THIRTY-ONE
Compton MacKenna was a real prick.
Michael didn’t share his opinion of Isabel’s great-uncle. The narcissistic son of a bitch old man had said such awful things about her mother. The look on Isabel’s face showed how upset she was.
He put his arm around her, leaned down, and whispered, “I could be wrong...”
“Yes?” she asked.
“I don’t think Compton liked your mother.”
His comment made her laugh.
“Compton wasn’t a very agreeable man, was he?” Gladstone remarked.
“That’s putting it mildly,” Michael said.
Gladstone shook his head. “He certainly disliked your mother.”
“My mother came from a poor family, and that was unforgivable,” Isabel explained.
“Do you still want me to write those two letters for you? You could sign them, and I’ll have them delivered before the night is over.”
Within minutes the letters were composed and printed on Gladstone’s letterhead. The first was addressed to Clive Harcus, giving him ten days to vacate the property, and the second letter was a notice of immediate termination to Graeme Gibson, the groundskeeper. Gladstone signed his name under Isabel’s.
Weary from the long stressful day, Gladstone graciously declined their invitation to dine with them. As soon as the messenger picked up the letters, the solicitor went home.
Tying up odds and ends took another half hour or so. Isabel went to the washroom to freshen up, and then she waited with Michael in the reception room while Sinclair finished giving instructions to the officers he was leaving in charge.
Michael tried once more to reason with Isabel. “I’m still not comfortable taking you into Jolly Jack’s pub. I’ve heard everyone in and around Dunross goes into that pub, including Harcus and his crew. It could get dangerous. You’ve done what you came here to do,” he reminded. “You read the letter, signed the papers, and now it’s time to leave.”
“We’ve been over this,” she said. “With you and Inspector Sinclair watching out for me, I’ll be safe. Besides, don’t you want to hear what Archie Fletcher has to say? I do.”
Michael could think of a hundred reasons why they should get on the next flight back to Boston, but he knew Isabel wasn’t finished.
“Do you know what you’re going to do with the land?” he asked.
She looked defeated when she answered. “I did know. I was going to sell it. Now it looks like I don’t have that choice. I so wanted something good to come from it.”
Sinclair interrupted. “Are you ready to leave?”
They were going in opposite directions after dinner, so Sinclair drove his own car and led the way to the pub.
The entrance to Jolly Jack’s was easy to spot. The door had been painted a bright, iridescent red and was like a beacon shining through the thick mist that had rolled in. They could hear music and laughter as they opened the door and went down the steps into the pub.
Isabel noticed a plaque on the wall stating that the pub opened in 1879. The old stone floors and the tall intricately arched ceiling confirmed the accuracy of the date. The bar took up the length of one long wall. Dark wood carvings on the front of it were works of art, and the varnished top had been rubbed smooth and shiny by the thousands of patrons over the years. Behind all the bottles sitting on glass shelves was a mirror that covered the back wall. No matter where you sat, if you looked in the mirror, you could see who was coming in. Several men were seated on stools drinking pints while they talked to one another, catching up on the day’s news.
Padded booths lined the opposite wall, and scattered around the middle were round tables and chairs. In the back room was an open hearth. Two gentlemen sat in front of the fire playing fiddles, and a couple of patrons tapped their feet to the jaunty tune.
The noise quieted down to a whisper when they entered the pub, but after a few seconds the sound picked up again. Michael spotted an empty booth near the back and led the way. Isabel slid into the booth first and Michael sat next to her. She was protected by the wall on one side and a big hunk of a man on the other. She couldn’t have felt safer.
Sinclair went to the bar to order drinks and came back with three menus. Since the pub’s specialty on Wednesdays was Cullen skink, Isabel decided to give it a try. The waitress brought her a steaming bowl, and after one spoonful, she declared it the most delicious chowder she’d ever tasted.
There wasn’t any heavy conversation while they ate, but as soon as the dishes were taken away, Sinclair checked his watch and said, “If he follows his routine, he should be here anytime now.”
“What if he won’t talk to us?” Isabel asked.
From the look on the inspector’s face she surmised she’d asked a foolish question. She’d seen that same expression on Michael’s face a time or two.