A Double Death on the Black Isle by A. D. Scott

dolls.
    â€œNo,” she assured them, patting her tummy, “I won’t be needing them. This is a boy.”
    Joanne walked through the house into the kitchen.
    â€œCan I help with anything, Mrs. Munro?”
    Mrs. Munro gave a start. She was so completely engrossed in the newspaper, she didn’t have time to hide it.
    â€œIs that the
Gazette
? I was so rushed on Thursday morning I didn’t pick up a copy. May I see?”
    Joanne took the paper, stared at the front page and understood only too well why Mrs. Munro looked nervous. The picture of Sandy Skinner, although in profile, was clear and distinct. In the background, the image of his boat, flames shooting skyward, looked spectacular. But the visceral pleasure in seeing her first assignment as a journalist, there, on the front page, overwhelmed her.
    â€œThis looks great!” Joanne exclaimed. “I wrote this, you know. It’s my first real story.” She looked at Mrs. Munro. Mrs. Munro was looking over Joanne’s shoulder.
    â€œLet me have a look.” Patricia was by her side in a flash. “You clever thing. You, a journalist, who’d have thought it? Goodness, is that my Sandy? It is. Goodness! What’s this?” Patricia skimmed the story. “Joanne! Why didn’t you tell me?”
    Why didn’t Sandy tell you, more’s the point?
But Joanne didn’t say that. Instead, she muttered, “I’ll explain all I know—which is only what is in here,” she tapped the newspaper and thought,
why couldn’t I get to read this on my own and enjoy my wee moment of glory?

    Sunday morning was taken up with church. Joanne and the girls joined the Ord Mackenzie family, neighbors, and tenants in the Easter service. Afterwards, the congregation milled around on the church steps, on the path through the graveyard, murmuring greetings, shaking hands, catching up with the news, the gossip, women examining one another’s new Easter bonnets, men predicting the weather.
    Another walk after lunch, this time along the ridge of the Black Isle, with views across the firths on both sides and the looming Ben Wyvis shadowing their every step.
    â€œWhen is the baby due?” Joanne asked.
    â€œSix months from now.” Patricia smiled. “I want you to be godmother to my son.” They began the descent down past the overgrown garden of an estate, the grand house in ruins.
    â€œTomorrow Sandy will be at the Easter picnic. Perhaps you can stop him and Mummy coming to blows? You can borrow my old hockey stick,” Patricia teased.
    Joanne could take no more evasions and bright, false smiles. “Is that why you invited me? So you could confront your parents with me there, thinking there would be less of a scene?”
    â€œJoanne.”
    There was that too-wide smile again. That patronizing way Patricia had of saying “Joaaanne.”
    â€œDon’t be silly. You’re my best friend. I wanted you at my wedding. I thought you could help me be brave. You must have gone through a similar scene with your parents.” She turned to Joanne, shaking her head at her lack of understanding. “If anyone has a right to be cross, it’s me. You really should have told me about that article in the
Gazette
.”
    â€œWhat did Sandy say?”
    â€œI haven’t had a chance to talk to him.” Patricia went slightlyahead as the path narrowed. The downward path was as taxing as the climb. “A fine honeymoon this is. No husband and my parents, at least my mother, outraged. Next week Sandy and I will be in the farmhouse and out of my mother’s way, but Joanne, please, help me through the rest of the weekend.”
    â€œOf course I’ll help.” Joanne felt a pang of guilt that she doubted her friend. “I’d love to be godmother to the baby. But you should have told me, not just dropped me in it.”
    â€œI could say the same.”
    Patricia had the last word, as