2

 

I was trekking home along the widening band of gravel seashore, silently lamenting the depressingly few pieces of sea glass I’d collected during my morning walk. What with plastic bottles and recycling, there were fewer and fewer bits of colored glass washing up on the beach. I suppose I could have seen the famine as the proverbial silver lining; less sea glass meant my jewelry would become rare, which meant I could hike prices. But I didn’t find it encouraging. I liked making jewelry, and Dunmaglass—the exclusive distributor of my authentic sea glass jewelry—was doing very well that summer. I’d even hired Ashleigh to staff the shop while I was busy at the medical clinic.

I swung my arms as I marched, enjoying the way the sun electrified my diamond ring, and shunted sparks of rainbow light onto the wet rocks. It was going to be a warm day. Already the air felt thick enough to slice.

I’d reached the edge of town. Hunter Hall, Hum Harbour’s oldest building, a rambling two-storey structure made of Scottish rock, towered above. The original owner imported the quarried stones direct from the holy land itself. These days, the place was part business and part house. Carrie Hunter-Oui, owner/manager of Hunter Monuments and Toys, lived on the premises with her famous husband, Claude Oui.

Claude—Wee Claude to his fans—was our National Highland Heavyweight Champion. He could toss a caber further than anyone in the world and looked magnificent doing it.

From where I stood, I could see the last of the fishing fleet chugging past the giant rocks that mark Hum Harbour’s entrance, and it reminded me that if I didn’t get a leg on, I’d be late opening the clinic where I was medical receptionist. I’m pretty sure that’s when the screaming started.

Shrill, hair-splitting shrieks, mixed with the unmistakable howls of a basset hound, erupted from Hunter Hall. I vaulted the stone retaining wall, jumped over the compost pile, and raced up the sloping lawn to the house. I’ve never taken Carrie for a screamer, she’s too tall, so I knew whatever was wrong was dead serious.

I shoved open the French door, and almost tripped over the hound in my hurry to reach Carrie.

She was kneeling at the base of the stairs. Elbows turned outward, she leaned heavily on her hands, as she performed CPR on Claude. With each thrust, the gemstone she always wore around her neck flashed as it caught a beam of sunlight, as if blinking a warning. Between chest compressions, she threw back her head and hollered at the top of her lungs. Caber, the hound, howled in unison.

I could tell in an instant Carrie’s technique wouldn’t save her husband. Sadly, nothing would. The dark staining of his skin told me he’d been gone for a while. I grabbed the phone and dialed 911.