Chapter 3
Chapter Three
L ater that day, I heaved a contented sigh as I swivelled the shop sign to read closed . I removed some leaves from the stems of some of the pastel-coloured carnations. If they tumbled into the vase, they could cause bacteria in the water.
The thought of retreating upstairs to pamper my feet with peppermint lotion and pour myself a glass of crisp white wine was delicious.
I moved around the shop, clicking off the spotlights and plunging the plants and flowers into darkness, so they sat like graceful, still silhouettes.
A sudden flicker of movement outside the shop door made me draw up.
Was there someone out there?
I squinted. Sure enough, a tall shimmering figure had appeared through the frosted glass of the shop door. I wondered if they might move on, but they hovered there. Recalling that I’d already locked it, I raised my voice. “Sorry, we’re closed.”
I moved back towards the counter to collect my bag, but a thud and a rattle of the door handle made me whirl around.
Was someone trying to get in?
The door handle let out another fierce crank.
I tilted my chin in an effort to conjure up some confidence. “We’re closed. We reopen tomorrow morning at 9am.”
I hoped whoever it was would evaporate into the dark, but instead they remained a smudged apparition through the glass.
They jiggled the door handle again.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated louder. “We’re closed. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
The door handle jerked up and down once more.
Right! That was it!
Remembering I had a small bottle of hairspray in my bag, I lunged towards the counter to retrieve it. A good squirt of that right between the eyes would disable them for a while.
My knuckles turned white as I gripped the can of hairspray in my right hand, my finger on the button, ready to spray. My heart thumped against my chest. “How many times do I have to tell you? We’re closed.”
There was yet another defiant jerk of the door handle. My heart took off into an even faster gallop.
I rummaged inside my bag again, sending its contents spewing and clattering out on top of the shop counter. “Oh shit!”
I snatched up my mobile. My fingers were tumbling over themselves. “Don’t get any ideas! I’ll ring the police.”
“Please don’t do that,” insisted a male voice through the door, making me jump. “I need to speak to you.”
With my can of hairspray held in mid-air, I hesitated. An echo of recognition rang around my head. What was it about his voice? I was sure I’d heard it before.
There was a tap of feet from the other side of the door. His silhouette was black and broad against the pinpricks of streetlights. “I think it might have been you I spoke to on the phone. About the Rankins?”
I focused again on his voice. It took a few seconds for my frightened brain to catch up and recall the details.
That was it. It was him. It was the arrogant man who’d rung the flat, looking for Archibald and Hazel Rankin.
I hovered behind the safety of the closed shop door, my container of hairspray still gripped in one hand and my mobile glowing in the other. My worry increased. “What do you want? Who are you?”
“I’m Zach Stern. I’m a journalist.”
Dread clutched the insides of my stomach . A journalist? What did he want? Was it to do with me? Had he found out I’d moved to Heather Moore and that was why he rang the Rankins? Had Declan discovered I’d moved here and been shouting his mouth off from whatever stone he’d crawled under, wanting to twist the knife? But how would he have discovered me here? I’d been so careful. Or had someone local recognised me and tipped off the press? How likely was that?
My rambling thoughts whirled around my head like a carousel.
I knew I had to try and calm down.
I couldn’t legislate for other people’s behaviour, but then another thought bounded into my head. It was one I found myself starting to scramble for. I clung onto it, like a lifebuoy in stormy seas. Maybe someone had told this journalist about Ezra? Maybe he wasn’t here about me at all.
Then a pang of guilt hit me in the chest. Thinking that way didn’t make me feel any better. In fact, I felt worse. I didn’t want Ezra to be hounded by reporters. He’d just moved here and was starting to get settled.
I edged a little closer to my shop door, my ankle boots clicking on the wooden floor. Now what should I do? If I didn’t let him in, I could make matters so much worse and the chances were that he’d return again anyway. If he was like most of the journalists I’d come across in the past, he would persevere until he got whatever story he was after. They didn’t tend to give up, if they believed they had a lead.
And if he was here to snoop around about Ezra, there was no way I was prepared to give him any information. Even though we’d only just met, Ezra trusted me and I wasn’t prepared to betray that trust. He was giving me the floristry commission for his home, for pity’s sake!
“Hello? Are you still there?”
His voice cut across my thoughts from the other side of the locked shop door.
“Please can I come in? It’s bloody Baltic out here.”
The stiff winter evening –this part of the Highlands was famous for its bone-rattlingly cold weather, especially in the weeks before Christmas –was clearly having an effect on his manners as, other than the swearing, he was more polite than he had been when talking to me over the phone.
