Allegra Fairweather_ Paranormal Investigator - Janni Nell [1]
Turning my back on the scenic splendor, I took a brisk walk up Loch Road. The village of Furness boasted a general store, a post office, a greengrocer, a butcher and no less than three pubs. I guessed there wasn’t much to do here but drink, which wasn’t a happy thought considering most paranormal activity is reported by drunks. That’s a statistical fact, by the way.
Hoping Douglas MacGregor wasn’t having a love affair with the bottle, I continued down Loch Road until I came to the address he had given me. My heart sank. Mac’s, Loch Road, Furness, was the address of the largest pub in the village.
Centuries old, its facade had the kind of dark glamour that would not have been out of place in a novel by Charlotte Bronte. I, however, was no Jane Eyre. Feeling more like Wyatt Earp, I pushed open the doors and strode inside.
The tables and chairs were empty but the old wood gleamed a welcome. I could imagine this place full and noisy. Especially when I caught sight of the bar.
Everything from the enameled handles for pulling beer to the wooden shelves lined with bottles and glasses made me feel as though I had taken a step into Scottish history. The bartender was the sole incongruity.
Caught in the act of polishing beer glasses, he looked like the worst kind of Wild West cliché. Or so I thought until he raised his head and turned my way.
In a heartbeat I registered his dark hair, electric blue eyes, and the hint of a fine body beneath his sweater. It was a tasty package. Moving right up to the bar, I held out my hand and introduced myself. He responded in an accent that was as thick as it was sexy.
“Pleased to meet you, Allegra. I’m Douglas McGregor.”
Looking into his sober blue eyes I sensed that alcohol had nothing to do with the paranormal activity he had witnessed. He might serve alcohol but I guessed he didn’t imbibe too much.
Putting down the glass he was polishing, he offered me a drink.
Usually I drink pina coladas, preferably on a warm beach at sunset, but right now I was prepared to drink anything to ward off the chill. “Whiskey,” I told him. “Neat.”
When he started talking different brands, I said, “Any kind, you choose.”
After pouring us each a drink he came around the bar and headed to a corner table. I followed. As he set down our glasses I noticed he was an inch or two shorter than me. That wasn’t unusual. At six foot and one half inch I was taller than a lot of men. But Douglas made up for his lack of height with a perfectly proportioned body.
He must have noticed me checking him out because he ran his eyes equally appraisingly over me from top to toe. Apparently, unlike some men, he wasn’t put off by a tall woman with very short red hair and an athletic body.
I have no qualms about mixing business with pleasure, and this job was beginning to look as though it would have some interesting perks. But, leaving pleasure out of the equation for the moment, I got down to business.
Douglas had been referred to me by one of my clients—I never advertise, operate solely on word-of-mouth. When he emailed me requesting information about an unusual rose growing on the shore of Loch Furness, I was immediately interested. Although he was unable to provide a photograph, I suspected it was the legendary Dedfield Rose, otherwise known as the Flower of Death. Since I’d always wanted to see one in the flesh, so to speak, I cashed in my frequent-flyer points and jumped on the first plane to Scotland. Call it a research trip—that’s how it would appear on my tax return.
Besides, I’d just earned heaps of cash dealing with a Bigfoot who’d made a career out of terrorizing Canadian shoe stores. Most females, even female Bigfoots, like shoes, but it’s impossible to find a pair in their size. With a little help from a shoemaker who had no qualms about copying the latest Jimmy Choos, I sent Bigfoot back into the wilderness with handfuls of shopping bags and a wide grin on