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Just a half circle. Could be anything. That it was there at all was more interesting than imagining what the tattoo could be. Although—
Effy could easily have come of age in the hippie-time sixties. Had there been a hippie-time sixties in Scotland?
Kris doubted they’d been protesting Vietnam, although who knew? And the Beatles, who’d been born down the road about four hundred miles, had been pretty hippie time. Weren’t they blamed for the whole long-hair craze that swept the United States? Kris didn’t think they’d had any tattoos, but that didn’t mean folks who really got into the counterculture hadn’t. Maybe Effy was a closet flower child. Stranger things had happened.
Kris glanced at her computer, thrilled to see that the Internet was still cooperating. She Googled tattoos in the sixties. Sure enough, before that time tattoos were mostly found in the military or on those who’d been in prison. But later in that decade tattoos had begun to appear in the younger population. What better way to prove you were a rebel than to ink something rebellious on your body forever?
Kris had to wonder how many sagging peace signs graced aging flesh. She frowned at the drawing she’d made of Effy’s tattoo. Could it be a peace sign?
Hell, it could be anything.
CHAPTER 8
Dougal arrived to pick up Kris right on time. The contrast of charcoal slacks, soft gray cashmere sweater, and shiny black shoes with his usual kilt was so sharp Kris might not have recognized him in a crowd.
Two different men in one easy-on-the-eyes package, she thought. Not bad.
Kris had had to search high and low to come up with something that wasn’t jeans and a sweatshirt. Luckily, she had tossed a black skirt and clingy red sweater in her suitcase at the last minute. Combined with her least clunky pair of shoes, that would do. Although, right now, Dougal certainly cleaned up better than she did.
“I know it’s early,” he said, “but I thought after dinner we could head out to the loch and watch for Nessie as the sun sets. It’s always good for a laugh when she doesn’t show up.”
Except, someone was perpetrating the lake monster hoax, and according to Dougal, they perpetrated it often in the water near The Clansman. With the current upheaval around Drumnadrochit, perhaps the hoaxers would feel more comfortable north of all the trouble. She would catch them in the act, and the rest would be history.
A history she would be the first to record.
“Sounds good to me.” Kris snatched her backpack, which contained her video camera, then followed Dougal to his car—something German; she was no good with makes and models. He held the door. Lucky, since she’d have gone straight to the wrong side of the automobile if left to her own devices.
The drive to The Clansman retraced the route Kris had taken from Inverness along the shore of Loch Ness. The tea brown waters played hide-and-seek as they drove—there and then gone and then there again. All around, mountains of blue and gray battled with walls of evergreen for dominance.
They made small talk. “Nice day.” “Beautiful weather.” “Do you like salmon?”
Kris relaxed, thrilled not to have to think for a while. Dougal was easy to be around. He didn’t ask too many questions she was required to invent answers for.
From the outside, The Clansman did not impress. If Kris had been driving, she’d have gone right past. They came around a curve and bam, there it was—the parking lot directly off the highway on one side, a small harbor on the other.
The building itself was smaller than most country inns in America and consisted of weathered brown wood and sand-shaded bricks. To the rear, towering green trees covered a massive hill, which appeared to flow into the slowly darkening sky.
Inside, however, the place was beautiful. There were cream walls with wood accents in the lobby. The carpet was a little busy, but she’d found that to be the case in many places of business. Kris had a feeling busy carpet didn’t show the dirt as clearly.
The restaurant was even more lovely, with windows that looked out on the loch, a polished wood bar, bottles glistening in the setting sun, and lots of tables with comfortable, cushy chairs.
Theirs was next to the window, and Kris found herself captivated by the long expanse of water. From here it almost looked blue.
The waiter appeared before she could comment. “Would ye like something from the bar?”
Dougal tilted a brow. “Whisky?”
“I think no.” Kris smiled at the waiter. “Wine. Something white and dry. You choose.”
He inclined his head, then turned to Dougal, who predictably ordered their best single-malt whisky.
“Why does the loch seem blue?” Kris asked. “I know the water’s brown from the peat.”
Dougal glanced in that direction. “In some places the reflection of the sky hits her just right; then you have…” He spread his hands forward and out.
The waiter returned with their drinks, setting a glass of gorgeous golden wine in front of Kris. “This is Autumn Oak,” he said. “A Scottish wine.”
Kris picked up her glass, sniffed, then sipped and nodded as she smiled. “Perfect.”