I chewed my bottom lip. I’d no intention of allowing this man in until I knew for certain what he wanted – or who. My brain searched for stalling tactics. “How do I know you are who you say you are?”
There was the sound of fumbling, before a business card hissed its way under the door.
I set my phone and hairspray down on top of the counter, before moving back towards the shop door and the rectangular white card now lying face-down in front of me. I snatched it up and turned it around. Sure enough, the name Zach Stern leapt out in bold, black lettering. Underneath his name was printed Journalist – Stargazer Magazine , followed by his contact details.
My breath stuck in my throat.
Stargazer Magazine . A glossy weekly publication that featured gossip and revelations about celebrities. Oh, no.
“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?”
I heard Zach Stern blow out a cloud of air. “I did some investigating after we received the tip-off about Ezra King being seen around here. I took a look at Heather Moore online and I found a website giving details of Mrs Rankin being involved in local amateur dramatics.”
“And you wondered whether she might know anything or have come across Ezra King?” I supplied. “Well, like I told you, the Rankins sold me this place and moved to London to be near family.”
There came another frustrated grunt from the other side of the shop door. “I suggest the local amateur dramatics society update their website then. Hazel Rankin is still listed as one of their major players.”
There was a charged silence for a few moments before I put out my hand and let it hover over the door latch. If I let him in, perhaps I could control the situation more. I had no intention of misleading a journalist, but I wasn’t prepared to tell him anything about Ezra either.
I just hoped he wouldn’t realise who I was. I was beginning to like the new me. I was toughing it out after being conned and jilted and I refused to lose the lovely, quiet life I was building for myself here in Heather Moore.
The life I lived before, falling out of nightclubs with celebrity friends all seemed so pointless now, when I surveyed Flower Power.
I had to try and be composed. I didn’t want to put this journalist on high alert about Ezra or myself. Refusing to debate the matter a moment longer, my hand shot out and unlocked the shop door.
A snap of brisk, November chill shot through the open door, as did the athletic, tall figure of a handsome man. He possessed thick, wavy, blueberry-black hair, pushed back from his angular face. He wasn’t what I was expecting.
Zach Stern appraised me through intense, dark brown eyes. He extended a gloved hand. “Good to meet you. Apologies if I don’t maintain eye contact. My eyelids are frozen.”
I shook his hand in return and allowed my long hair to fall over my face in an attempt to obscure it. I didn’t want to take any chances, just in case I did seem familiar to him. “I’m sure you can appreciate me being careful.”
He cocked one brow and turned his attention to his surroundings. “So, this is yours?”
I nodded, watching his broad shoulders swing this way and that under his long charcoal wool overcoat.
“I’ve only been open since late spring, but business is improving.”
I battled to ignore the warning voice yelling in my head. What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re sharing idle chit chat with a journalist. You need to get rid of him. Fast. You’ll be discussing the weather and last night’s TV next.
Deciding that I should get this unnerving situation over with as soon as possible, I suggested we talk in my office. The light wouldn’t be great in there either at this time of day, which would be an added advantage.
He glanced around while following me across the shop floor. I clicked on a couple of the low lights, which bathed my sleepy flowers and plants in a golden hue. I could hear his boots thudding along behind me.
I indicated for him to sit down opposite me at my desk. I clicked on my desk lamp and angled it away from my face. He didn’t waste any time exchanging pleasantries. Even his voice didn’t marry with the image I’d conjured of him in my head. He seemed more like the type of journalist who should be writing in-depth political analysis for the likes of The Times .
“So, Ezra King,” he announced, pinning me with his burning, dark gaze from across the desk.
I hoped I could maintain an aura of calm and that my neck wasn’t a sea of red blotches, like it always was when I got nervous. “What about him?”
“Like I said, we’ve been told he’s been seen here in Heather Moore.”
I performed an indifferent shrug. “Are you sure? I very much doubt it. Maybe it’s a lookalike. They say we all have a doppelganger.”
Zach Stern frowned at me. “So, you haven’t seen him? He hasn’t been in here?”
I fought to maintain a level of calm in my voice. “Nope. I think I’d recognise him if I saw him.”
He suddenly leant forward. “You’re certain of that, are you?”
I swallowed. “Yes. Of course.”
“It’s just we were told that someone who looked very much like him may have come in here.”
I forced out a bark of laughter. “Well, he didn’t.”
