Chapter 17

17

Several hours later, Kendra stood outside the Laughing Gull with a whirl of conflicting emotions churning inside her. Half of her dreaded the well-meant queries she’d face upon entering the inn. Iain and Janet would want to know how she and Graeme had enjoyed the special, romantic packed lunch they’d prepared. The locals lining the bar would eye her curiously, wondering what else she and Graeme had done while at his ruined ancestral home.

It surely wasn’t a secret that his seals gathered in a cove right beneath the ancient walls of his family’s one-time stronghold. Everyone would put more meaning into the day’s outing.

And they’d be right.

The perceptive ones would see the truth all over her.

She didn’t need to be Scottish to know residents of teeny fishing villages had a knack for such things. That particular trait was international, prevalent wherever small communities were found.

There was another reason she didn’t open the inn door right away.

The red phone box across the road stood empty. Yet she could feel the angry spirit energy simmering in the air around it. Her days in the village would end soon. Maybe within the next twenty-four hours, if Zack called and discovered she was changing her mind about the reasons behind Scotland’s Past’s problems with their Pennard Project.

Now she wasn’t even sure she could help the preservation society.

Or if she should, knowing what she did.

If Graeme’s theory was correct, Gavin Ramsay was the villain in this piece. Not Jock MacAllister and his fellow herring fishermen, though they had seemed determined to speak to her.

They weren’t here now.

But she could feel the phone box ghost hovering near the red call box, glaring as always at the front windows of the Laughing Gull.

She now suspected she knew why. At least she believed she knew the ghost’s identity.

He was Dod Murray, Janet’s late husband.

And maybe she could do something for him.

Helping him would also take her mind off her own problems. So she took a deep breath and looked quickly up and down the road, making sure no one else was about. Then she went through her usual psychic self-defense procedure, this time also asking her spirit guides to help make Dod Murray more receptive to her. If they were willing, of course. And as long as they did so in a way that wouldn’t harm Dod or any other entities lingering nearby.

Hoping she could reach him, she waited until she felt the familiar, tingling warmth of protective white-light energy filling her. Then she silently whispered a few words of thanks before crossing the road to the spot where the phone box ghost always appeared.

He didn’t disappoint. He manifested immediately.

And he wasn’t pleased to see her.

“Fool woman!” He glowered at her from beneath heavy brows. “Too thrawn to see beyond her own nose, she is. Her stubbornness was aye?—”

“You don’t mean me, do you?” Kendra finally understood, wondering why it’d taken her so long to grasp that the ghost wasn’t staring at her, but looking through her. His fierce gaze and his rants were directed at someone inside the Laughing Gull Inn.

She had a good idea who kept him earth-bound.

She decided to voice her concern. “You’re not railing at me, are you?”

“You?” He blinked, seeing her at last. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.” He peered sharply at her, speaking, as so many ghosts did, as if he still lived.

And so he did, in his own realm.

“I’m only here a short while.” The words split Kendra’s heart. “Even so, I thought we might speak before I leave. If it pleases you, that is.” She smiled at him, reaching to touch his work-reddened hand. “You needn’t say another word if I’m bothering you. I’ll leave if you wish?”

“Leave?” He blinked again, looking perplexed. “How is it that you’re here? Speaking to me? No one ever does, no matter how long I stare, trying to get them to notice me.” He sounded sorrowful, grieved. “I doubt they ken I’m about.”

Kendra kept her hand on his, squeezing gently, letting her aura’s warmth boost his energy. “I’m able to see and speak with you and anyone who dwells where you do. It’s a gift, a blessing I’m grateful to have. If there’s anything troubling you, I will help if I can.

“Do you have a message for Janet?” She took a chance, hoping she was right. “Is that why you’re hanging around here, watching the inn?”

“You know me?” His blue eyes rounded in surprise.

“I think so.” Kendra held on to his hand, the sudden jolt in his energy encouraging her. “You’re Dod Murray, aren’t you?”

“That’s myself, sure enough!” His voice rose, lifting as if in pleasure to have heard someone say his name. “Dod Murray, fisherman. That’s me.

