,” Christopher said, “and I got those by going over Blakie’s head—he’s fairly preoccupied with his retirement. Do you remember he mentioned that someone had phoned the day you were taken in for questioning?” Pru nodded. “Blakie was told of it secondhand—the call went into Fettes, police headquarters for Lothian and the Borders. So, I rang one of the detective inspectors there, someone I knew years ago when we were both in Cheltenham. I took the information he gave me and went a bit further, but some of it is speculation.”

He didn’t continue, but watched her as if to gauge her reaction thus far. “Go on,” Pru said.

“Last year, an American businessman visited the Laird. He has Scottish roots, and was drawn to Dallas in Moray, because he’s from Dallas, Texas.”

An unpleasant thought knocked on the door of Pru’s subconscious, but she hesitated to answer. “Still,” she said, “that has nothing to do with me. Except for being from Dallas. How would he even know who I am?”

“Do you recall what you were doing a year ago?”

So much had happened since then, she had to think hard. “Oh.”
Restoring a historic garden at Primrose House in Sussex,
Pru thought.
Involved in an investigation of the murder of Ned, who worked for her.
“I was in the news, wasn’t I?”

“This Dallas businessman wants to build a large resort and golf course in Scotland.”

Pru opened the door to her subconscious and there stood Venus de Milo in a sand trap. “Oh God, Buddyboy Mac.” The name propelled her off the sofa. “Earl Stanley MacIntyre?”

Christopher nodded. “Have you met him?”

“No.” She shook her head sharply. “I know of him, of course. Everybody does,” she said in a scoffing tone. “He’s into everything—real estate, he’s got a software company, he owns a minor league baseball team in Lubbock. He works hard to keep himself in the news, pushing his weight around, throwing money at problems, trying to call in favors for his friends. He tried to buy his wife’s way into The Daughters of the Republic of Texas. Of course, there’s always something in it for him.” Pru gasped. “Are you saying he’s the one that bought me this job—not the Laird?”

“Your post has been sponsored by the Laird—that’s not unheard of in charity organizations. But records show that a large donation was made to the Botanics by MacIntyre to be paid only after you complete your three-month post. The donation was brought in by Alastair Campbell.”

Pru began pacing the small space, tapping the heel of one shoe in her palm as she went. “Alastair—I knew he was behind this. Rosemary said it—pulling in a big donation might get him that job in Australia.” Christopher followed her with his eyes. “But what’s in it for the Laird?” she asked.

“The Laird is in financial difficulties—that’s been in the news here. He needs the land deal with MacIntyre to go through. It could be that MacIntyre made you a contingency to that.”

Pru attempted to process all this. “So, Buddyboy Mac gave the garden a donation on the condition that I was given a job, which was paid for by the Laird—or at least had his name on it. What did he think he was doing—polishing his image? I know it sounds crazy that Mac would do something like this for someone he’s never even met—but it’s just the kind of crazy he is.”

Christopher took a deep breath. “You’ll recognize the Laird’s name, too—at least his surname. Trotter. Callum Trotter.”

“Trotter,” Pru repeated in a whisper. She stood squeezing her shoe in both hands.

“Murdo’s father.”

“Murdo must’ve had orders to follow me. But why? To make sure I did my job? I’ve half a mind to go up there right now”—she waved the shoe vaguely behind her—“he lives just up in Saxe Coburg Place, not two minutes from here. I don’t know what number, but I daresay I could sniff him out.”

“Pru—”

She picked up speed. “Keeping track of my every move—and Iain’s, too. But what did he care about Iain? Iain wasn’t part of the deal, was he? Of course, Iain resented me waltzing in and taking a job that should’ve been his, but why…” She stopped so quickly she swayed a bit, and Christopher leapt to her side. “Oh God,” she said, taking hold of his arm. “Did Mac tell Murdo to stop Iain from bothering me? Murdo mentioned him—Mr. Mac, he called him. Murdo said he did what he was told—was he told to get rid of Iain?” She looked up at Christopher, her eyes filling with tears. “Iain was killed because of me. Because they thought he was usurping my glory. It’s all my fault,” she ended in a whisper as Christopher wrapped his arms around her.

“We can’t go quite that far, not yet.”

“Mac is ruthless,” she said. “I remember there were rumors a few years ago, something about a former business partner in a car crash—I don’t think anything ever came of it. But nobody gets in Buddyboy Mac’s line of fire. He always gets his way.” She rested her chin against Christopher’s chest, unable to avoid seeing the awful act that played out in her mind, now with a complete cast. “I’m sorry for Murdo—I know I shouldn’t be. He’s killed Iain, and that’s terrible. But…” She brightened. “Maybe it was an accident. Mac told Murdo to keep Iain from interfering in my work. Maybe Murdo followed Iain to the bridge and they argued—easy enough to do with Iain—and Murdo accidentally pushed him.”

Christopher tried to hide a smile as he kissed her forehead. “It is too early to either accuse or defend.”

“I was getting to quite like Murdo,” she said. “He seems a bit lost and I think his father is overbearing. And Mac, of course, could intimidate anyone.” She took hold of herself. “But you’re right—we need another look at his notebook. I know what to look for now. I’ll figure something out tomorrow—I can distract him and try to get at it.”

“No, you will not,” Christopher said. He had let her wander a zigzag path of emotions, but now she saw him assume his mantle of police authority. “I’ll go to Blakie first thing in the morning, and we’ll arrange to take Murdo in for questioning—you’ll stay here, well away from the garden.”

She took a breath, ready to counter this command, but took another tack. “Yes, you’re right,” she said softly, taking his arm and placing it around her waist, where it slid down to its natural resting place. “I must go in to work, but don’t worry”—she held a finger up—“I won’t approach Murdo. I will stay away from him. I’ll avoid him completely. I’ll turn and run the other way if I see him.” Christopher’s eyes narrowed. “I will go straight to Alastair instead,” she said, “and I won’t leave until he tells me everything he knows. He owes me that.”