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

always.
    Easter Monday, the children awoke late to the sun shining through a delicate lace of ice on the inside corners of the windowpanes. They ran down to the kitchen, still in their pajamas, where Patricia and Joanne and Mrs. Munro were having tea and preparing the picnic hamper.
    A distant bell rang and rang, giving every indication of not letting up until answered.
    â€œNow who could it be that uses the front door?” Mrs. Munro wiped her hands on her apron before taking it off. It was two minutes before she came back with Sandy Skinner.
    He edged Mrs. Munro aside, grabbed Patricia, and was kissing her just as her mother came in to ask who the visitor was. Mrs. Ord Mackenzie stared. No one else knew where to look. Except Annie—she too stared. The dogs were more than staring—the two older spaniels were standing, pointing, hackles raised, barking furiously at Sandy. No one could quiet them. The third dog, not much more than a puppy, was cowering in her basket under the kitchen table. Wee Jean crept into the basket, put her arms around the dog, and stayed there, safe.
    The picnic was absolutely awful, Joanne told Rob a few days later.
    Joanne, the children, Mr. and Mrs. Ord Mackenzie, Patricia and Sandy Skinner, and the dogs, had walked through the woods to the boathouse that belonged to the demolished mansion. The jetty, sitting out over a dried-up, reed-strewn lakebed, was a well-loved family picnic spot. The sun came out in fits and starts, and it stayed cold. Joanne and Patricia opened the hamper, laid out a gingham tablecloth, and arranged the plates and cutlery and food and the painted boiled Easter eggs ready for the girls to roll down the banks.
    No one ate much. The farce of a family outing was held together by dint of good manners, and the presence of guests and children. Sandy was included in the former category; to Joanne, the idea of him being family seemed absurd.
    Sandy teased Patricia, making her blush, making pointed remarks about the boathouse. It was where they used to meet, he announced with a wink at Joanne.
    â€œYou told them, have you?” he asked, nodding towards Mr. and Mrs. Ord Mackenzie. He was aggressive when he spoke, his local accent hard to understand.
    â€œTold us what, my dear?” her father asked.
    Patricia took too long to answer. Her mother got in first, almost shouting.
    â€œThat she’s pregnant, married, and moving into the farmhouse,” she pointed a long, bony finger. Wee Jean mistook it for the pointed finger of the witch in
Sleeping Beauty
and burst into tears.
    â€œWith
him
,” Mrs. Ord Mackenzie finished.
    Joanne stared off into the distance, wondering how she could get to the ferry without transport of her own. Buses . . . probably only twice a day at the end of the half-mile driveway, and then maybe none on a public holiday. Maybe I could find Mr. Beauchamp Carlyle, he lives not far away. Or Mr. Munro might takeme to the ferry. Or call McAllister, he’d come over. . . .
    No, she decided, enduring was the only option.
    Mrs. Ord Mackenzie had not finished. “It’s all too ridiculous, Patricia. Look at him.”
    They all did. There was Sandy Skinner, skipper of the fishing boat—now no more than wreckage at the bottom of the canal. He was cocky, defiant, full of himself in his shiny suit and his white socks and his slicked back Brylcremed hair. Star of the front page of the
Gazette
, leaning back on one elbow, smoking and grinning, he was the picture of a man who knew he had come up in the world.
    He lazily blew out a breath of cigarette, completely aware of all the consternation he was causing. In that moment, Joanne caught a glimpse of the animal attraction, the bad-boy film star brooding sexuality of the man. “Not sure about the farmhouse.” Everyone turned and stared at Mr. Ord Mackenzie.
    â€œAllie Munro and the wife and kiddies needn’t be put out of their home. Why don’t you two young things move