“And it’s not just the inn I watch.” He leaned toward her, his gaze flicking to a cottage two doors down from the Laughing Gull. “I keep an eye on thon house, as well.”

He meant Salt Barrel Cottage, the house Kendra knew belonged Archie Dee, the small, weather-faced man who walked about the village with his tiny, tricolored terrier, Charlie. She’d met the duo the first time Dod Murray appeared to her beside his phone box.

“Archie Dee and his wee dog, Charlie, live in the Salt Barrel.” The ghost straightened, frowning again. “Archie’s as big a fool as my Janet. The two of them?—”

“Are you angry at them?” A terrible suspicion rose in Kendra’s mind. “Is Archie interested in your wife? Is that why you’re so upset?”

“Pah!” His brows flew upwards. “Does it rain in Scotland? Aye, to be sure, I’m riled. But not because Archie’s soft on Janet.” He flashed another look at the Salt Barrel, shaking his head when he turned back to her. “Janet’s keen on him, too. She has been for a while. The besotted woman thinks she’ll be disloyal to me if she gives in to her feelings. That’s what’s annoying me.

“I’ve been trying to tell her I don’t like seeing her alone.” He straightened his shoulders, appearing a bit fierce again. “I looked after that woman right good all my days, making sure she never had a care in the world. Now she’s so full of worries, I fear she’ll explode from all the sorrow she keeps bottled inside her. And”—he took a deep breath, clearly wanting to speak now he had a chance—“my old mate Archie is no’ better!”

“He was your friend?” Kendra wasn’t surprised.

“He was, and a better man ne’er walked these parts.” He leaned close, and Kendra caught a whiff of sea and brine in his energy. “We fished, laughed, and sank pints together. He’d make Janet happy again, and many are the times I’ve tried to tell him so.

“But whenever I corner him and that wee dog of his, they walk through me as if I weren’t there. Charlie sees me right enough.” His brows snapped together. “It’s not like he can tell Archie.”

“I’ve met him.” Kendra recalled the little man’s jaunty step and friendly eyes. “I also know Janet. If you wish, I can speak to either of them, letting them know you’d like to see them together.”

“You’d do that?” Dod sounded surprised.

“Of course.” Kendra smiled. “I do such things all the time. It’s my work and something I’d help you with, anyway, because I like making people happy.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Dod’s eyes watered, and he looked again at the Salt Barrel. “Janet would be better off at Archie’s. His cottage is a right fine place, even fitted with a new kitchen she’d love. She mopes around our old house, fussing about memories.”

“Then I’ll let her know your feelings. I can assure her you won’t be upset if she starts a new life with Archie.” Kendra wasn’t sure how to approach Janet, but something would come to her.

It always did, even in the trickiest cases. She needed only some kind of toehold.

“Can you tell me something no one but you would know about Janet?” She hoped the ghost could. Such proof was often the only way to convince people she’d really spoken with their loved ones.

“Humph.” Dod scratched his chin, thinking.

“Anything at all,” Kendra encouraged. “But it must be significant enough to prove beyond doubt that my message comes from you.”

“I don’t know. This is so exciting, my mind’s gone blank.” He angled his head, still mulling. Then his eyes lit and he snapped his fingers. “I’ve got just the thing!” He looked so pleased, Kendra’s heart swelled. “Not a soul knows about this but me.”

“That should do it.” She nodded, happy for him.

“She won’t be pleased I told you.” But he hovered closer, whispering his proof in her ear.

“That’s perfect.” She couldn’t think of anything better. “It will work well, I’m sure.”

Before she could say more, Dod Murray disappeared, his wet, yellow oilskin not leaving a single drop of water on the pavement.

His energy was also gone.

The thick air and ripples of agitation around the red phone box had been wiped away, leaving only the chill salt air blowing in off Pennard Bay.

Kendra doubted Dod would make a further appearance.

As often happened, she felt a twinge of sadness to see him go, though he’d surely visit Pennard now and then. He’d pop by family celebrations or important local events, as most ghosts were wont to do.

She hoped so.

