“The question is where did she go?”
“Yep. Hopefully, the police know.”
Tom paused, but not for long. “You’re going to call Inspector Winters, aren’t you?”
I smiled. I’m sure he heard it in my voice. “I thought I might stop by and see him.”
“I’m not surprised. Let me know what he says.”
“Okay, so,” I paused, but couldn’t think of a way to ask him a question any other way than outright, “did that woman stop by and talk to you at the pub yesterday?”
After he paused too, he said, “Bridget? Aye, briefly. I took a call and she got tired of waiting for me tae hang up.”
“I thought she might be headed your way. I tried to call your mobile, but no answer. I didn’t think of trying the pub phone. She caught me looking around where Mallory’s body had been found, and asked me if there had been a murder. I got on the bus as soon as I could without telling her much of anything. At least the fact that it was a murder is in the news now.”
Mallory’s murder had made the front page of the Scotsman. However, no details were given. The article I’d seen said only that she was murdered and an investigation was under way. The reporter didn’t even mention where her body had been found. It was a sparse story, making me think the police hadn’t shared much of anything yet.
“Aye. She’s a persistent reporter, I’m certain. I’m sorry about … the past circumstances. She knew I didn’t want tae talk tae her either. Delaney, you know you have no need tae worry about me. I’m one hundred percent yours as long as you’ll have me around.”
He’d said this so matter-of-factly that I wondered if he really understood the ramifications of his words.
“Glad to hear it. I’m in too, for as long as you’ll have me around.”
The pause went on a little longer this time.
“I’m terribly sorry about the lass, Mallory, and for her family and friends,” Tom said.
“It’s sad. Mallory’s father’s name is Boris, not Conn—Sophie and Rena told me, but that was mentioned in the Scotsman. I think Gaylord is okay to represent us if we need him.”
“Good tae know. He’s a good friend, and an even better attorney, though I hope we don’t need him.”
The crash of glass and curse words from Rodger came through the phone.
“I’ll talk to you later,” I said before Tom hurriedly ended the call.
It would have been easy to lose myself in a daydream that was all about Scotland and my handsome pub owner, even if it seemed to have turned into more than just a daydream. The edges of my daydreams were less and less fuzzy all the time.
But I had things I wanted to get done and I knew someone else who liked to work early Sunday mornings, and who might be able to answer some of my questions.
* * *
The National Museum of Scotland wouldn’t be open until ten on Sunday and the administrative staff would be a skeleton crew, but my connection would be there early.
I had met Joshua Francois, a young prodigy from Paris, when I’d been roaming the museum one day. He already held a number of degrees, and at the tender age of twenty-three he was working on his PhD as well as in some sort of internship capacity at the museum; he was paid a small sum, and his even smaller office, a onetime supply closet, might not scream status, but he was well respected by everyone at the museum. He and I had hit it off immediately because of that mutual part of us that experienced glee when talking about or even just thinking about the history of things. He knew a little bit about everything.
I called him as I stood in front of the museum’s locked main doors. He answered with, “You’re here, aren’t you? I’ll be right there.”
I didn’t have to wait long.
“Delaney! I’m so glad to see you,” he said as he pushed open the door. He spoke English without a hint of any other accent. When he spoke his native French, he sounded perfectly French. The same was true when he spoke the other languages he’d mastered. “I’ve been missing you.”
“I’ve missed you too,” I said as I went through and he shut the door behind me.
He was tall and lanky with glasses too big for his narrow face, but he wore them well.
“I’m sorry I had to bow out of our last lunch, but you’re here today. What’s going on? Any more murders?” he said with a smile that deflated when he noticed the look on my face. “Really? Oh. Well, come along, let’s talk in my office.”
He led me through the expanse of the main displays and then down two short hallways to his hidden door. He looked around before he reached for the handle—a ring that pulled outward and that was normally flush with the surface. I hadn’t noticed anyone else since coming inside, watching us or not, and I didn’t completely understand why the location of his office was such a secret, but I enjoyed playing along.
Once in the office, I took my normal seat that positioned me so my knees were crammed into one side of his desk. The large computer screen was bright with a spreadsheet; he’d never explained to me why he always had a spreadsheet displayed. The ever-present yellow notebook was also there, facedown again as always, and there was nothing else on the desk.
“Tell me what’s going on,” he said, still with a lowered voice, though it didn’t seem likely anyone could hear us, or was trying to.
“I will. But first, your dissertation?”
A smile lit his face. “Done yesterday. I mean, there’s more to go, I have to defend it and everything, but for all intents and purposes, it is done.”
“Congratulations! The first of many to come, I’m sure.”
“Oh gods and goddesses above, I can’t do that ever
