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“It probably means it’s been withheld,” Dylan says, taking the phone and scrolling through the messages. “It can be traced, of course, but not quickly — and not here.” He glances around the tiny office, which admittedly doesn’tlooklike the nerve center of a major police operation.
“We’d need a warrant to be allowed to trace it,” he goes on. “I’m happy to try to request one if it’ll put your mind at rest, but there’s a big backlog at the moment, so I can’t tell you how long it’ll be. It could be a few weeks, though.” “A few weeks?” I clasp my phone tightly to my chest as if it’s my firstborn child. “But I’m getting married in a few weeks. I really wanted to get to the bottom of this… well,now, ideally.”
I blush, realizing how stupid I must sound. It’s not like I thought Dylan would be able to just tap a few buttons on his computer and tell me the identity of my mystery correspondent, like Poirot telling everyone whodunnit. But at the same time, I … well, I kind ofdidthink that. And now I know different: which means that if I want to find out who’s contacting me, I’m going to have to figure out some other way to do it. “I could ask them to make it a priority,” says Dylan, looking doubtful. “But I’m honestly not sure it’d help hurry them along, Emerald. The thing is, these messages aren’t actually threatening you or anything — which is a good thing, obviously,” he adds hurriedly, seeing the look on my face. “But which will make it difficult to persuade Head Office that they need to look into it, I’m afraid.”
“It’s not just Head Office,” I say, deflated. “Jack isn’t exactly making it a priority, either. Which makes me wonder if I’m just making a fuss about nothing.”
“Well, Jack’s an arse,” says Dylan, a little more vehemently than is strictly necessary. “I wouldn’t listen to what he says if I were you.”
“Why do you hate him so much, Dylan?” I ask curiously. “Is it really just because of his speeding or is there something more to it? I’ve always wondered.”
“Me too,” puts in Scarlett, who’s clearly enjoying all of this.
“I don’thatehim,” says Dylan defensively. “The Frasers and the Buchanans have never gotten along, that’s all. And his drivingisterrible.”
“They obviously got along before the war,” points out Scarlett. “The Bay Boys?”
“Aye. Well. Look, I don’t know,” says Dylan, looking flustered. “I just know my da’ always said the Buchanans were bad news. And he got that fromhisda’, so my best guess is that there was some kind of falling-out over the business with the distillery. Maybe that’s what the message means about Jack lying to McTavish. Other than the Laird himself, Old McTavish would have been the only one of the four who had any land to use for the business. Maybe there was a dispute about it? I suppose that would explain it.”
“You could check at the library,”suggests Scarlett. “They should have all the old maps of the area. If you can find out who the land belonged to back in the 30s, you might have an answer to that part, at least.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that,” I reply, getting up. “Sorry to have bothered you with this, Dylan. I know it was a long-shot.”
“No worries,” he says. “I’ll make a note of what you’ve said, anyway, so we have a log of it. And you know you can always come back and see me if you change your mind. Or if you get any more messages that worry you.”
“Yes, tell us if you get any more, won’t you?” says Scarlett eagerly. “That would be amaz… really terrible for you. It would make a great story for the Gazette, though.”
Dylan shoots her a look, and I thank them both, then head back out to the street. It’s still early — for me, anyway — and I don’t have anywhere I need to be, so I decide I may as well walk along to the library while I’m in town. On the way, I type out a quick text to Lexie, in L.A., asking what she knows about her grandfather’s distillery and how it got started. Because while Jack’s grandad had apparently dreamed of starting his own distillery — as Jack never tires of telling me — I know Lexie’s was the one who actually did it. Steele Spirits was one of the main employers in the area for years — right up until Lexie’s mum sold it to Jack, anyway.
I mull this over as I walk.
Four men wanted to start a distillery together, but only one of them did; only for his daughter to sell it a few decades later. And although Jack’s grandfather was the only one of the four who didn’t make it out of the war alive, it seems that his descendants are still the ones who are doing best from the deal.
Lexie’s mum almost went bankrupt before she was forced to sell up to Jack — at a massive loss, if I remember correctly. Dylan’s dad died years ago of alcoholism; and McTavish’s farm has been struggling for as long as I can remember.
But Jack just keeps getting richer and richer; and now he has this Emerald View project, too.
My anxiety kicks up a notch as all of this sinks in. I don’t want to believe that Jack’s business is thriving at the expense of anyone else — and I don’t. I really don’t. Just like I don’t think he’s somehow swindled McTavish out of land, or that his acquisition of Lexie’s family business was down to anything other than bad management on Lexie’s mum’s part.
(Plus, Lexie’s mumdidtry to sabotage The 39 when Jack first started it. So it’s not like she’s some kind of totally innocent party either. There isthat.)
At the same time, though, the more I find out about the Buchanans, and their past, the clearer it becomes that not everyone in town loved the Laird and his family, or wished them well; which makes it hard not to wonder if there’s something more to the messages I’ve been getting than “just some crank” as Jack put it. Which is why I need to find out about the Emerald View land and its ownership. I feel disloyal even thinking about it, but Ihaveto know; I just have to.
And, when I do, and I prove that Jack’s the good, honest man I’ve always known him to be — and he is; I’m sure of it — then I can finally put this behind me and focus on the wedding, before Rose takes over completely.
Then Jack and I can get on with being a normal, boring old married couple, who never have accidents, and who never receive mysterious messages hinting at treachery and deceit.
Or, at least, that’s the plan.
Chapter 8
The Heather Bay library is in a small stone building next to the harbor, and it smells mostly of fish — which is an unexpected smell for a library, and not an altogether welcome one. It’s much busier than I was expecting it to be, and there’s a short queue at the information desk, full of people rustling carrier bags and exchanging updates on the weather. I’m just about to join them when a familiar voice drifts over to me, and I whirl around to see Jack, with Rose close behind him, talking to Bella McGowan, who volunteers in the library’s local history section in her spare time.
Before I have time to even think about what I’m doing, I step out of the line and duck quickly behind a row of bookshelves so they can’t see me; a move I instantly regret when I realize how utterly unhinged it’ll make me look if they do turn around.
What’s Jack doing here, though? I thought he said he’d be in the office all day, having business meetings? And why didn’t I just walk over there andaskhim — you know, like a normal person? — rather than spying on him like some kind of suspicious wife?
I peer through a gap in the shelves, trying my best to look like I’m just innocently browsing.