She also had work to do. And she wanted to catch Janet as soon as possible. Dod Murray was a good man, and she used the term with respect. He deserved her swift adherence to the promise she’d made him.

So she looked again up and down Harbour Street, relieved to see she was still alone. Then she crossed the road, leaving the red phone box behind her. Nothing waited there now except a few hungry seabirds hoping someone leaving the Laughing Gull with a takeaway fish supper might have a heart and toss them a few chips.

And if Zack called now—he always trusted her, but did check on her progress every week or so, and such a call was about due—she could truthfully say she was making headway here, helping soothe the village’s disgruntled spirits.

She just wished Jock MacAllister and his friends weren’t connected to Graeme.

But they were.

And that made her dread the work that yet stood before her.

As soon as Kendra stepped inside the inn, she knew something was wrong. No one was in the entry hall, so she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, trying to pick up the source of the unpleasant energy that had hit her like solid wall the instant she’d opened the door. Whoever—or whatever—was responsible, the vibes were faintly familiar.

It was definitely an atmosphere imprint she recognized.

She just couldn’t place it, though she did know it wasn’t Gavin Ramsay.

The Laughing Gull felt clear of his residue.

“Worn out so early in the afternoon, are you?” Janet’s voice came from right beside her. “I’m not surprised.”

Kendra blinked, straightening. “You startled me.”

“And no wonder, dozing against the wall.” The older woman sniffed, once again clutching her broom. Only this time she looked as if she’d like to sweep Kendra out on the pavement rather than attack invisible dirt on the inn’s tidy stone-flagged floor.

Kendra took a breath, wishing her manners didn’t prevent her from brushing past Janet and heading up the stairs to her room.

But the woman had planted herself in front of her, barring the way. And the look she bent on Kendra made her feel like a bug pinned to a wall. Rarely had she felt so scrutinized, and so unfavorably.

Not to mention that Janet’s soured mood made it difficult to talk to her about ghosts, especially the spirit of her late husband.

Even so, she had to try. She met the older woman’s gaze, straightening her shoulders. “You’re right. I am tired. I was just going upstairs. But something crossed my mind, running into you, and I think I should tell you.”

“Is that so?” Janet arched her eyebrows, giving her a suspicious look. “I’ve work to do, so make it fast.”

“It won’t take long; don’t worry,” Kendra spoke softly, silently asking Raziel, Saami, and Ordo to help her find the right words. “I had a dream last night?—”

“Ach, I’ve no time for such drivel.” Janet glanced at the entry’s photo-lined wall, ran her thumb along the edge of a wood-framed picture. “I’ve work to do and?—”

Kendra cleared her throat. “I know you’re busy. Iain told me about your husband, Dod. My dream was about him. In it, he came to me, telling me something he wanted you to know. I normally wouldn’t mention such a thing”—she hesitated, lowering her voice—“but the dream felt so real, I feel compelled to share it with you.”

Janet’s face closed, her expression tightening. “I stopped believing in dreams a long while ago.”

“What can it hurt to hear mine?” Kendra reached to gently touch her arm.

Janet sniffed. “I’ve a kettle of fish stew simmering in the kitchen. And”—she flicked her broom at the baseboard—“sweeping to do.”

“I know…” Kendra suspected Janet worked so hard to keep her mind off everything she’d lost and the happiness she refused to allow herself now.

“The man in my dream told me you were very happy together.” Kendra spoke in a rush, trusting her instinct, as she always did in such situations. “He told me to mention bog cotton.”

There: she’d caught Janet’s attention.

Kendra took three long breaths, readying herself to share the ghost’s message with Janet. Dod had revealed that they’d made love on the cliffs in their youth. Afterward, Janet had picked some of the delicate bog cotton growing where they’d lain. He said she’d sewn the snowy white blooms into a tiny silk pouch. And that since his passing, she’d worn the bog cotton pinned inside her clothes, near to her heart.

The look on Janet’s face said the tale was true.

“What about bog cotton?” She set her broom against the wall and folded her arms. “I’m thinking you better tell me.”

And Kendra did, leaning close so her words wouldn’t carry as she repeated Dod’s account of Janet’s silken pouch and its significance. When she finished, the older woman had gone white. The harshness had also left her face and her eyes were overly bright.

