Fiona Hood-Stewart – Savannah Secrets (страница 12)

Staring at the crackling logs, Grant listened to the continuous drone of the phone. “Bloody nuisance,” he muttered as it rang on persistently.

Then, rubbing the sticky jam from his fingers on one of Mrs. Duffy’s carefully ironed linen napkins, he hauled himself out of the armchair. The Australians and his assistant all communicated on his mobile. Whoever was calling the castle could stay on the line until the cows came home.

No one—and that included Rowena Carstairs—was going to make him do anything he didn’t want to do.

What on earth was Joanna doing coming out of Old Miss Mabella’s place looking anything but delighted? he wondered. Following her a few blocks, he watched her hurry down the street and cross into the park. He must definitely arrange another one of their little “get-togethers” and learn more. Why did the woman look ready to murder when he’d supposed she would be crowing? It was well known that the Carstairs family had lived for a while in the expectation of all Rowena would leave them. Had things taken a different turn? He doffed his hat to Miss Biggles, who was taking her pooch for its afternoon stroll. Perhaps he’d drop in on Ross Rollins. If anyone had the scoop, it was usually him.

The thought that the Carstairs estate might hold surprises left him strangely uneasy. Not that there was anything to worry about. After all, as he reminded himself several times a day, Rowena was dead and buried. She could harm no one now.

Or could she?

5

Meredith landed at Glasgow Airport remarkably refreshed, even hopeful, assuring herself that although she didn’t approve of Grant Gallagher, he was, after all, a highly efficient businessman. No doubt he’d come to his senses and realize it was in his best interests to address the questions pertaining to the will and settle matters quickly.

But four hours later, as she drove deep into the Scottish Highlands through torrential rain, Meredith’s enthusiasm had waned considerably. The rental vehicle didn’t have a global positioning system. There was a map in the glove box, but half the roads weren’t even marked. There were no signs indicating Strathcairn, though she supposed she must be somewhere close. And there was no one to ask on this dreary, gray, foggy afternoon except a few motley sheep, huddled near a barbed wire fence, that looked about as happy to be there as she was.

Tired and hungry, Meredith pulled onto the side of the bumpy road and, switching on the overhead light, studied the map. With any luck, Strathcairn should be only a few miles away. Refolding the map, she let out a huff, started the engine and drove back onto the road. At last, she caught sight of the sea, a churning gray mass in the distance. Her hopes soared. Switching on the bright headlights, Meredith peered through the veil of mist, relieved when at last she noticed some cottages up ahead and a dilapidated, weather-beaten sign that read Strathcairn, Sister Town to Mondreux, Belgium.

Crawling at a snail’s pace down the main street, she searched wearily for the Strathcairn Arms. What wouldn’t she do for a hot bath and a hot meal.

Just as she was sure she’d taken a wrong turn, she saw it, a stark white edifice lit up by a blue neon sign. Relieved, Meredith parked, grabbed her luggage and hastened to the front door.

She was met by a dizzying vision of bright red-and-gold carpet and blue velvet sofas dotted around what must be the lobby. Meredith blinked. But despite the garish decor, the place seemed warm and bright, and she could smell something cooking in the distance, a reminder of how hungry she was.

Moving toward the front desk, she put down her bags and pressed her palm on the bell. Hearing sounds from behind a glass door, she looked up hopefully. The door burst open and a large woman with vivid red hair, dressed in fuchsia leggings and a heavy Shetland sweater, appeared.

“Hello,” she said, a smile reaching from ear to ear on her freckled face. “You must be the American lady.”

“That’s right.” Meredith smiled back, thankful that she was expected.

“We’d begun to think you’d got stuck on the moors,” the woman said with a kind laugh and outstretched hand. “I’m Moira MacPhee, the owner. Now, if you’ll just fill in this wee form, I’ll take ye up to yer room. Och, ye must be freezing to death. Drove all the way from Glasgow, did ye? My, my. That’s a long trip, is it not? Now, let me take yer bags for ye, dearie. What ye’ll need is a hot bath and a bit of tea, nae doubt.”

Meredith filled in the short registration card and followed her talkative hostess up the brightly carpeted stairs and down the corridor.

