“Graeme MacGrath, lifelong resident of Pennard, scowled at his dog, Jock, as he bent to dip a sponge into a bucket of soapy water. His frown turned even blacker when a curtain of sea spray flew over the wall of a nearby breakwater, dousing him and the small blue rental car he was presently washing. The spray didn’t reach Jock, sprawled as he was on the Keel’s door stoop. And the dog’s smug expression said he felt his master deserved the brine shower. “If it weren’t for you”—Graeme circled the s...ponge over the car’s driver’s-side window—“thon American lassie would be halfway to Banff by now. She’d spend the night in a posh tourist hotel and take tea at Duff House on the morrow. She wouldn’t be here where her like has no business.” Jock shifted on the stoop, clearly settling down for a nap in the afternoon’s cold sunlight. It was a favorite trick—feigning sleep when he wished to wriggle out of an argument. “She isn’t an ordinary tourist.” Graeme dipped his sponge in the bucket again, sure of his statement.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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