“I can’t imagine why he’d appear to you and not me.” Janet dashed a hand across her cheek.

Kendra didn’t tell her Dod had been trying for years to reach her.

It wasn’t necessary to cause Janet undue pain.

“I’m sensitive to such things at times.” Kendra gave her the best explanation she could, thinking it better to stick with dreams rather than reveal that Dod’s spirit had lingered outside the inn all the time, hoping to reach his wife or her new beau, Archie Dee.

“There is something else he wanted me to tell you.” Kendra hoped Janet would be as receptive to Dod’s wishes about Archie as she’d been to the bog cotton. “It has to do with a friend of yours—Archie Dee, the fisherman who?—”

“I ken who Archie is.” Janet flushed scarlet, snatching her broom again. She gripped the handle, leaning forward. “There be nothing between the two of us. Nary a thing.”

“Dod wishes there was. Kendra said the words she must, reaching again to touch Janet’s arm. “At least, that’s what I dreamed he said.” Glancing around, just to be sure they were still alone, she shared the rest of her encounter with the ghost.

When she finished, she saw that Janet’s doubt had faded.

“I thank you for telling me this.” The older woman looked at her, the gratitude in her eyes squeezing Kendra’s heart. “I suppose I have been wearing this bog cotton long enough,” she said, lifting a hand to her breast, where Kendra guessed the silken pouch was pinned inside Janet’s blouse. “I’ll return the bog cotton to its place inside my cupboard when I get home tonight.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Kendra was, but another unspoken question hung in the air.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “About Archie?—”

“He’s been after taking me into Banff for tea at one of the finer hotels there.” Janet flushed brighter on each word. “Perhaps I’ll say yes next time he asks.”

Kendra smiled, her heart lightening. “I hope you will.”

“Aye, well, I might just might.” The way Janet straightened her back and patted her hair hinted that she would. “By the way, I almost forgot…” She glanced at the open door to the pub restaurant. “Your other friend is in there, waiting on you. He’s been here for hours and isn’t too pleased.”

“My other friend?” Kendra blinked.

“Aye, just.” Janet flicked at her sleeve. “I would’ve told you right away, but…” She let the words trail off, looking embarrassed.

“It’s okay. But there must be some mistake.” Kendra lifted a hand to rub her temple, which was beginning to throb. “I don’t know anyone around here. Only Graeme.” She bit her tongue before blurting that even he couldn’t be counted as her boyfriend. “Whoever is here can’t be looking for me.”

Unless Zack had flown over to surprise her, which was highly unlikely.

Janet just shrugged. “Tell that to the Highland Storyweaver. He might not have said he’s your friend, but what else can he be, sitting in there all this time, his eye on the door?”

Kendra frowned. “I don’t know any Highland Taleteller.”

She didn’t and was sure she didn’t want to, either.

“Highland Storyweaver.” Janet corrected her. “Wee Hughie MacSporran is his real name. Him, that’s the famous author and historian, also running Heritage Tours. Everyone in Scotland’s heard of him.”

“Well, I haven’t.” Kendra could see Janet didn’t believe her.

She also had a sense of the air thickening around her, a sure sign that whoever the Highlander was, he had some kind of a connection to her. And—she glanced toward the noisy public room—whatever it was, there’d be something uncanny about it. She could feel that in the slight dizziness that hit her for a moment and also in how the wind outside was rising, bringing the sound of dried, brittle leaves rattling along the pavement. Only she knew there weren’t any dead leaves lying about in the seaside village.

Glancing longingly at the darkened stair to the guest rooms, Kendra turned instead to the door into the pub restaurant. “I’ll just go see what he wants, then. What does he look like?”

“You’ll know him.” Janet pursed her lips and then bustled away, busily wielding her broom.

Curious, Kendra stepped into the pub, finding it even more crowded than she’d imagined. Locals stood three deep at the bar and every table was occupied. Haze from the hearth’s peat fire hung in the air, as did tantalizing food smells. And although everyone had been talking, all conversation stopped as she moved into the room, searching for the Highland Storyweaver.

