The Witch's Stone (12 page)

“I get on with Alex.”

“But not your parents. Especially not your father.”

“You’ve met him, I would think that explained everything.”

“You pried into
my
life.”

He chuckled. For some reason, her questions eroded some of his irritation. “Hardly. I know ye’re divorced, which you let slip all on yer own, and neither you nor your ex was unfaithful. No’ exactly a wealth of information.”

She scooped up the journals from the floor, holding the books against her chest like a child with a favorite Christmas present. “We should go.”

He nodded and started to follow her to the stairs, but she stopped and turned. Her eyes, dark like a summer lake, bored into him. “We’re not that different, you and me.”

“No,” he agreed, meaning it. “We’re not.”

Sunshine streamed through a narrow gap between the heavy drapes. The thin band of light stretched over the flattened rug, up the side of the bed and across Hillary’s eyes. She squinted against the brightness and rolled over, pulling the covers over her head. Her whole body ached from spending most of the previous day crouched on a dirty floor. She willed her sore muscles to relax so she could sleep some more.

Then she remembered the journals.

With renewed energy, she flung back the blankets and sat up. The three thin volumes waited on the corner of the bureau where she’d left them. A combination of excitement and relief filled her. They were her hope. Her career. Her reputation. Through them, she would find some semblance of the woman she’d once been. And they waited for her.

What if there was no mention of Anne Black and the events that had lead to her death? Her parents’ basement and the vast world of internet chat-rooms awaited her. Perhaps she was being melodramatic, but the idea of finding nothing and ending up right back where she’d started left an icy dread in the pit of her belly.

She climbed off the bed and pulled back the faded green drapes.  Outside, the morning sun cast a golden hue over the jungle-like garden and the patch of trees hiding the road. She pushed open the window and the warm rays fell on her face. The air was cool, but without the usual damp chill she’d become accustomed to.

Maybe she’d walk, first. Days like this had been rare since she’d arrived. Some time outside might prove inspiring. Okay, she was procrastinating, avoiding the possibility that the journals would prove useless, but no one needed to know that.

She dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of blue jeans and a fitted sweater. When she left her room, Caid’s door was closed. Likely still asleep. Once in the kitchen, she fixed herself a cup of terrible instant coffee. Thick like sludge, the bitter black liquid tasted worse than it looked, but caffeine addiction cared nothing for texture or flavor.

Caid drank mainly tea and had no real appreciation for the importance of decent coffee--and he called himself a writer.

A coffee maker.

Today she would buy a coffee maker. There, now she was no longer simply shirking work and avoiding potentially bad news. She had a purpose, a goal. And such a purchase was a show of faith. An investment. She had no use for a European coffee maker in Canada, so buying one was a symbol of her confidence in old Roderick Douglas and his journals.

She scribbled a quick note for Caid on the off chance he actually noticed she wasn’t there when he woke, then scooped up her purse and jacket and started for the door. Outside, she slid her arms into the sleeves as she walked.

The air smelled fresh and clean. Birds, perched on the budding branches of the misshapen hedge and tangled bushes, chirped and twittered. She opened the car door and had almost climbed into the seat when she realized she was on the passenger side. After tossing her purse inside, she walked to the other side. At least no one was there to see.

As she drove, she reminded herself to keep to the left. Fortunately, the road wasn’t busy, probably due to the early hour.

Hilly pastures hemmed in by ancient stone fences stretched out on either side of her and again she was taken by the beauty of the country. And the history. How many hundreds of years had these fields been farmed? And how many generations of people had done the work? Who were they? How had they lived? The questions filled her with restless awe. She was merely a tiny speck along a great timeline.

The village was a quaint mix of cobblestone streets and old shop buildings, leaving her feeling like she’d stepped into a Dickens novel. She parked her car in a public lot near the middle of town then started walking along the sidewalk, peering into store windows.

Culcraig was a charming village with a strong tourist trade. The shops sold everything from souvenir plaid ball caps and Scottish flags to expensive silver jewelry with Celtic inspired designs.

But none sold appliances.

As she peered through a store window at a collection of tiny silver figurines set around a display of Scottish history books, the door next to her burst open. She jumped and turned, coming face to face with the woman she’d knocked down in the woods. The memory made her face hot.

“I thought that was you.” Sarah smiled brightly from the doorway. “So, you’ve decided to stay on, have you?”

“Yes, Caid, Agnes’s nephew, is letting me view the journals.”

“Oh, well that’s brilliant, then. Are you coming in?”

Actually, she hadn’t planned to. Judging from the pretty ornaments in the window, she doubted very much she’d find a coffeemaker inside. Still, after sending the woman sprawling in the mud, turning her down seemed rude.

“Yes, of course. Is this your store?”

“My Gran’s, actually.” Sarah let the door close once Hillary was inside. “But since she’s been ill, I’ve taken over for her.”

“I’m sorry. This is lovely.” She meant it. The shop wasn’t large, but deep blue carpet and light pine shelves cluttered with ornaments, books and art gave the small space an eclectic charm.
Enya
played from a small CD player on a shelf behind the counter and the spicy scent of incense tickled her nose.

“Thank you. Have you had much success with the journals?” Sarah asked.

“To be honest, I just found them yesterday.”

Sarah’s fine, red-gold eyebrows lifted. “Had Agnes hidden the books?”

“Yes, and that combined with state of the house…” Hillary shrugged.

“A bit of a mess, was it? Well, Agie was a little off her rocker. Such a shame when the mind goes.”

Hillary opened her mouth to defend Agnes, but stopped. Who was she to contradict Sarah? She’d only spoken to Agnes over the phone off and on for a little over a month. Sarah had known Agnes better than she. And even Hillary had to admit the old woman was a touch…eccentric.

“I’m surprised ye’re out today,” Sarah said, interrupting her thoughts. “And no’ at Glendon House, poring over your treasure.”

Hillary smiled. “My
treasure
?”

“Well, the books must mean a great deal to you if you were willing to stay after that nonsense with Willie Innes.”

Heat crept into Hillary’s cheeks and her stomach dropped. “You heard about that?”

“Aye. Culcraig’s a small village. There are no secrets here.”

“Fabulous.” Finding herself the subject of gossip and speculation once more chilled her. Bad enough her interest in Anne Black and Roderick’s journals were under a microscope, but what if someone learned about Randall?

“I’m glad to see you didnae let Willie and those other fools chase you away. He’s all talk, you know? Empty threats an’ all.”

 Goose bumps studded Hillary’s skin. Was Sarah right? Had everything Willie said that day in the pub merely been the act of a bully showing off in front of his friends?  Or was the man capable of more?  Could he have broken into Glendon House, left the poker on the table as some kind of warning, to chase her off, maybe?

The idea that he had been the one in the house with her, alone and isolated, left her light-headed.

“Are you all right?” Sarah’s voice softened with concern. “You’ve gone so pale.”

Hillary forced a smile and gave a careless wave. “I’m fine. Late night, that’s all. I’m just tired.”

Sarah crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head, her gaze narrowing. “Has he done something?”

“No,” Hillary said quickly. “No, of course not.”

Sarah eyed her shrewdly. “I’m no’ convinced. Have you been to the police?”

Even if Willie had been the person she’d heard inside the house, she had no proof. Hell, she couldn’t prove anyone had even been
in
the house, let alone who that person was. If she went to Bristol and Bristol went to Willie…

What might the man do if she were wrong?

Or if she were right?

Besides, anyone could have broken into Glendon House, and Bristol already didn’t consider her the most credible witness. He’d likely take her less seriously if she went around accusing people randomly and without proof. No, Willie Innes was one sleeping dog she’d do well to let lie.

“There’s nothing to go to the police about,” Hillary said, pleased to hear a little strength return to her voice, then tried for a change of subject. “Maybe you can help me with something. I’m looking to buy a coffeemaker.”

Sarah stared at her for a long moment, then smiled. “Well, you’ll no’ find one at any of the shops along here.”

