“Detective novels,” Kyle replied.
“What’s the name of your detective?” Yvonne asked.
“DI Kelly Shaw,” he replied.
“That’s very clever,” I said, grinning at Kyle.
“How so?” Yvonne asked, looking confused.
“The name of the detective is made up of the letters of Kyle’s own name,” I said, and felt heat rising in my cheeks. Perhaps I was mistaken, but I was a word-game fanatic, and the letters had instantly rearranged themselves in my mind, forming the name before I’d even realized it.
“Wow, you spotted that pretty fast,” Len said, sitting down across from me with his glass of whiskey. “Bravo. Took Kyle a day or two to come up with that, and you just… BAM!” he said, snapping his fingers.
Kyle laughed. “You must write crime fiction too,” he said, addressing me.
“I don’t.”
“She writes about damsels in distress,” Paul volunteered. “I bet there are lots of steamy love scenes, even in nonfiction.”
“Are there?” Len asked, clearly teasing me.
“Just enough to keep things interesting,” I said, not wishing to discuss my work or become the butt of anyone’s joke.
“So, your detective is a woman?” Paul asked, raising his eyebrows as he turned back to Kyle. “That’s unusual.”
“Why?” Kyle asked. He’d poured himself a glass of red wine and taken a seat on the sofa, across from Anna.
“Isn’t the main character a reflection of ourselves?” Paul asked. “I could never write a female main character competently. She’d wind up being a caricature.”
“Kyle is very comfortable with his feminine side,” Len joked. “In fact, he’s also very comfortable with crime. Family history,” Len said, lowering his voice and tapping the side of his nose.
Kyle looked annoyed but didn’t say anything.
“Oh, do tell,” Yvonne purred.
Kyle set down his glass of wine. “My great-grandfather, James O’Donnell, was involved with the Irish mafia in the United States. He was wanted by the FBI for stealing treasury plates and many other offenses. The list is as long as my arm.”
“Was he ever caught?” Yvonne asked, her earlier aloofness having dissipated.
“Not by the FBI,” Kyle replied. “He was murdered. Shot in the head, execution style, his body dumped in Okefenokee Swamp in Georgia. When his body was found, the name of his contact was discovered in his shoe.”
“Was the contact arrested?” Paul asked.
“No, he got away.”
“So, is your family from Ireland, then?” Anna asked.
“Part of it is. There’s a branch in Boston, Massachusetts, and there are some cousins living in Dublin. My parents moved to London before I was born. My mum is English.”
“How long have you two known each other?” Yvonne asked, passing a sidelong glance from Kyle to Len.
“Ages,” Len said. “We met at uni. Bristol,” he added. “Some of the best years of my life.”
“Len was my bodyguard,” Kyle said, his expression softening as he looked at his friend.
“Really? Why was that?” Yvonne asked.
“Because he was socially inept.” Len guffawed. “I had to take him under my wing and teach him how to talk to people, especially the ladies.”
“I hope you picked up a thing or two,” Paul said, clapping Kyle on the shoulder in a gesture of forced camaraderie.
Kyle winced. He seemed to be about to respond when Brittany marched into the room.
“Dinner is served,” she announced.
“What are we having?” Paul asked as he sprang to his feet. “I’m starving.”
“Salad of mixed greens, followed by rack of lamb with roasted potatoes and mint jelly. Sticky toffee pudding for afters,” Brittany added, finally allowing herself a small smile. She must be partial to sticky toffee pudding, I decided as I followed everyone into the dining room.
There were no place cards, so I sat next to Anna. Len took the chair on my left with Yvonne directly across from him, next to Kyle. Paul sat on the other side of Yvonne. Lisa and Alastair Prentiss set plates of salad before each guest and poured water and wine upon request while everyone helped themselves to warm rolls and butter, passed around by Brittany.
This was the first I’d seen of Alastair. He was stocky, with a neatly trimmed auburn beard and warm brown eyes. A teddy bear of a man, my mum would have said. She liked cuddly men who gave bear hugs. The thought made me melancholy, but I pushed it away. Now wasn’t the time to wallow in grief.
“Alastair, I was wondering about the history of the house,” Len said as Alastair poured him red wine. “Tudor, if I’m not mistaken?”
“You’re not mistaken,” Alastair replied. “The original house was built toward the end of the fourteenth century, during the reign of Henry VII, with additions and improvements made over the next several centuries.”
“Whom did it belong to?” Anna asked.
“It originally belonged to the Ashcombe family, but when there were no male heirs to inherit, the estate went to Viscount Lockwood, who married the daughter of the house. She had been the last Ashcombe.”
“Are you a direct descendant?” Len asked.
“Not me. Lisa,” Alastair corrected him. “She inherited the house when an uncle passed away several years ago. We would never have been able to afford this place otherwise.”
“So, the village was named after the family?” I asked, recalling what the taxi driver had said.
“What village?” Len asked.
“The village that was flooded to create the reservoir,” I said, eager to share my newfound knowledge. “The cab driver said the tower of the church can be seen when the water levels are low.”
“That’s right,” Alastair said. “There’s a path that leads to the water’s edge. There’s an excellent view of the tower from there.”
“Well, you know where I’ll be first thing in the morning,” Len said, grinning. “I love ruin porn,” he added, laughing uproariously.
“Ruin porn?” Anna echoed, staring at him with distaste.
“That’s what they call