As she’d expected, she’d become an object of speculation.

Heads turned and gazes followed her progress through the tightly spaced tables. She also knew just where she was heading, because Janet had been right. She did spot her visitor right away. At least she thought so, because he was the only guest with stack of books on his table. He also looked more authorly than anyone else.

Unusually tall, the large, red-cheeked man wore loose black trousers and a white shirt, long sleeves rolled back. Even sitting, she could tell he had a paunch, and his thinning red hair gleamed in the light of a nearby sconce made from a fisherman’s lantern.

He looked familiar.

And she remembered where she’d seen him as she approached his table. He was the man who’d parked his multi-passenger minivan on Harbour Street a few nights ago. She’d watched as he stood near the marina’s slipway, looking about the village so proprietarily.

She’d seen the word heritage on his minivan.

And she’d also noted the strange luminosity that had shimmered around the vehicle.

“Kendra?” He stood, offering his hand when she reached the table. “I’m Wee Hughie MacSporran, author and historian.” He smiled when she put her hand in his, his grip firm. “As I’m six-foot-four, my friends thought the byname clever when I was younger. The name stuck.”

“Should I know you?” Kendra took the seat he’d saved for her. “I was told I must.”

“I would’ve thought so.” He glanced at the door, his smile fading a bit when his gaze fell on Janet, who hovered there, scrubbing the doorjamb with a cloth. It was clear she was watching their table.

Turning back to Kendra, he patted the books on the table. They were his, unmistakably so, with his name and picture gracing the covers. The top book bore the title, More Hearthside Tales: A Highlander’s Look at Clan Legend and Lore. He lifted the book, showing it to her.

“I’m doing a bit of a book tour,” he said, his tone going a bit lofty. “This one”—he wriggled the book at her—“is my latest. It’s selling quite well.”

“I saw you the other night.” Kendra ignored his boast, simply nodding as he returned the book to the stack. “You parked across from the inn and got out in the rain, looking up and down the road.”

She wasn’t surprised when his brows lifted. She smiled, not too warmly. “I’m observant.”

“So you are.” He signaled to a server, lifting his ale glass and indicating the lad should bring two more pints to the table. “You’ll join me for a pint?”

“I’d rather know why you’re here, but yes. Thank you.”

“I was told you’d be expecting me.” He glanced at his watch. “We were to have lunch, hours ago.”

Kendra frowned. “That’s news to me. Why we were supposed to meet?” Her nape was beginning to prickle as a sneaking suspicion made her reach for her oversized shoulder bag and scrounge in its depths for her cell phone. “Who said that we were?”

Before he could answer, a man and a woman who’d been staring at them from a nearby table stood and headed their way. The woman was older, stout, and wore a determined look. Her companion trailed uncomfortably in her wake, his embarrassed, long-suffering expression marking him as her husband.

“Excuse me,” the woman beamed when the pair reached their table. “We couldn’t help but overhear that you’re the Highland Storyweaver.”

“I am.” Wee Hughie nodded almost regally. He glanced at the camera in the woman’s hand. “You’re here on holiday?”

“We are, up from Berwick for a week’s stay.” She didn’t even look at Kendra, her gaze fixed on Wee Hughie. “We’re huge fans of your work. We have every one of your titles and would’ve brought them along for you to sign if we’d known you’d be stopping here today.”

She nudged her husband, who dutifully nodded. “We were wondering you’d sign one of these for us? We’ll pay for it at the till.” She picked up More Hearthside Tales: A Highlander’s Look at Clan Legend and Lore and handed Wee Hughie the book and a pen she quickly snatched from her husband. “You can sign it to Margaret and John.”

“I’d be happy to.” Wee Hughie autographed the book with a flourish. “Did you want a picture with me?” He stood, glancing at Kendra. “My friend can take it for you.”

“That would be grand,” the woman gushed, thrusting her camera at Kendra.

Her husband said nothing, looking even more stricken as his wife hooked her arm through Wee Hughie’s and drew him between them for the photograph. Getting to her feet, Kendra obliged, even snapping two pictures as the woman wanted a second in case her eyes were closed in the first.

