Chapter 11
“...He stared at the slip of paper which he had just drawn from its envelope. Then he took the envelope itself, held it up to the light, and very carefully studied both the exterior and the flap.”
-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Valley of Fear
Tuesday morning
I slept, but it wasn’t exactly the sleep of the pure of heart. I woke abruptly from a turgid dream about Scotty Stuart, my former lover who’d been caught in the web of international crime and who’d vanished into the black hole of the Federal Witness Protection Program. Of course in my dream, he wasn’t in Witness Protection. He was right here in my bed, doing things to me that might be considered illegal, immoral and downright dirty. The dream had been so vivid, and I was so aroused that I looked around to see if maybe Scotty was really there. The phone rang, jarring me totally awake.
“Hi, lovely. I was hoping I’d catch you.” It was Mitch Sinclair, calling from Paris.
Luckily Mitch had no inkling of the implications of his greeting. He’d caught me all right - caught me dreaming about another man. I felt disloyal to him, despite the fact that I’m crazy about him. I guess somewhere deep in my gut a fire still burns for Scotty, like the fire that still burns through the veins of the old coal mines under the streets of Centralia, Pennsylvania. For over 45 years they’ve been trying to put it out, but they can’t. It probably will never go out.
I took a deep breath.
“You there, DD? Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine, Mitch,” I answered, desperately trying to shake the image of me as traitor. “Things would be a lot better if you were here with me. I miss you like the devil. What time is it anyhow?”
“It’s 12:45 PM Paris time and I’m going to lunch. I thought I might catch you, even though it’s early there.”
“I’m glad you called. It’s 5:45, and I just woke up. I have to relieve Woodley at 6 am. How’s the job going?”
“We’re making progress, but it’s complicated - which means everything’s taking longer and costing more. I’m hoping to wrap it up and get back before next weekend. Can you wait that long?”
“What’s my alternative?”
“Phone sex?”
“I’m game if you are. Tell me what you’re wearing right now.”
“That’s what I’m supposed to ask you, DD.”
“Ha. Asked you first.”
“Are you still in bed?”
I didn’t want to tell him I’d slept on the sofa. “And if I am?”
“Then I already know what you’re wearing, DD. You don’t have to tell me.”
“Mitch, you could be here pressing the flesh you realize.”
“There’s nothing I’d like better than to slip under the covers and take your... wait, I’m getting beeped.”
“Mitch...”
“DD, I have to go. It’s an emergency. I’ll try to catch you tomorrow. I’ll be thinking of you - you know it.”
The line went dead. I hung up thinking this might be the closest I ever get to Paris. I knew that I’d never find another man as perfect for me as Mitch. We clicked. And Scotty was lost to me for all time. Once people get into the Witness Protection Program, they don’t get out. I thought I’d accepted that, but my subconscious was still working on it.
I petted Cavalier and jumped into the shower, realizing Mitch had disconnected before I had a chance to tell him about Tom and the news of the Conan Doyle notes and manuscript. I dressed hurriedly, fed Cav, and grabbed a granola bar and a bottle of water from the fridge. Lastly I checked my messages. There was only one. It was from Mother. She’s been a brick ever since I’d fled the backstabbing academic life at the university English Department after my fiancé died a few years back. She’d helped me regain my equilibrium. Now that I’m in freelance insurance investigations, she complains I’m climbing down the social ladder. But like all the Scottish Buchanans in my family tree, I like to be in control and set my own agenda. This work suits me right now, and even though the income doesn’t allow me to dine at the Ritz, I enjoy the challenges.
She was rambling on, and I was tempted to cut it off, but I sensed something was up. I took a deep breath and waited for the bomb. Sure enough, I heard her say loud and clear, “I was wondering how to tell you that your Aunt Elizabeth called yesterday.”
My Auntie Elizabeth, the Scottish Dragon, resides in Edinburgh. Her visits across the pond tend to be whirlwinds of unpredictability. I felt like screaming!
“She and George arrive tomorrow,” her message continued, “and they plan to spend Tartan Day with us. You know she’ll want you to participate.”
Auntie Elizabeth in town was exactly what I didn’t need in the midst of a stake out. She lives for only two things. One is Scotland and all things Scots. The other is the complete domination of everything in her path. She’s awfully good at both, and I knew she’d be in high dudgeon on Tartan Day. Every year in April clan tartans are displayed in a ceremony called the Kirkin’ o’ the Tartans. It marks the signing of the Declaration of Arbroath on April 6th, 1320, which, for Auntie Elizabeth, is just south of yesterday. The ritual began after the Battle of Culloden in 1746 when the Act of Proscription forbade wearing or display of tartans in an attempt to disband the highland clans. But Scots decided to bring swatches of Tartans to Kirk and at a predetermined time would touch them and pledge their loyalty to God and Scotland. Tartan Day means a lot to her, and I knew she’d expect me to play a part. One good note is her new husband, George Murray. He’s a gem, and I’ve actually seen him successfully check some of Auntie’s more flagrant excesses.
I made a mental note to call her back, said good-by to Cavalier, and rushed out the doorway like a female Dagwood Bumpsted.
It was then I spotted the little white envelope on the floor.
I scooped it up. It looked exactly like the other notes that had been slipped under my door. Despite checking last night, I hadn’t really expected another one. My stomach did a big flip. Inside was a white card with neat block printing.
My neck tingled and my heart pounded as I read:
