Legacy of the Highlands (8 page)

“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.

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 John’s usual tan had been replaced
by splotchy, ashen skin.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 involved 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.

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.