When the pair left, Wee Hughie turned an apologetic look on her. “Sorry about that.” He sounded more proud than regretful. “The books are all bestsellers, and such things happen wherever I go. But”—he shrugged—“it’s all good for business. I also own and run Heritage Tours, taking visitors on specialized tours throughout Scotland. Many of them launch from the popular Ravenscraig Castle down near Oban.

“And”—he sat back, looking pleased—“most of the tour-goers are fans of my books.”

“You must be a busy man.” Kendra couldn’t stand braggarts.

“Busier than you know.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I also work on the side for Scotland’s Past.” His words confirmed Kendra’s suspicions. “It was your friend, Zack, who arranged our meeting today. He said he’d ring you.”

“Oh.” Kendra’s heart sank. Grabbing her bag again, she fished for her cell phone, this time finding it. As she’d guessed, the battery was dead. “I didn’t receive his call. I’m not too good with techy things and”—she dropped the phone back into her bag—“it looks like I forgot to recharge my phone.”

“No matter. You’re here now.” Wee Hughie sat back and took a sip of his ale. “Though I’m no longer sure this is a good place for us to speak.” He glanced at the table where Margaret and John were still eyeing them, the woman all smiles and fanlike devotion. “If you don’t mind leaving with me, I know just the place we can speak in privacy.”

“Of course.” If Zack was involved, she had little choice.

She just hoped the Highland Storyweaver hadn’t been sent to inform her she’d been fired. And a short while later, as they left the Laughing Gull together, the stares of Janet, Iain, and everyone else in the pub following them, she also hoped word of her assignation with the lofty Highland author and historian didn’t reach Graeme’s ears.

Too bad she knew it would.

“We’ll stop here for a walk along the shore.” Wee Hughie drew his Heritage Tours minivan to a halt right across the road from the Keel. “There’s a small cave in the cliff here where we’ll be sheltered from the wind. And”—he was already opening the vehicle’s door—“any curious glances.”

“That’s great.” It was horrible.

Kendra wanted to disappear. It’d taken all of two minutes for the drive from the Laughing Gull to here, and in that short span of time, her world had tilted out of whack and was threatening to implode.

She just hoped Graeme wasn’t home.

He’d said he’d be dealing with Ramsay, and the cottage did look empty.

It certainly was quiet. No lights shone in the windows although the day had turned dark, with a light drizzle falling and mist rolling in from the sea.

Even so, her legs felt rubbery as she slid out of the minivan and followed Wee Hughie the few feet to the sliver of shingled beach across from Graeme’s cottage. They passed a picnic table that stood before the cave’s mouth and then, much to her relief, nipped inside the nichelike opening in the rock face.

“This is better.” Wee Hughie clasped his hands behind him, gazing out at the breakers rolling into Pennard Bay. “We won’t be disturbed here. And”—he glanced at her—“this is more appropriate to Scotland’s Past’s concerns. They’re troubled about goings-on at sea.”

“Just how well do you know Zack?” Kendra wasn’t ready to speak openly.

Not until she knew what the author wanted.

“I don’t know him personally, only by phone and reputation.” He turned to her, pulling a small notebook from his pocket. He wet his thumb and then flipped through the pages, finally glancing back up at her. “My work for Scotland’s Past is similar to yours, although I don’t see and speak to spirits. They employ me for my knowledge of Scottish folklore and myth. As you’ll know, that includes a great deal of otherworldliness, including ghosts.”

“I see.” Kendra felt her face coloring.

“Like you, I’m sworn to secrecy and discretion. Anything we speak of will remain between us and Scotland’s Past. And”—he glanced at his notebook again—“your employer, Zack, at Ghostcatchers International.”

“Just what are we speaking about?” Kendra still didn’t like this. “You said Scotland’s Past is having trouble at sea?”

“That’s right.” Wee Hughie closed the little notebook and tucked it back into his pocket. “For days they’ve been trying to bring heavy equipment into Pennard using barges, because access isn’t possible by Cliff Road.” He stepped closer to the cave’s entrance and glanced toward the snaking track that wound down the bluff. “Unfortunately, none of the barges have reached the village.

