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“I’d best put dis place to rights,” Jamaica said. “I usually get a rush round four.”
“Thanks for the coffee.”
“Anytime.” Jamaica turned, and her skirt spun with the movement, the bright material flipping upward and drawing Kris’s eye to the tattoo just above her ankle.
“What’s that?” Kris blurted.
Jamaica turned, expression curious, and Kris pointed downward.
Something flashed in Jamaica’s eyes—it really looked like guilt—but what was there about a tattoo that could cause such a reaction?
Jamaica stared at her feet, clad in ugly, but hopefully comfortable, tree hugger sandals. “What?”
“You know what,” Kris said softly. “Was that a snake?”
Jamaica jumped, her gaze darting around the floor. “Where?”
“Tattooed on your ankle.”
“Oh, dat.” Jamaica flapped her hand.
“Yeah, that. The percentage of tattoos in one small Scottish village seems to be freakishly high.”
Jamaica lifted her head. “What you talkin’ about?”
“Alan Mac has one on his biceps.”
“A snake?”
“No.” Kris thought back. “Well, I don’t think so. I’m not sure what it was, but Effy’s definitely wasn’t a snake.”
“Effy Cameron?” Jamaica laughed. “Dat old woman never get a tattoo.”
“It was on her—” Kris waved vaguely in the area of her breasts.
“And how would you be seein’ dose?”
“I didn’t. I mean, well, I didn’t want to.”
“I bet not.”
“Her dress gaped. Happens to the best of us.”
“Mmm,” Jamaica said. “Probably a bruise.”
Kris considered that. What she’d seen had been bluish and roundish, kind of humped. It could have been a bruise.
“Does her husband—?”
“Effy never married.”
“But Rob—”
“He be her brother. They been livin’ in dat house all dere lives. Dey might argue like dey want to kill each other, but he would not dare touch her. She’d eat his liver for lunch.”
Kris’s lips curved. Good.
“Most likely she fell.”
