Page 13 of A Scottish Highland Hideaway

“I really would appreciate a few minutes of your time,” came Zach Stern’s deep English drawl through the door.

My thoughts refused to calm.

This was ridiculous. I was going to give myself a migraine.

“What about?”

“Hi? Hello? Are you still there?” His agitated voice interrupted me again. “Look, I don’t mean to sound rude, but can’t you let me in for a few minutes so we can talk? I can’t feel my toes out here.”

I crouched down and pushed the business card back under the door, still scrambling around in my head for an idea of how to throw this man off the scent. “What is it you want?”

There was a frustrated sigh, then, “All right, if I tell you, will you please let me inside?”

I wrapped my arms around myself. “Maybe.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”

I glowered at his silhouette, even though he couldn’t see me through my closed shop door. “Sorry? I didn’t quite catch that?”

There was an agitated growl from outside. “I hope you’re satisfied. I think I’ve just lost all circulation in my hands.”

I rolled my eyes, but didn’t make a move to open the shop door.

Zach Stern let out a defeated grunt. “Nice to see such warm hospitality around these parts.”

I cocked one brow and still didn’t move to open the door.

There was a deep sigh. “All right. I’ll tell you. It’s Ezra King.”

Shit. I was right. Had someone local ratted on Ezra? Had someone spotted him at Duxbury Hall or here and decided to make some easy money? The prospect filled me with dismay. If this was what had happened to Ezra, might I be next?

I rubbed at my face. “Ezra King?” I repeated, my voice sounding brittle. “As in, the actor?”

“No, Ezra King the refuse collector. Of course, the actor! I just told you that!”

I folded my arms and sniffed. “There’s no need for sarcasm.”

“Sorry,” mumbled Zach Stern from the other side of the door. “But it’s perishing out here.”

I continued to assess the mysterious shape of this journalist.

I saw him push an agitated hand through his hair. His features were obscured and shifting behind the frosted glass as he shuffled from foot to foot.

Then he moved even closer to the other side of the door, sending me retreating a few steps backwards.

“Look, Miss…?”

“Bailey,” I murmured. “Bailey McArthur.”

“Right, Ms McArthur. I won’t take up too much of your time. I promise. But I’m at risk of hypothermia out here and I hoped you might be able to help.”

I fiddled with one of my dangly earrings and decided to play dumb. “Help with what?”

“Help doing a crossword. Help with finding Ezra King!”

There it was, the brittle sarcasm again.

I fiddled with the strap of my watch. All I wanted to do was escape upstairs to my dinky little flat and put a safe distance between me and this journalist. “So why did you say you wanted to speak to Mr and Mrs Rankin the other night?”