Allegra Fairweather_ Paranormal Investigator - Janni Nell [56]
The sparkle in her eyes made me wonder whether Dr. Williamson was familiar with the line, All the better to eat you with.
* * *
I went to Beag Glen immediately.
Scarlett Gordon lived in a fisherman’s cottage at the opposite end of town to Jenny Clark. She was still in her pajamas when I called at eleven in the morning, but, despite her disheveled appearance, she was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen.
A mane of tangled auburn hair cascaded past her shoulders. Dazzling green eyes sparkled with something I could only describe as joie de vivre. Her figure was perfect and her age was, as Mrs. Ferguson had said, around thirty.
Assuming because of the pajamas that she was either a shift worker or having a sick day, I said, “I’m sorry to disturb you.” I introduced myself and asked if she’d answer a few questions.
“Why not?” she said happily. “Giorgio and Kate have just had their first kiss so I’m ready for a break. Coffee?”
I didn’t ask who Giorgio and Kate were but I did accept the offer of coffee.
Scarlett led me into a sitting room that had a glorious view of the loch and told me to make myself at home. When she had gone to make the coffee, I checked out the room.
There was a very white lounge and two armchairs littered with pink and orange cushions. They were grouped around a TV and DVD player. I was checking out the DVDs—all popular movies, nothing unusual—when two things happened. My toe began to itch and I noticed a closed door. Naturally I opened it.
Inside was a sparsely furnished study. I moved to the desk, which was littered with a computer, sheets of scribbled-on paper and several empty coffee mugs. I glanced at the scribbled-on paper but the writing was so bad I couldn’t read a thing. I was considering turning on the computer when I heard Scarlett call out.
“How many sugars did you say?”
I hurried back to the sitting room and closed the study door.
“I don’t take sugar,” I called as I wandered over to one of the glass-fronted bookcases. There were several well-thumbed copies of novels by Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, a few Agatha Christies and a lot of romance novels. Looking closer I saw that no fewer than eighteen of them had been written by Scarlett Gordon.
I pulled one from the shelf and opened it. The heroine was a witch. Interesting. I was rapidly scanning the pages when Scarlett returned neatly dressed in jeans and a sweater.
As she handed me a cup of freshly brewed coffee, I asked, “How long have you been writing?”
“As long as I can remember,” she said, “but I only gave up my day job three years ago.” She crossed her long legs and blew seductively on her coffee. After taking a sip she asked, “How can I help you?”
“I’m interested in witchcraft,” I said, making it up as I went along. “I’m doing a comparison between witchcraft in the US and the UK. Wanda Appleseed—have you heard of her? She’s very well known in California—has been assisting me with the US research. I was wondering—”
She interrupted me. “I haven’t heard of Wanda Appleseed, and I’m not interested in assisting with your research. I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re wasting your time with me.”
“One of your heroines is a witch,” I pointed out.
“You’re familiar with my work?”
“Yes,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t ask me any details about her plots.
“If you’re familiar with my work, you would know that I’ve written not one but three books about witches.”
Is there anything worse than being caught out in a lie? I sipped my coffee and wondered how I was going to get out of this with my dignity intact. Deciding that was impossible, I dropped all pretence.
“There’s a rumor you put a spell on the loch when you were a teenager.”
“So that’s what this is about.”
“Is it true?”
Scarlett hesitated. She seemed embarrassed. Finally she said, “Aye, it is true. I was very young and very silly. I knew nothing about witchcraft. I still don’t really—except for the research I’ve done for my books—but that’s theory. I have no experience of practical witchcraft.”
“What kind of a spell did you put on the