I vaguely heard a passing woman whisper, “Oh, my.”
“Damn it, I’ll miss you,” Derek muttered, his forehead pressed against mine.
“Mm.” I was too stunned to say anything intelligible.
He gently ran his finger along my jaw, then chucked my chin. He grinned, kissed me once more, fast and hard and meticulously. Then he turned and left me for good. I watched him go, sighed a little, and picked up my bag and joined the line for customs, while he strolled down the European Union members’ ramp and out of the airport.
I emerged a mere twenty minutes later and headed for the next terminal to catch the shuttle flight to Edinburgh.
Imagine my surprise when I saw Derek still waiting curbside forty or so yards away. I smiled with delight and hurried over to him, just as a darkhaired woman jumped out of a shiny new silver Jaguar and rushed to hug him. Derek laughed as he grabbed her and kissed her, then tossed his bag in the Jaguar’s trunk. They chatted companionably as the woman opened the rear door to allow Derek to greet an adorable toddler who bore a striking resemblance to him. Derek then helped the woman into the car and jogged around to the driver’s side, jumped in and whisked his little family away.
The hotel elevator stopped and my memories jolted to a halt. The doors opened but I had to take a minute to breathe and settle myself. I refused to feel devastated by Derek’s betrayal, but I could go with livid. Or pissed off, or furious, not to mention being completely embarrassed and annoyed with myself.
Stepping out of the elevator, I managed a few steps but had to stop again. I leaned against the wall and tried to find my composure.
This was me, facing the well-established fact that I had lousy taste in men. My family was so right about that. Maybe I would just hire a matchmaker or some other third party to choose for me, since I was utterly incapable of making healthy choices. Or better yet, maybe I’d give up men altogether. Who needed this kind of grief?
Forcing a smile I didn’t feel, I walked to the lobby.
“ Brooklyn, here we are,” Helen cried out gaily from halfway across the large space. She was standing with four other women and I recognized one, Kimberly, a book history teacher we’d met in Lyon. We gave each other hugs as Helen introduced the others. Then the whole group walked out of the hotel and headed for the High Street. Another group of six was already waiting in front of St. Giles’ for the ghost tour to begin.
A lanky young man wearing a garishly striped wool scarf and matching skullcap introduced himself as Liam and announced that he would be our guide for the evening. He began with a bit of the condensed history of how Edinburgh was established and told us some cringeworthy facts about the place we’d be touring tonight, just a few hundred yards away down a narrow passageway between two tall buildings.
“Now gather close,” Liam said, his tone turning somber. “Take a good, long look at your friends and loved ones here with you tonight. Study their faces, for you may not see them ever again once we’ve stirred up the ghosts of Mary King’s Close.”
Everyone laughed and he scowled. “’Tisn’t a thing to scoff at. We’ve already had reports of a missing couple tonight.”
Lost to a pub, no doubt, I told myself. In good humor, we all descended the steep, narrow steps of Mary King’s Close. I shivered as we huddled around a narrow doorway while Liam fumbled for his keys. The thick wood door opened with an eerie screech and he led us into the bowels of an ancient building set against the slopes of the Old Town.
We walked single file down a dark, narrow hall, then through a low archway into a tiny room, maybe eight feet square. The only light came from Liam’s dim flashlight, and we gathered close around him. He held the light under his chin so that his face was distorted and the shadow of his head was projected onto the low ceiling above him.
It was an old trick but effective. A few women giggled as Liam explained that this small space was once home to a family of six. He waved his flashlight at the far wall, where a narrow counter held a small bucket and various dry goods, indicating the family’s kitchen area.
A female mannequin stood by the counter, dressed in what I assumed was typical servants’ clothing in seventeenth-century Scotland. A roughly hewn wooden baby’s cradle sat on the floor next to her feet.
I noticed one of the men in our group was too tall to stand upright, and I was beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic myself.
Liam turned and ducked his head to get through a small doorway that led down another passageway. As we followed, he told us that in 1645, after many years of people dumping raw human waste and sewage out the windows to trickle down the steep narrow stairways and collect in Nor’ Loch at the bottom of the Old Town, bubonic plague finally hit Edinburgh.
His voice was grave as he related grisly tales of wealthy homeowners above stairs bricking off the lower floors, trapping and suffocating the sickly servants below in an attempt to stop the plague’s spread.
“Thousands died throughout the city,” he said dolefully. “And ghosts still haunt the dark, cramped spaces, such as the one in which we stand tonight.”
I shuddered as I ducked my head to enter yet another oppressively dark, airless room. Here, pallets were laid on the straw-strewn floor to indicate the family’s cramped sleeping area. Two pint-sized mannequins dressed as children lay on the lumpy bedding. Liam explained that the pallets were pulled up during the day and the space became the family’s sitting room.
I heard something skitter across the floor and gasped.
“What was that?” a woman asked.
Somebody else whispered, “Shut up.”
I wrapped my arms around my middle in an effort to bring back some warmth. My hands were as cold as ice cubes.
Liam aimed his flashlight around the space and I could see a rickety rocking chair near the compact hearth. Sitting in the rocking chair was a dummy dressed like a woman, holding an infant in her arms while her husband lay sleeping near the hearth.
The smell of mildew filled the air, and I couldn’t understand how anyone had managed to live in that cramped little room. My feet stuck to the moldy straw on the floor as Liam explained that the straw was used to soak up the moisture that seeped from the walls and low ceiling.
Fabulous. I was beginning to feel trapped, and was wondering if I was courageous enough to make my way back out to the street by myself, when Helen screamed.
I jumped. The shrill sound echoed off the thick walls and reverberated in my ears.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, grabbing her arm.
But she couldn’t stop screaming, so I shook her. Then another woman screamed.
“What the hell is wrong?” I shouted, then followed the direction of Helen’s gaze. Liam’s flashlight beam rested on the mannequin lying in the straw by the hearth.
But it wasn’t a mannequin. I recognized the man’s elegant gray cashmere jacket and the sweep of dark hair.
It was Kyle McVee. His head lay in a puddle of dark liquid, and I had no doubt it was blood. He was dead.
I let out my own piercing scream. The flashlight went off and the room was plunged into blackness.
Chapter 3
The room erupted into a chaotic mass of confused wails and more screaming. I felt sick and knew I might pass out if I didn’t escape, so I scrambled in the direction of the doorway and almost slipped on the slick straw. Someone in the crowd pushed me forward and I protested loudly.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Keep going.”
“I’m going.” I managed to find the narrow door and stumbled back along the passage toward the outside. The pounding footsteps and screaming behind me made me fear I’d be trampled at any second.