Free The Ghosts of Tullybrae House by Veronica Bale Page B

over her again.
    “I could definitely get used to living here,” she whispered to the night.
    Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke. Wooden benches with high backs and long tables lined the walls of the lower seating area, which was reduced to half its size to accommodate a live band. It was more crowded than Emmie expected for a remote village pub, and the people who were there looked like they came out specifically for the music. The band was good, an older group of gentlemen playing traditional Scottish tunes. The audience nodded their heads and tapped their feet along with the familiar melodies.
    Two shallow steps, located about halfway into the building, led to a raised seating area at the back with individual tables and chairs. At the far corner, next to a narrow, stained-glass window, were the excavators from the University of Edinburgh.
    “There she is,” Adam called happily. He flung his arms into the air like he was signaling a touchdown.
    The others turned expectantly. Pints of ale in various hues occupied the surface of their table.
    “Hope you don’t mind,” Sophie said, flicking a finger at her pint glass. “We got here a bit early.”
    “Of course, no worries.” Emmie took the empty seat next to Famke at the end of the table. She glanced back over her shoulder to the bartender. He was as thorough a Highlander as one could want, with ruddy, weathered cheeks and a mane of shaggy, graying hair. Catching her eye, the man acknowledged her with a tip of his chin, then sent one of his three waitresses over.
    “You eating, too, love?” inquired the middle-aged woman, pre-emptively handing Emmie a laminated, four-paged menu. She had bleach blonde, spiky hair, a tight, black tee-shirt, and the look of someone who was perpetually tired.
    “Thanks.” Emmie took the proffered menu. “I’ll have a pint of Kilkenny, please.”
    The waitress gave a listless nod and left.
    “Kilkenny,” Dean noted approvingly.
    “I had you down as a cider drinker,” Sophie put in.
    Emmie tilted her head. “Cider’s okay. But I like the strong stuff better.”
    “I’m with you,” Famke agreed. She lifted her pint of stout in salute.
    Ewan snorted. “The only Dutch woman in existence who doesn’t like Dutch beer.”
    “So tell us,” Dean said, leaning forward. “What’s it like working with that Lady Rotherham?”
    “We already had this conversation,” Ewan answered, swallowing the last of his pint. “I’ll have another,” he told the waitress, who had come to deliver Emmie’s Kilkenny.
    “I didn’t hear this story,” Dean protested. “So? Lady Rotherham?”
    Emmie took a sip of the thick, creamy red ale. “She’s… enthusiastic.”
    “Cor,” Adam exclaimed. “She’d barely shook my hand before she was off, scampering about like a dog being let out of the house. Totally dismissed me, she did. I was like, ‘Eh, careful lady. Don’t wanna go pissing me off, or I might just cut your water line while I’m digging in your yard.’”
    Sophie scoffed. “Give over, man. You couldn’t cut through chicken wire with those bony arms of yours.”
    “She’s really not that bad,” Emmie insisted. “Just excitable.”
    “My nephew’s excitable. Wees himself when he gets worked up.”
    Emmie laughed at Adam’s quip despite herself. “I think her plans for the house are different than the late Lord Cranbury’s. She’s eager to get started on it all, now that she’s free to do what she wants with the place.”
    “Cranberry?” Famke asked, confused.
    “Cran- bury . I know, I thought she was saying ‘Cranberry’ when I talked to her on the phone, too.”
    Adam took a long swallow of his Tennent’s. I say ‘Cranberry’ anyway. I want to see if she’s paying attention. She never is.”
    “Just don’t say it to Lamb. He caught it when I first met him. He may look old, but he’s sharp as a tack.”
    “Oh, he’s a sweetheart,” Sophie declared. “I like that man. Makes the best