“They’ve either had to turn back because of sudden and inexplicable mechanical difficulties, or”—he took a breath—“some crews have refused to enter the bay, claiming it’s guarded by a ghostly fleet of herring boats.”

“That’s why you’re here?” Kendra figured as much.

Wee Hughie nodded. “Scotland’s Past would like to know if you’ve made contact with the spirits of the fishermen. I know from my research that tales of such fleets have circulated here for the past two hundred years, if not longer. The herring men might not look kindly on Project Pennard.”

“And you do?” Kendra spoke before she could catch herself.

“I’m for anything that promotes Scottish culture. The refurbishment would preserve the village for prosperity.” He didn’t bat an eye. “Heritage and tradition wouldn’t be wiped out, but safeguarded against dilution from incomers. The monies brought in by the influx in tourism would benefit the entire region.”

“Perhaps the locals see it differently?”

“There aren’t that many of them left. You wouldn’t notice as an American, but nearly half of Pennard’s residents are from elsewhere. Quite a few are retirees from Scotland’s Central Belt and Lowlands, while others are English, having settled here to escape cities like London and Manchester.” He flicked at his sleeve, not sounding at all sympathetic. “They would’ve snapped up the homes of impoverished fisher families when the herring industry began to flag.

“The Pennard Project would pay them well enough for their homes. And”—he looked at her—“the village would be restored to its former glory, the present residents happy in new homes on Skye or wherever else they choose to go.”

“I don’t think they want to go anywhere, wherever they originally came from. They’re here now and they view Pennard as their own.” She would, too, if she were lucky enough to live here.

“The people here are unhappy about the project.” Her arguments might torpedo her career, but her tongue seemed to have taken on a life of its own. “I’m not surprised the resident discarnates are equally upset.”

Wee Hughie pounced. “So you have spoken with them?”

“A few, yes.” She hedged, not wanting to say too much.

“Have they been disrupting the barge traffic?” He pulled out his notebook again, once more flipping the pages. “Only two sightings of the ghost fleet have been confirmed, but not everyone will admit to having seen such a thing, even in Scotland.”

“I’m sure.” Kendra knew that well. “But, honestly, none of the ghosts I’ve communicated with have mentioned the barges. I do know they’re concerned and worried about what’s happening here.”

“Scotland’s Past won’t back away from the project.” Wee Hughie looked out at the sea, his expression unreadable. Dusk was starting to fall and his face was in shadow. “They might reduce their offers for the village. Your boss, Zack, is hoping you’ll be able to turn things around here.”

“I usually can.” But Pennard was different. “The situation here is unique. I’m not sure there’s much I can do. Zack knows our work isn’t infallible. Sometimes the outcome isn’t what we’d originally hoped. Things turn up that alter our expectations.”

The author’s brow furrowed. “That’s happened here?”

Imagining Zack watching her from over Wee Hughie’s shoulder, Kendra filled him in on everything that had gone down since her arrival in the village, leaving out only the personal bits and any mention of Graeme’s tales about his family’s sacred relic.

“So you see”—she met his gaze—“there’s good reason to suspect Gavin Ramsay is behind much of the trouble here. Not interfering spirits.”

Wee Hughie’s frown deepened. “Scotland’s Past won’t be pleased to hear this. Gavin Ramsay’s name is known to me. It would be to anyone knowledgeable about ancient myth and legend. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s trying to orchestrate a situation that would land the entire village in his clutches.” He shuddered visibly, ran a hand over his thinning hair. “The man’s dangerous. He’s rumored to practice dark magic and has had numerous run-ins with the law.

“His interest in Pennard will go deeper than carving the village into one-foot-square lots to sell to gullible Scotland-loving tourists.” He took a pen from his pocket, jotted something in his notebook. “He’ll be wanting the field cleared so he can search for a relic said to be hidden away somewhere in the village or up at Castle Grath, a ruined stronghold on a bluff not far from here.”

“A relic?” Kendra hoped her surprise didn’t sound feigned.

