Read Online The Avalon Chanter by Lillian Stewart Carl - Free Book Online Page B

haircut—anyway, why did he call Maggie ‘Loony Lauder’?”
    “ Heard someone here on Farnaby saying
it, most likely Lance Eccleston on the ferry.”
    “ Yeah, that works.”
    “ Loony Lauder? I’m agreeing with you
that either Maggie or Elaine, or the both of them, are the pivot
points here, but . . .”
    His caution dangled unfinished as James
Fleming set plates of fish and chips and mushy peas on the table,
the rising steam redolent with mouth-watering scents. “Would you
prefer tomato sauce, Ms. Fairbairn?” he asked, plunking down a
bottle of malt vinegar.
    “ Oh no, thank you—the American ketchup
habit is one I’ve managed to moderate.”
    James grinned beneath his whisk-broom of a
moustache. “Ah, good. There’s some places offer tomato sauce to
kill the taste of poor-quality ingredients. Not here. That there
haddock is fresh off the boat and the potatoes from the ground.
Enjoy!”
    Jean didn’t have to be told twice. She
applied a sprinkling of vinegar and dug in, leaving Alasdair to
throw a “cheers” at James’s retreating back. The crunchy batter,
the sweet, flaky fish, the mealy potatoes with their sharp malt
dressing, the slightly peppery mushy peas had barely dulled the
edge of her appetite when another familiar face appeared in the
doorway.
    Hugh Munro carried his guitar case and his
fiddle case, proving Jean’s often-made point that he’d rather play
music than eat. His rosy, bearded face beneath its halo of silver
hair, that of a cherub surprised by middle age, turned toward Jean
and Alasdair. “You’re here, then.”
    “ Aye, that we are,” Alasdair told
him.
    “ How’s wee Dougie getting on back in
Edinburgh? The cattery’s all right for him, is it then?”
    If he’d been spending the weekend in his flat
next door, Hugh would have offered to look after Dougie.
    “ He’s likely dining with his own sushi
chef, considering the cost of his upkeep.” Alasdair had long ago
accepted that Dougie and Jean came as a package. The little cat was
her feline significant other, not that Alasdair didn’t have his
feline moments. Declining further commentary on the economics of
pet care, he said, “Have a seat, Hugh.”
    “ For the moment, thanks. Almost time
for the Friday night session.” Hugh pulled around a chair from
another table and sat down.
    “ Are you playing with some of the
students tonight?”
    “ Not just now. I’ve worn them down the
day. No, there’s an Irish lass stopping here, name of Neeve
McCarthy, has a voice like an angel.”
    Jean’s crunch on a particularly succulent bit
of batter muffled the name. “Did you say Nieve? Spanish for
‘snow’?”
    Alasdair’s lips, glistening with grease,
spread into a smile. “I’m thinking it’s N-i-a-m-h, pronounced
‘Neeve,’ one reason I did not do well with the Gaelic as a child.
It’s never spelled as it’s said.”
    “ Niamh McCarthy, a good Scots-Irish
name,” Hugh repeated, and added cryptically, “We have the Spanish
influence here as well. Ah, here’s the lass now.” Gathering up his
instruments, he rose again and headed for an empty corner of the
room.
    “ Good,” Alasdair said. “Not only music,
but we’re not obliged to be telling him what’s happened just yet .
. . Oh. Well now.”
    The nurse from Gow House walked in the door,
now clothed in civilian garb, a sweater, jeans, and boots. Released
from its bindings, her hair cascaded over her shoulders and down
her back, a reddish-gold—“ginger” in the UK—silk curtain framing an
oval face carved as delicately as a cameo. Every eye in the place
turned toward her, Jean noted, except Lance’s, which kept a bead on
Tara, even as a blank-faced Tara settled back to enjoy the
show.
    Jean spared a thought for Maggie, shouldering
the care of her mother as well as, now, the care of a cold
case.
    Hugh fingered an introduction. Niamh began to
sing “Foggy Dew.”
    No. Her voice wasn’t that of an angel.
Nothing was celestial about that vibrato like