Death of a Chimney Sweep - M. C. Beaton [71]
The music had fallen silent and one of the villagers was reciting a long poem. Ailsa saw Milly standing in the doorway and hurried to meet her.
“Come and join the fun,” she said. “Where’s Tam?”
“Step outside,” said Milly. “I need your advice.”
The next day, Tam awoke with a blinding hangover. He took two Alka-Seltzer, struggled into his clothes, swallowed a glass of whisky, and then made his way to the office.
Kylie the secretary smiled at him. She was a pretty highland beauty with dark hair and creamy skin. Fuelled by that glass of whisky which had topped up his intake from the night before, Tam said, “How’s about you and me stepping out one evening?”
Kylie smiled patiently. “I have a boyfriend, Tam.”
Tam stumped off. The photographer from the night before had watched his approach to Kylie. “How did you get on?” he asked.
Tam shrugged and gave the time immemorial reply of the rejected reporter. “Ach, I think thon one’s a lesbian.”
Ailsa and Milly were at that moment in the police station in Lochdubh facing a bewildered Hamish Macbeth.
“You want me to tell Tam the wedding’s off?” exclaimed Hamish.
“Well, haven’t you heard o’ community policing?” demanded Ailsa. “It’s your duty.”
Hamish stared at them. Then he took out his notebook and wrote down, “Tam, it’s Milly. I don’t want to marry you and I’m going to pack up your stuff and leave it outside the door. We’re not suited. I am very sorry but I don’t want to see you again.”
Hamish handed Milly his mobile phone and the piece of paper. “Phone Tam and tell him that,” he ordered.
“I can’t!” wailed Milly.
“I’ll do it,” said Ailsa.
“Nobody’s going to do anything except Milly. Go on, Milly. Soften it down a bit if you must. Here!” He poured her a large glass of whisky. “Get that down ye.”
“What about me?” demanded Ailsa.
“You’ll get your dram if your friend here stiffens her spine and makes that call.”
Milly gulped down the whisky.
She slowly took the phone from Hamish. “Do you mind leaving me?”
“Leave yourself,” said Hamish callously. “It’s my home. Step outside the door.”
The cat, sensing Milly’s fear, gave a low warning hiss. “You shouldnae have a wild cat,” said Ailsa. “That beast’ll attack someone someday.”
“Mind your own business!” shouted Hamish, and Ailsa stared at the normally mild police sergeant in amazement.
They could hear Milly’s quiet voice as she stood outside the kitchen door, but they could not hear what she was saying.
At last she came in. “It’s finished.”
“How did he take it?” asked Ailsa.
“Very well. He said he was made for a better woman. He said he had been going to break it off anyway. I won’t leave his stuff outside the door. That’s rude. I’ll need to face him.”
“Good for you,” said Hamish. “You’ve got your independence at last.”
“How’s Angela Brodie?” asked Ailsa.
“Just fine,” said Hamish. “She had a taste o’ fame and didn’t like it one bit.”
But Angela at that moment had just arrived in Inverness for the Highland Literary Festival to be held in the Dancing Scotsman Hotel. She felt this was one opportunity she could not let go by because she was to be interviewed by Malvin Clegg, the literary critic of the BBC. She’d had her wispy hair permed, but it had turned out frizzy. Her new dress was bright red which, when she had tried it on, had seemed to drain colour from her face, so she had applied make-up with an inexpert hand.
But wishful thinking and her bedroom mirror, which was in a dark corner, had persuaded her that she looked sophisticated and much younger.
A platform had been set up in a conference room of the hotel along with seating for a hundred people. As the television cameras were going to film the event, all the seats were taken. There was a green room set aside for authors. Angela had hoped to meet Malvin there and get an idea of what questions he was going to ask but was told she would meet him for the first time on the platform.
She walked onto