Wee Hughie nodded, consulting his notes. “The Shadow Wand, aye. I doubt it ever really existed, at least not with the powers attributed to it. But a man like Ramsay who believes in such things would sell his soul to get his hands on something so magical.”

“What was it, then?” Kendra wanted to see if his explanation matched Graeme’s.

Wee Hughie cleared his throat. “Ramsay claims to be the direct descendant of a dark druid named Morcant. The Shadow Wand was Morcant’s most dreaded weapon. It was described in ancient parchments and early medieval texts as a highly polished relic of jet and amber, its spiraled length banded by narrow rings of clear, shining crystal. The name Shadow Wand comes from its ability to call out a man’s soul if the wand is thrust into the victim’s shadow.”

“Good gods.” This time Kendra shuddered, even knowing Graeme’s similar version. “That’s terrible.”

“Indeed.” Wee Hughie looked at her and she could see the earnestness in his eyes. “And there’s worse. Once such a soul was taken, the person was hollowed and died. The wand was said to feed off the soul’s energy, thus gaining power for its wielder. In time, Morcant is believed to have fed the wand so many souls that a single victim wasn’t enough to slake the wand’s hunger.

“When that happened”—his words echoed in the darkness of the cave—“we’re told he learned that if he stabbed the wand into the shadow of a tower or stronghold, the souls of everyone within would be consumed by the wand.”

“And the Shadow Wand is around here?” Kendra knew Graeme thought so.

“So many believe.” The author rubbed his temple, as if bothered by a headache. “There are numerous versions of the lore. I wrote a chapter on the wand in More Hearthside Tales, my latest title. One of the most incredible stories is that Clan MacGrath has a branch of immortals that guard the relic. Men who were made guardians of the wand over a millennia ago and who each live seven hundred years and a day until they die, passing on the legacy to their heir.”

Kendra’s blood chilled. “That sounds too outlandish to be true.”

“You see and speak with ghosts.” The author shrugged. “Who is to say what’s possible and what is not?”

“Touché.” Kendra rubbed her arms against the cold. It was full dark now and the tide was coming in, the winds strengthening so the cave no longer offered shelter. “It still doesn’t sound possible.”

She hoped it wasn’t.

But she couldn’t argue with Wee Hughie’s comment.

There were things in the world that couldn’t be seen or explained. “If Scotland’s Past is irritated enough by the delays and barge issues, maybe they will call off the project?” She changed the subject, afraid her face would reveal too much if they kept speaking of the MacGraths and their hidden relic.

Writers were known to be perceptive.

And Wee Hughie was already looking at her suspiciously.

“I doubt it, though they are annoyed.” He rolled his shoulders and then zipped his wind jacket. “We’ll hear soon enough. And”—he glanced at his watch—“I’d best get you back to your inn. I’ve a book signing and talk in Aberdeen tonight and need to be on my way.”

Kendra wasn’t about to argue.

She wanted to get back to the inn as soon as possible, go to her room, and think.

She also wanted to get away from this end of the village. A quick glance at the Keel as Wee Hughie opened the passenger’s door of his minivan for her showed that the cottage was still dark and looked empty. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was wearing a blinking red beacon on her forehead, calling attention to herself.

She knew why when the cottage door opened and Jock bolted out, bounding across the road and racing onto the little strand right beside the minivan.

Fortunately, the dog sped past in a blur of black-and-white fur, making for the surf line, where he ran back and forth, barking excitedly at the waves. He ignored the parked minivan, seemingly oblivious.

But Graeme stood on the Keel’s threshold.

Kendra sensed him there, could see him in her peripheral vision. She knew without turning to look at him that he’d seen her.

And—her stomach lurched—she also picked up his shock and perplexity.

Then Wee Hughie slid into the driver’s seat, started the ignition, and turned the minivan. The maneuver gave Graeme an even better view of her as they swept past the Keel’s open doorway.

Kendra wanted to sink to the floorboards.

Now she didn’t just have to worry about delivering Jock MacAlllister’s message. She also had to explain what she was doing with a strange man in the cave across the road from Graeme’s cottage.

Could things get any more complicated?

She didn’t think so.