“But you know where I could find one?”

“Aye, I do.” She wrote directions on a square of notepaper at the counter, then handed them to Hillary.

“Thanks,” Hillary said. “I guess I’m lucky to have run into you.”

Sarah chuckled. “I’d say so. But you must remember, if you need anything, you’ve a friend here.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate that.”

And she did, more than the other woman could ever know.

Caid stood in the open doorway and watched the builder’s truck rattle and shimmy down the long drive before disappearing into the woods. A cool sweat coated his skin as panic’s talons curled tight around his insides. The builder’s long and expensive list of must do’s replayed in his head, while the dim realization that he’d never leave Glendon House set in.

What had he been thinking, taking on this mess? The electrical was dangerous, the plumbing rotted, the roof needed sorted. Mould, rot, decay. The list went on and on.

His own meager earnings wouldn’t be enough to pay for all the repairs, even with the money Hillary was giving him. Not to replace virtually everything in this wreck and still maintain his flat in Edinburgh.

He went back inside, closed the door and leaned against it, his gaze sweeping from one side of the foyer to the other. This dump would eat the better part of his life.

That was it. Decision made. He’d sell the house. List the bloody thing today and take what he could get for it.

And while he waited for someone of questionable sanity to make an offer, he’d continue to do what he could to get the place into some semblance of order. He’d have to give up his flat, but he could live with that. It was just a flat, after all.

So why the crushing weight pressing down on his chest?

He returned to the study, settled behind the desk and turned on his laptop. He should be making the necessary calls to sublet his flat, and find an estate agent to help unload this heap.

He would, after a few more pages.

His fingers flew over the small keyboard and the world around him ebbed away. When the doorbell chimed out of tune, he stopped and glanced at the clock on the credenza. Nearly two o’clock. It must be Hillary back from the village--and locked out.

Annoyed, he drummed his fingers on the desktop. Was it too difficult for her to remember to take a key? Christ’s sakes, she’d been as bothered by their intruder as he had. Surely she would know he’d be keeping the doors locked.

The bell rang again. He cursed, stood and marched down the hall, ready to let loose a day’s worth of frustration, but when he yanked open the door the words died on his lips.

“Mum.”

She regarded him with eyes the same shade as his own, wary and annoyed. “Kincaid.” Her tone was cool, formal.

“What are you doing here?” He didn’t see his father in the drive or at the car. Good. A visit from that man was the last thing he needed. One from his mother was bad enough.

“May I come in?”

“Dad’s no’ with you?”

“No. May I come in?” Impatience edged her voice.

“Aye.” He nodded and stepped aside. She moved past him and strode into the hall. The door closed behind him, blotting out the daylight and leaving them alone in the dim foyer.   

“Is there somewhere we could speak?”

What was she doing here, alone, without his father? “The study’s no’ bad, or the kitchen.”

Without another word, she turned and entered the study. She lowered herself onto the cracked, leather settee and sat stiff.

“What do you want?” he asked again, leaning against the wall and folding his arms over his chest.

“You’ve done a lot of work, I see.”

He didn’t reply, but waited for the inevitable zinger. She didn’t disappoint. “Still, no’ as much I would have expected.”

“I could take you around the rest of the house so you could make your criticisms more specific.”

“That’ll no’ be necessary.” Her cool eyes surveyed him, measured him. Only once had she regarded him with something other than indifference, but instead of the hurt or gratitude he’d expected, there’d been rage. A brilliant fury directed at him--of all people. He hadn’t understood. At fourteen, he’d been quite naive.

“What brings you to my home?”

She sighed. “Yer reaction the day the will was read made me wonder if you might be willing to let Glendon House go.”

His heart accelerated and he struggled to keep his features as bland as hers. “Aye, I would. If the price was right.”

“I’d be willing to pay a reasonable sum, but yer father couldnae know about our arrangement.”

Aye, God forbid the old bastard think he’d had to pay for it. “I’m to tell him it’s a gift, then, out of the goodness of my heart?”