Chapter Five Playing With Fire #2
Isla ran after Shakespeare. He whined when he saw her press a finger to her lips. He arched his head toward a flowerpot, sniffing at it.
“Something is there, right?” Isla smiled at him. She tried to lift the pot, but it was too heavy. She put in more effort, and a soft grunt escaped her lips. The weight was suddenly gone.
“Easy,” Finlay cautioned, lifting the flowerpot. His breath was hot against her face. He was so close to her. The pot lifted, and a key was visible underneath. Isla grabbed the key but remained unmoving. Finlay and Isla stared at each other.
Time seemed to have stilled for a moment, and it was only the two of them. There was something luring about the way he looked at her. It made her feel like it was only the two of them.
Woof. Shakespeare squeezed himself between them.
And Shakespeare.
She scrambled to her feet, fixing the key into the door. Neither Isla nor Finlay acknowledged what had transpired between them. It wasn’t the right place or the right time.
Isla unlocked Angus’ door, and they all hurried in, locking it behind them. They paused, taking in the house. Their eyes travelled to all corners, scanning his living room.
Shakespeare was the first to move. He ran forward, sniffing at anything in his way. He disappeared into a doorway leading deeper into the house. Isla took a step forward then stopped, turning to Finlay, “We should um…” she whispered.
“Sure. Sure. I’ll look around here.” Finlay nodded, rocking back and forth on his heels.
She raised her hands, wiggling her fingers. “Try not to leave your prints.” And then, she went after Shakespeare.
Shakespeare was in the bedroom, chewing on a centre amber rug. “No, Shakes,” she scolded him. Her eyes landed on Angus’ working table. She rushed in and opened the drawers. She found receipts, documents, and some worn-out combs.
A pack of chewing gum with just two sticks left. Nothing relating to St Albert’s church. She opened the last drawer, and it was empty. Her morale dropped. She turned on his laptop, but it required a password.
Grrr, Shakespeare growled, chewing on the rug again.
Shooting him a stink eye, she typed a few password ideas into the laptop, but they were all incorrect.
Isla heard the light thud of Finlay’s footsteps as he approached the bedroom. “Found nothing,” he announced, leaning against the doorframe.
“Me too,” she muttered.
Shakespeare pawed at the rug, pulling it with his teeth. He turned to Finlay, wagging his tail. “I think he’s starting to like me… or he is trying to tell us something.” Finlay pulled the rug away.
Shakespeare sniffed the spot, pacing in a circle, ears perked up. Finlay stepped on the spot, tapping one foot. “Listen to that.”
“It’s hollow,” Isla confirmed.
“Yes.” Finlay knelt, feeling the floorboards, until he felt one shift. He stealthily lifted it up, revealing a compartment. “Look at that.”
Isla knelt next to him. “Good boy.” She gently scratched Shakespeare’s jaw. Finlay reached into the compartment, bringing out a wooden box. There were no locks. He peeled the lid open, and there were papers inside.
Birth certificates, deeds to his own properties, and letters.
“Mary MacTavish.” Finlay handed the birth certificate to Isla. “Wife or sibling?”
“Sibling, look at the dates.” One of the papers caught her eyes. She pulled it from the stack in Finlay’s hands, examining it. “Interesting,” she murmured. “This is a cryptic message.”
“Can you read it?” he asked, leaning in to see the content of the letter. Isla’s heart jumped when Finlay’s shoulder touched hers. It was only a slight brush, and it sent shockwaves through her body.
Focus, Isla, focus, she chided herself. Isla rose to her feet. “Are there any more of these?” Shakespeare trailed behind her.
Finlay flipped through the papers. “No—wait… there’s a photo.
” He held it out for Isla to see. It was a photo of a young boy and a girl.
The boy wore a kilt with matching tartan sash, an off-white linen shirt with billowy sleeves, knee-high socks, and black leather brogues.
The girl wore a tartan dress with intricate lace, a pair of black buckle shoes, and a tartan sash tied around her waist.
She pulled out her phone and took a photo. “For Gran, she might know something,” she explained when Finlay shot her a puzzled look. She also took pictures of the birth certificates.
“She died,” Finlay announced, holding out a death certificate. Isla took a photo. They went through the papers and found nothing worth noting, so they called it a day.
Finlay raised the flowerpot, and Isla replaced the key. They head back to their truck. “Was taking the letter necessary?”
“Yes, I know a cryptographer who can help us.”
Us, she repeated inwardly. Am I making a mistake? She chewed on her bottom lip as they walked to her truck. Rory’s words about her not knowing Finlay returned to her mind.
A police cruiser approaching from the end of the street slowed down to a stop. The windshield rolled down. It was Elliot and Rory.
Elliot was behind the steering wheel and narrowed his eyes at Isla and Finlay. It was the same suspicion she had received from Rory. But Elliot’s was more clandestine.
“Isla?” he called, though it sounded like a question.
“Elliot,” she replied, pulling Shakespeare to her side.
“What are ye two doing here?” Rory asked.
“Taking a walk,” Finlay answered.
He and Rory stared intently at each other as if daring the other to throw the first blow.
“Ahem,” Elliot cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention to himself. “Alright.”
“Alright?” Rory protested. “They just happened to be on the same street Angus lived on.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Whatever ye two are up to, better not mess with our investigation. It’s an offense.” He tilted his head towards Elliot while maintaining eye contact with Isla. “Right?”
Elliot rolled his eyes, shifting the cruiser’s gear. “Take care, Isla,” he said, driving away.
Isla helped Shakespeare into the back of the truck and then climbed into the driver’s side.
“I thought you said they weren’t coming until the weekend,” he said, staring straight ahead. Isla followed his gaze. The cruiser was packed in front of Angus’ house. Elliot and Rory were walking towards the front door.
Then it dawned on Isla. Finlay was right. “I think you’re right.”
“About what?”
“Someone following us.” It was the only explanation for the police showing up. Someone had called them.