Cold War - Jerome Preisler [35]
“I apologize for the dust,” said Ms. Cameron, following him into the sitting room. He guessed she was about thirty, though her pudding complexion and heavy eyes could easily belong to someone ten years older. “My brother’s maids—you understand.”
Two couches faced each other in the center of the room, each flanking a pair of elaborately carved mahogany tables. Various pieces of furniture were arrayed around the outer edges. All seemed very old, but none looked the least bit dusty.
“There’s news?” asked Ms. Cameron.
“Ah, no news about your brother, I’m afraid.” Gorrie hadn’t explained the reason for his visit when he called. “I’m here on another matter. To my ken at the moment it is unrelated, though I may revise my opinion. It is a coincidence to be investigated, you understand.”
“I’m afraid I don’t, Chief Inspector.”
“It’s just Inspector, miss,” said Gorrie.
A slight young woman appeared at the door with a tray of tea and store-bought cookies. Her red hair flowed down her shoulders; she wore a white sweater that stopped about an inch above the waistband of a long, blue skirt. She seemed to glide into the room, moving as no servant would ever move in a house.
“Inspector Gorrie,” said Miss Cameron, emphasizing his title. “This is my friend, Melanie Pierce.”
“Hello,” said the woman. Even when she spoke the single word, it was obvious she was a Yank. “Tea?”
“Aye,” said Gorrie.
As Melanie poured the tea, Miss Cameron raised her hand gently to the young woman’s side, and suddenly Gorrie understood.
Well, to each his own, or her own, as the case may be, he thought. Nessa would have had something to say about this, were she still his partner. Certainly the American was a beauty, with a face that would shine for decades before fading to a soft, misty glow. A more poetic mind would compare her to a fairy goddess come down from the hills.
Aye, and Nessa would have snorted at that, for all her talk of artists and paintings.
“I am working on another case, a murder and suicide,” said Gorrie after a sip of the tea. “A sad one. Left a baby.”
He told them about the Mackays, running out the main details and then getting to the meeting Payton had mentioned.
“A drink in the pub?” said Miss Cameron. “My brother?”
“It seemed odd, their gettin’ together,” said Gorrie. “It’s a wee bit out of the way for Mr. Mackay to come up here. They were not chums, were they?”
“Chums, Inspector?”
“I would nae think they were acquaintances,” offered Gorrie.
The dead man’s sister obviously didn’t know her brother well enough to account for all of his friends. The thought occurred to Gorrie that perhaps homosexuality ran in the family, but he dismissed it; there seemed no chance of that on Mackay’s account. The man was hetero to a fault.
“Your brother was never married?” Gorrie asked.
“No. There were some, a few women, but gradually I think Ewie came to decide he liked the single life.” Miss Cameron slipped her hand onto the couch, lacing it over her friend’s.
“Perhaps there’s an address book?” Gorrie prompted. “Or if it was on official business of some sort—”
“We can look in his study,” said Miss Cameron, rising. “My brother was very organized, Inspector, so if it was a formal contact, I’m sure it will be recorded in his appointment book.”
It was not; the book indicated his night was free. Edward Mackay’s name was not in the large Rolodex of contacts on Ewie Cameron’s Victorian-era desk, nor could any reference to him be found in the collection of white pads in the top right-hand drawer where the council member apparently kept notes on current business.
“Maybe this man ran into him in the pub and asked about getting a traffic sign or something,” suggested the American.
“He’s not a constituent,” said Gorrie. “Different district.”
“Maybe for the power plant,” said Miss Cameron.
“Very possible,” said Gorrie. He looked over the white pads. The notes were rather cryptic, perhaps taken in response to phone conversations. The top pad, for example, had something