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Kris hadn’t had a date in six months, with good reason. The last had been of the blind variety. Lola had set it up with a friend of a friend of a ticket taker at the ballet.
“He’s a nice guy,” Lola had insisted.
Apparently his wife thought so, too.
Lying creep.
Such was the way with dates. They looked good on paper. Even seemed to go all right on the phone. But by the third meeting, if not before, the lies started to tumble out.
Dougal patted Kris on the shoulder, already moving toward his unexpected mother lode. “Don’t look so deer-in-the-headlights. I was just going to suggest you walk through the museum and if you’re still interested in talking, there’s a pub where the locals go. MacLeod’s. The oldest of its kind in the village.”
“How old?”
“Maybe eight hundred years,” Dougal answered. “They say Andrew Moray’s troops drank there. And there are the usual tales of the Bonnie Prince, Robert the Bruce, and William Wallace all lifting a tankard on their way to the next kill fest. But I think, sometimes, those tales are very much like the American claims that ‘George Washington slept here.’ If the man slept everywhere they say he did, he wouldn’t have had any time left to win the war.”
“Where is it?”
“Next street over.” Dougal jerked a thumb past his right ear. “I usually get there around sunset.” He turned and greeted his guests.
Kris ducked into the eatery ahead of the crowd. Nessie Nuggets turned out to be deep-fried chicken strips shaped like a herd of bumpy-backed dinosaurs.
“Chicken McNessies,” Kris commented when they were placed before her.
From the waitress’s expression, she’d heard that one before and hadn’t found it funny then, either. Kris had done her share of waiting tables in college and understood the sentiment. Everyone was a comedian. Or at least thought they were.
The Nessies came with chips and veggies, she assumed the latter to help clean out the arteries being clogged by the deep-fried former.
She ate everything, washing it down with what had been billed on the menu as “Scotland’s other national drink” or Irn-Bru—which tasted like a combination of orange pop and 7UP.
Kris exited the restaurant ahead of a large group of Belgian tourists, then paid the nominal fee for the museum to a young, dimple-cheeked woman who did have a brogue and slipped inside.
If the museum were comprised of a few out-of-focus photos of fish fins and some inflatable purple plesiosaurs, Kris wouldn’t feel bad about skipping the rendezvous at MacLeod’s, although from the description of the place she would need to stop there at some point. An ancient, authentic Scottish pub should not be missed.
However, Kris was impressed by Dougal’s museum. He’d done a fantastic job with the displays. He obviously had artistic training or perhaps had hired someone who did. Everything was well lit, colorful, easy to read, and there was a lot here Kris hadn’t seen before. She wished she’d brought her notebook so she could write down the questions she wanted to pursue later.
Dougal Scott just might be her new best friend.
CHAPTER 4
After an afternoon wrestling with the Internet, followed by a nice, long nap, Kris retraced her steps to The Myth Motel. As the sun fell toward the horizon, she took the next street to the north, walked a block, and bingo.
Tucked into a stream of newer buildings, MacLeod’s stood out like a great-grandfather at a four-year-old’s birthday party.
The gray-stone exterior appeared to be original. The structure listed slightly to the right. However, the roof was no longer thatch and the windows, which had no doubt begun as mere holes in the walls, now sported sparkling glass and red shutters.
Inside the floor was polished wood, as was the bar. The ceilings were lower than Kris was used to—a testament to how much shorter men were back when the pub had been built. Through timbered archways several smaller rooms were visible, which made her think that once upon a time MacLeod’s had hosted both a public drinking area for the unwashed masses and private areas for the privileged few.
The place was three-quarters full—both men and women of all ages sat in booths, at tables and the bar. Their attire was testament to their occupations—cook, waitress, parking valet, farmer—very few had bothered to change clothes after work. In the corner sat Rob and Effy Cameron, a pint in front of them both.
They were arguing, or at least Effy was. Her mouth moved; her hands waved; she slopped ale over the edge of her glass and onto the table in an effort to make her point. Rob just sat there and drank.
The conversation dimmed when Kris walked in. She almost walked back out. MacLeod’s was for the locals, and she wasn’t.
Dougal stood, waving her to the bar. As she crossed the room, whispers followed. It wasn’t until she took one of the several empty stools surrounding him that the voices started up again.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
She hadn’t been, either, but even after the whispers and the strange looks she was glad that she had. She was in Scotland. She should see Scottish stuff as much as she could before she ran out of money and had to go home.
