"There is nothing up with being romantic. Everyone needs dreams.
Here's your coffee."
Hamish looked at the little blue bowl. "That bowl. Is it for sale?"
"Of course."
"How much?"
"Fifty pounds."
"Fifty pounds!" Hamish stared at her.
"It's a work of art," she said calmly. "Fifty pounds is cheap at the
price."
A hard businesswoman as well, thought Hamish. Still, it meant he had
been wrong about her. Romantically minded newcomers had caused trouble
in the past.
In April there was one last blizzard—the lambing blizzard, as the
locals called it—and then the fine weather returned, and by June, one
long sunny day followed another. Memories of the black winter receded.
It stayed light even in the middle of the night. Amazingly, for Hamish,
there was still no crime, not even petty theft.
He was strolling along the waterfront one fine morning when he was
stopped by a tall man with an easel strapped on his back who said he was
looking for accommodation.
"I don't think there's a place here with a studio available," said
Hamish.
The man laughed. "I'm a landscape painter. I work outside." He thrust
out a hand. "I'm Jock Fleming."
"Hamish Macbeth. You could try Mrs. Dunne along at Sea View, just
along the end there. You can't miss it."
Jock looked down at the dog and the cat, waiting patiently at
Hamish's heels. "That's an odd pair of animals you've got there," he
said.
"They're company," said Hamish dismissively.
"Really? It's a good thing I'm not superstitious, or I'd be crossing
myself," said Jock with an easy laugh. "A wild cat and a dog with blue
eyes!"
Hamish grinned. He took an instant liking to the artist. He was a
powerful man in, Hamish judged, his early forties with shaggy black hair
streaked with grey. He had a comical, battered-looking face and seemed
to find himself a bit of a joke.
"When you've got settled in," said Hamish, "drop by the police
station and we'll have a dram."
"Great. See you."
Hamish watched him go. "Well, Lugs," he said. "That'll be one incomer
who won't be any trouble at all."
Hamish was disappointed as two days passed and Jock did not call for
that drink. But on the third day, as he walked along the waterfront in
the morning, he saw Jock at his easel, surrounded by a little group of
women.
Walking up to the group, Hamish said, "Move along, ladies. The man
can't do any work with you bothering him."
"I don't mind," said Jock cheerfully. "I like the company of
beautiful ladies."
Freda, the schoolteacher, giggled and said, "He's giving us lessons.
Why don't you run along, Hamish?"
"I'll see you later for that dram, Hamish," called Jock as Hamish
walked off.
I hope that one isn't going to turn out to be a heartbreaker, thought
Hamish. He decided to visit Angela Brodie, the doctor's wife.
The kitchen door was open, so he walked straight in. Angela was
sitting at her kitchen table at her computer. She looked up when she saw
Hamish and gave a sigh of relief, pushing a wisp of hair out of her
eyes.
A bold, mesmerizing novel about the woman known as "Typhoid Mary," the first known healthy carrier of typhoid fever in the burgeoning metropolis of early twentieth century New York.
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