Death of Yesterday by M. C. Beaton

he was dating Hannah, he might protest that it was against
     the rules to date the sister of a suspect. But the very thought of the evening ahead lightened his mood.
      
    He dressed with special care that evening. For once he was glad that neither Priscilla nor Elspeth was in Lochdubh. In the
     past, they had often turned up unexpectedly when he was dining with some woman or other.
    As he was ready to leave, he said to Dick, “Not a word to anyone about my dinner date.”
    “Just so you know it will be all over Lochdubh in about one hour,” said Dick.
    “They won’t know who she is,” said Hamish hopefully.
    “Oh, aye? The drums will be beating, the smoke signals will be going up, and by the time you get to the coffee stage I’m sure
     folks like the Currie sisters will have found out exactly who she is.”
      
    The Italian restaurant was candlelit. “On your own?” asked Willie Lamont, the waiter who was married to the owner’s daughter.
    “No, I’m dining with someone.”
    “Who would that be?”
    “Someone you don’t know.”
    “Is it Sonja?”
    “Who the hell’s she?” asked Hamish, looking at his watch.
    “A new maid up at the hotel. A real fam fatal.”
    “Femme fatale,” corrected Hamish, who was used to Willie’s malapropisms.
    The door opened and Hannah came in. Hamish stood up, feeling his heartbeat quicken.
    Hannah was wearing a gold-coloured sheath of a dress which clung to her figure. Her thick black hair framed her perfect face.
     She was carrying a huge handbag. Willie rushed to pull a chair out for her. In the candlelight, Hamish noticed her eyelashes
     were so thick that they cast shadows on her cheeks.
    “I’d try the spaghetti carbonated,” said Willie eagerly. “I had some for my supper, miss, and it was grand.”
    “Go away,” ordered Hamish. “We’ll call you back when we’re ready to order.”
    “I’ve never had carbonated spaghetti before,” said Hannah.
    “I think our Willie means carbonara. You’d think he’d have learned the menu by now.”
    After some discussion, they agreed to order the same thing: starters of avocado and prawns, followed by osso buco. Hamish
     also ordered a bottle of Valpolicello.
    “Tell me about the case,” said Hannah.
    “I can’t really talk about it,” said Hamish awkwardly.
    “Meaning my poor brother is still a suspect?”
    “Something like that.”
    “Shame on you, Hamish. Poor Geordie wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
    Willie took their order. When he had left, Hamish said, “Have you come across anyone at all that you think might be capable
     of murder?”
    “Not one,” said Hannah. “I think you’re wasting our time in Cnothan. I think you should be checking the London end. It’s all
     over the place that Morag was a lesbian and having an affair with Freda Crichton. What if she had some lover in London who
     learned of the affair and got mad with her and came up here?”
    He shook his head. “Any stranger would stand out a mile in that pub. They may not remember exactly who was there on the night
     she got drugged, but they’d certainly remember a new face—and they would tell me, too, they’d be so anxious to get the heat
     off the locals. There is one case I can talk to you about, and one that still bothers me.”
    Hamish told her about the Palfours. As they ate, she listened intently. As he talked, he felt they were enclosed in a little
     world of candlelight.
    He then asked her about her work in Glasgow. As she talked, he barely listened, almost hypnotised by her beauty.
    Over glasses of strega and coffee, Hamish said, “You shouldn’t be driving. I’ll take you home and we’ll bring your car over
     in the morning.”
    She glanced at him from under those ridiculously long lashes. “I’m sure you can find me a bed for the night at the police
     station.”
    “Of course,” said Hamish, wondering if she could hear his heartbeats from across the table. “I’ll be back in a moment. Just
     going to the men’s