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

into the east wing? Plenty of room there.”
    The star of Joanne’s first feature article burst out laughing.
    â€œGreat idea! Don’t you think, mother-in-law?” He put an arm around Patricia, staking claim. “Who’d have thought it? Me in the laird’s big house wi’ the laird’s daughter. Grand that, eh Pat?”
    Joanne saw Patricia flinch, but whether it was from being called Pat or from the thought of still living in the realm of her mother or from a glimpse into a future with Sandy Skinner, Joanne couldn’t decide.
    All she could think was—
thank goodness Mr. and Mrs. Ord Mackenzie read the
Ross-shire Journal
and not the
Highland Gazette.
I couldn’t take any more scenes.

F IVE

    E aster or not, Don McLeod didn’t believe in holidays; he was away to the west coast to follow up on the story of Alexander Skinner and the fishing boast. He could have done this by phone, but he fancied the trip and the company of an old friend.
    A copy of the new
Gazette
lay on the passenger seat. He would glance at it from time to time and grin. Not that he would ever let anyone know, but he thought it was “grand”—his word, the Highland word of highest praise.
    The road through the Great Glen Don knew “like the back of ma hand.” But familiarity did not lead to any degree of contempt. Every twist, every turn, every view over loch and hill and distant mountain, he relished. The easy run out of town; the first glimpse of Loch Ness; the haunting remains of Castle Urquhart, halfway down the chain of lochs; the former army fort built to house soldiers, there to quell the Highland clans; Ben Nevis snow deep on its slopes and folds and crevices, were familiar sights, yet still sights that made his heart glad.
    When he arrived in the town on the sea loch at the end of the glen, Don made straight for his friend Graham Nicolson’s shop. The building was long and low and whitewashed and consisted of a general grocery; a newsagent; an attached cottage; and a shed out the back for the hardware, timber, animal feedstuff, and coal.
    The
Highland Gazette
covered a huge geographical area and stringers like Graham Nicolson were invaluable. He was proud to be an occasional correspondent for the newspaper. Hisappearance helped—friendly eyes, ginger beard and hair that always needed cutting, he looked like a shaggy highland cow, minus the horns—and people talked to him.
    â€œI have to congratulate you,” he said to Don as they shook hands. “The new
Gazette
is a fine job.” They spoke in Gaelic, being men from the Isles. “We sold out by ten in the morning.”
    â€œNo, it’s us has to thank you,” Don replied. “Your stories from the west coast are much appreciated. Sorry we don’t pay much.”
    â€œI’m paid enough for the occasional dram. Not too early for you?”
    They grinned at each other, the question only a matter of form—it was never too early for a dram.
    They settled in round the kitchen table to talk. On the second dram, they got on to the mystery of the firebombed fishing boat. Graham Nicolson’s information was interesting, but made little sense.
    â€œSo,” he started, “this Alexander Skinner, Sandy he’s called, all I know for sure is he is not well liked. And everyone I spoke to is curious as to why he’s selling his catch here instead of on the Black Isle. When you consider the cost of sailing down the Great Glen, through all the canal locks, it must add a fair bit to his fuel bill, not to mention an extra day’s wages to the crew. I heard he owes the two lads money; I haven’t been able to track them down yet, but I will.”
    â€œI’ve no doubt about that,” Don laughed.
    After they had finished the stories and the reminiscing and the bottle, Don realized it was fortuitous he had been invited to stay for the night. He wouldn’t have far to stagger to