He lounged back in his swivel chair, as though my office belonged to him. A bolt of irritation fired through me. He wasn’t lacking in confidence. “It’s just that someone contacted the magazine to say she and her friend were driving through Heather Moore on their way to Inverness recently.” He tilted his dark head to one side as he continued to speak. “She said they were sure they saw him in his car and they thought he may have come in here.”
Great. Just bloody great! Annoyance on Ezra’s behalf stirred up inside of me. I knew what it was like to be betrayed; for people to let you down. I pushed Declan out of my head and made myself refocus on what Zach Stern was saying. Why was this anyone’s business? Couldn’t they leave him alone?
The tips of my cheeks sizzled. I hoped he wouldn’t notice. I let my hands flail around. “What would someone like Ezra King be doing round here?” I offered Zach a pointed look. “So, are you planning on writing a story about it? About Ezra King living here now, which he isn’t.”
“You sound very sure of that.” Zach Stern eyed me.
I straightened my shoulders and said nothing.
“So, you can’t tell me anything?”
“I wish I could help,” I said with a sigh. “Sorry.”
“Yes. I’m sure you are.” His black brows fenced. “Well, if you can’t help, can you suggest anyone else around here who I can speak to?”
I toyed with my ring. A jagged edge of worry nicked me. I’d been deluding myself if I thought he would just accept what I told him and move on. “So, you’re hanging around then?”
“Oh, I’m not planning on going anywhere. I have my editor breathing down my neck and this is an exclusive I’m not going to pass up.”
My smile was tight. “An exclusive? What? ‘Actor spotted in Scotland’? Hardly front-page news.”
Zach forced a hand through his hair and it fell back from his face. “No, you’re right. It isn’t.”
My irritation was rising. “Well, what are you talking about then? Why are you so keen to speak to him?”
Zach gave me a measured look. “It seems our Mr King isn’t as lily-white as he portrays.”
A sliver of worry shot through me. “In what way?”
But Zach Stern just offered a withering look. It was a stupid question. As if he would tell me.
Instead, he moved the conversation on. “I’ve checked into one of the local hotels.”
My stomach plummeted. Oh goody. I’d been na?ve enough to think that he might decide his Ezra King hunt was a wild goose chase and he would take himself and his posh coat back to the city. But talk of Ezra possibly being involved in something shady and Zach Stern’s determination to stay around had put paid to that optimism.
“Which one?” I asked, a rising dread growing. “I mean, which hotel are you staying at?”
“The Cedar Loch.” He studied me across my desk. “So, no suggestions of who I could talk to around here about Ezra King, then?”
I sat there, conscious that a magazine journalist was still in town and pursuing Ezra. And he was clearly determined to stay around until he found something. Anything.
Hang on! An idea skipped into my brain. Zach was staying at The Cedar Loch, where Moira Telford worked as a receptionist. Moira was a lovely woman, but she was also infamous for flirting with her more attractive male hotel guests. She should keep our friendly neighbourhood journo occupied for a while.
If my idea worked, it could buy some more time and if Zach Stern got irritated or frustrated enough, he might just decide to drop his search for Ezra. Right now, anything was worth a try. I didn’t want him hanging around Heather Moore. I wasn’t prepared to risk him identifying me, and I felt very protective of Ezra too.
I switched on a smile. “Come to think of it, when you get back to your hotel, ask to speak to Moira Telford. Have you met Moira yet?”
“No.”
“She’s one of the hotel receptionists. I’m sure she’ll be very happy to speak with you.” I drank in Zach Stern’s enviable lashes and sweep of dark hair. Moria would think Christmas had come early. Sure, there was a chance she’d have seen Ezra, too, but the main thing was that I didn’t betray him.
I dropped my voice, even though it was only the two of us. “What Moira knows about Heather Moore is legendary.” I fought to conceal a smile. “She’ll be very helpful, I’m sure.”
“All right. I’ll speak to her. Thank you.” He rose to his feet and I hurried to bundle him out of my shop as soon as possible.
It was as I was clicking open the door that he drew up and examined me again from under his thick brows. “I hope you don’t mind me saying but have I seen you somewhere before, Ms McArthur? You seem familiar.”
A deep chill, like ice cold water, shot down my spine. I struggled to arrange my mouth into a cool smile. “No. Don’t think so. I have one of those faces.” Ugh! Stop with the clichés, Bailey!
After a few seconds’ consideration, Zach pulled his attention away. “Well, thanks for speaking to me – finally.”
I poked my tongue out at his retreating back.