Free The Blue Hackle by Lillian Stewart Carl Page B

phone displayed a
Missed Call notification. Ah, Rebecca Campbell-Reid, the distaff
half of good friends in Edinburgh, had left a message just about
the time Alasdair was dealing with a distraught Tina. Either he
hadn’t heard the phone ring or he’d ignored it. Good for him. There
were times Jean wondered just who was the slave, the phone or its
owner.
    Rebecca’s voice mail was delivered in a
good-natured American voice whose accent had been moving eastward
ever since she’d married Michael, Scot and proud of it. “We’re
still on for the wedding, bagpipes and all, no worries there. We’ll
be obliged to bring Linda, though. The child minder’s got the flu,
drat and double drat. So much for that child-free interlude. Can
you ask the MacDonalds if they’ve got a cot? If not, we’ll rig
something up. At least the bairn’s not crawling yet. Gotta go,
emergency meeting over a collar that’s turned out to be a
fake.”
    Jean eyed the now mute face of the phone.
She’d have to tell Michael and Rebecca about the death at
Dunasheen, although she could spare them the ramifications until
the official team had sifted through them.
    The Campbell-Reids had been, if not helping
hands, then peripheral nerves at all four of team Cameron and
Fairbairn’s earlier cases. Investigations. Things. As historians
and employees of the National Museum of Scotland and Holyrood
Palace, respectively, their knowledge of and connections to the
art, artifacts, and antiquities business had proved invaluable.
    They’d given Jean and Alasdair a hard time
about Fergie and his Flagon, no matter how much she insisted it had
been old Lord Dunasheen, Fergie’s uncle, who claimed the alabaster
cup was an artifact of the world beneath, or beyond, or even
inside, wherever supernatural beings came from. And now . . . well,
Alasdair was right, she was operating with only a wisp or two of
straw. She’d check with the Campbell-Reids once she had a brick or
two, not to mention a crib for the baby.
    On the gilded chair, Dougie’s ears pricked
forward, then back again. Jean, too, heard a faint crunch of
gravel. She looked through the window to see a figure muffled in a
yellow raincoat walking swiftly away from Lionel Pritchard’s
cottage and down the drive. Shutting the gates, as Diana had
directed, would discourage the reporters. But with the pleasant
village of Kinlochroy providing food, drink, and sanitary
facilities, they would roost for a while, if only to justify being
called away from their Hogmanay celebrations.
    Jean reminded herself just as she had
reminded Diana that she was a journalist, not a reporter. Either
way, she needed to check with base camp. Michael and Rebecca were
valuable references and moral support, but Miranda Capaldi was both
Jean’s partner and her employer in the travel-and-history magazine,
roles that Miranda balanced as gracefully as a fine Royal Doulton
cup in its translucent saucer.
    Jean pressed a number and was momentarily
startled when the call was answered by a male voice: “ Great
Scot .”
    It only seemed like midnight. In real time,
the office was still open and receptionist Gavin was duly minding
reception. “Hi,” Jean said. “It’s me. You mean Miranda’s making you
work all the way to six p.m.?”
    “Oh aye,” the lad returned. “My filing wants
sorting before I’m allowed away on holiday. How are you getting on
at the Misty Isle?”
    “It’s misty,” Jean said. “Downright murky,
even. Put me through to Miranda, please, and she can tell you all
about it.”
    “Righty-ho.”
    A click and a buzz and Miranda’s
smoke-and-honey voice answered. “Miranda Capaldi.”
    “Hi. It’s me,” Jean said again.
    “You’re supposed to be honeymooning,
Jean.”
    “No, I’m supposed to be writing a puff piece
about Fergus MacDonald, advertising executive turned stately
homeowner. The honeymoon doesn’t come until after the wedding.”
    “Tell Alasdair that,” Miranda said with a
laugh, and then her