“It’s our best room,” Moira announced proudly. “We had it redecorated last year,” she added, unlocking the door and showing Meredith inside.

“Lovely,” Meredith said weakly, staring at the boldly patterned purple curtains and matching bedcover, the plush orange armchair and Formica closet.

“Yes, well, Jim and I decided to go the whole hog and do it right,” Moira replied complacently. “Now, if you get yersel’ sorted out, dearie, I’ll be getting yer high tea ready for ye.”

“Thank you. Uh, what’s high tea?” she asked, curious.

“Oh, that would be somewhere between tea and supper.”

“Ah. That would be wonderful,” Meredith responded, laying her briefcase down on the table, trying not to blink at the color scheme. As the landlady closed the door, she sank into the orange chair and let out a sigh. At least the central heating worked. It was almost too hot. Well, she reasoned, if all went according to plan, she wouldn’t be here long.

After phoning her parents to tell them she’d arrived safely and a quick word with the kids, Meredith slipped into the bathroom, glad to see that Moira and Jim’s improvements had included functional plumbing. The shower worked fine and she relaxed under the hot-water jet.

She must, Meredith reflected as she dried herself, try to reach her quarry before nightfall. Who knows, with a bit of luck he might even receive her this evening. Not that she held much hope of that, Meredith conceded, brushing her hair back. After all, if the man hadn’t had the courtesy to answer her mail, it was doubtful he’d be willing to see her outside of business hours. Still, it was worth giving him a call before going down to what Moira had described as “high tea.”

She checked her notes for the number, then dialed and waited, listening impatiently to the double-burr ring and drumming her foot on the colorful carpet. After several rings a female voice answered.

“No, I’m afraid Mr. Gallagher isn’t available,” the woman responded to her inquiry.

“Could you leave him a message?” Meredith asked.

“Aye, I could,” the dour voice on the other end replied.

“Tell him that Meredith Hunter called. I’m in Strathcairn. I need to see him as soon as possible.”

Silence followed.

“Did you hear me?”

“Aye, a heard ye. But a doubt it’ll do much good. He’s been in a terrible mood the past few days.”

“Oh. Well, could you try, anyway?” Meredith insisted, hope plummeting as she tried to shake the nasty feeling that her trip might well prove to be a waste of time. Surely he would have to see her now that she’d made the flight from so far away?

With a shrug Meredith donned a warm sweater and made her way downstairs, hungrily following the scent of freshly baked scones that led her directly from the lobby through an adjoining door into the pub. Right now she was ready for anything they were prepared to offer. And as she followed Moira’s waving arm to a table in the corner, the noisy, welcoming atmosphere of the pub made her forget that tomorrow morning she must hunt the lion in his lair.

For now, she’d content herself by indulging in what was certainly the best meal she’d had in a while.

“A lady called, sir.” Mrs. Duffy stood in the doorway wrapped in her heavy blue coat.

“What lady?” Grant dragged his eyes away from the computer screen, annoyed at the interruption. The deal was still in jeopardy. He did not need a disturbance.

“An American lady, sir. A Miss Meredith Hunter. She’s at the Strathcairn Arms,” Mrs. Duffy added, pursing her lips, as though staying at the hotel implied bad news. “And,” she added, “she wants to see you as soon as possible.”

“Damn her,” Grant muttered, swiveling his office chair and facing Mrs. Duffy. She looked almost triumphant standing there in her old head scarf, coat and gum boots, rather like the prophet Jeremiah on a bad day, he reflected gloomily. Mrs. Duffy had little sense of humor and fewer words. He’d noted that her general outlook on life was negative. On the rare days when the sun had dared peek from beyond the heavy expanse of cloud hovering overhead, she’d assured him it would undoubtedly rain later in the day.

“Thanks, Mrs. Duffy, that’s fine. I’ll deal with it.” He smiled with an effort.

“Very well. Good night, sir. I left a pot of Scotch broth on the stove for ye.”

“Thanks. Great. Good night.” Grant nodded automatically, then swiveled back toward the computer screen. What the hell did this American lawyer think she was doing pursuing him when he’d already made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing to do with Rowena Carstairs or her goddamn estate? When he talked to her it would be in his own good time and on his terms. Not at her behest.