The Father's Disappearance (A Disappearance Mystery Thriller Book 1) Page 4

Bruce doesn’t say anything other than a quiet “hi” as he leans over and picks up Melody’s luggage. Melody stops herself from saying she’s quite capable of carrying it, again not wanting to turn away local hospitality. If the Howling Dog is going to be her base of operations while finding her father, she needs to keep everyone on side.

  Melody thanks Morrison and says goodbye to the fisherman. She follows the lumbering footsteps of Bruce up the stairs and finds herself walking along a hallway straight out of antiquity. The dark wooden beams above expose the age of the building, at least a few hundred years old if not more. The inn only has a few rooms, and when Bruce reaches door number 7, she thanks him for his help.

  Bruce seems intimidated by Melody. She understands. She was a teenager once, too. He is red in the face, and unlike the fisherman at the bar, it is not from alcohol. It is from talking to a pretty woman.

  “I hope you like it here,” he says.

  “What’s Talon’s Point like, Bruce?” Melody asks as he turns the large metal key in the old oak door to room number 7. There are no electronic key cards here, and that’s just fine with Melody.

  “Talon’s Point is okay,” Bruce says.

  He opens the door with a creak and Melody follows him inside.

  The room is as antiquated and sea-worn as the rest of the island. A faded picture of an old harbor sits on the wall opposite a large, cosy four poster bed with old red drapes around it. The picture reminds Melody of a game her dad used to play with her when he was home. He would leave clues underneath the pictures for her to follow on a treasure hunt. Those memories are a few of the only good ones she has from her childhood.

  Melody notices that her window looks over the cottages opposite and to a large cove that looks suspiciously like the harbor in the faded picture on the wall. The view is breathtaking.

  “It must be lovely living out here,” Melody offers. “I mean, it’s so beautiful.”

  “What’s America like?” Bruce asks.

  “It’s a big place,” Melody says, smiling. “It could be a hundred countries in one.”

  “Where do you come from?”

  “A city called Boston, mainly.”

  “Like Cheers?” Bruce says.

  Melody laughs. When she’s spoken to foreigners about her home city, they often have only two points of reference to it – the writer of macabre tales, Edgar Allan Poe, and then there’s Cheers, a popular sitcom from the eighties set around a Boston bar.

  “You watch Cheers?” Melody asks.

  “My dad likes it,” Bruce places the room key on a small table next to the bed. “It’s okay, I guess. I’d love to go to America someday. Maybe live there. It seems cool.”

  “You should, but I wouldn’t give up on your home too soon. It seems pretty special.”

  “There aren’t a lot of young ones here any more,” Bruce says mournfully. “It gets kind of boring. Most head off across the water to the mainland these days. My dad hates that. He thinks everyone should stay and be either a fisherman or a farmer here.”

  “You don’t want to stay here?”

  Bruce shakes his head. “I want to travel.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying,” Melody offers. “You speak differently than some of the others here.”

  “Most of the younger ones like me are on the internet a lot of the time. We pick up how to speak generic English so we can talk more easily with people from other places. But we all know how to speak like true islanders, too.” He smiles. “Ye ken?” He then laughs.

  “What does ‘ken’ mean? I’ve heard a few people say it today.”

  “It means ‘know’,” Bruce says, moving off from the window to the door. “You’ll get used to it. Most of the words are just different ways of saying English words. There are a few that are specific to where we live, though. You need any help with that, I’d be happy to teach you.”

  Melody pulls her purse out of her coat pocket and opens it, retrieving a ten pound note. She hands it to Bruce, who seems delighted with it. “That sounds like a plan, Bruce. Thanks.”

  Bruce nods and then leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

  Finally, Melody is alone in her room at the Howling Dog. She sits on the edge of the bed and feels that the old mattress pushing back, lumpy in places. But it’s better than sleeping in a plane seat, that’s for sure.

  Stepping over to the picture on the wall, Melody notices something. The painted picture is dated 1952, but it appears to be different from the harbor she can see from her window. In the picture, there is a clock tower at the end of a small stone pier. But out there on the shore beyond the town, she cannot see such a building. As Melody peers out across the way to the waves in the distance moving back and forward against the sandy beach and the rocks which surround it, she closes her eyes for a moment and listens. When she was a kid, her father took her to such a place on the coast back home. She remembers the smell of the air and the sound of the sea. It is a good memory. For the first time in a long time, she pines for her father. What has happened to him here?

  A knock suddenly comes at her room door. Opening her eyes, Melody moves to answer it and is greeted once more with the youthful features of Bruce.

  “Sorry, Miss. I forgot to give you this. It arrived for you this morning.” Bruce hands Melody an envelope and then leaves.

  The envelope is addressed to the Howling Dog, but carries with it Melody’s new fake name - Ms. Winter.

  Opening it up, Melody finds a letter inside. She reads the words carefully.

  Dear Ms. Winter,

  I hope that you have had a pleasant journey to the island. You will find our fair isle an enthralling place, I am sure. It has come to my attention that your reason for coming to Deacon Island is to research a book about the history of our people. This pleases me greatly. My family itself is intimately connected to this history, indeed, my family name is Deacon.

  An associate of yours, George Millingford has informed me that you are looking for work to help fund your stay with us, and with this I would like to assist. My name is Will Deacon, and I own Deacon House which sits on the East Side of the mountains, not far from Talon’s Point. My family owns much of the land here, and as such we have a large estate that has many needs.

  Speaking with your associate, it has become clear that you would be the perfect fit to help teach my niece, Rebecca, while you are staying. She has fallen behind in her studies and with the school closed for the summer, I think you may be able to help her prepare for the academic year. George mentioned that you have taught several subjects before, and so I am certain you are the most qualified person on the island to help with this.

  I am willing to pay you a good salary for your time, and cover your room bill at the Howling Dog in return. You would spend several days a week at the Estate, but your evenings and weekends would be your own to work on your research project.

  I hope this all sounds appealing to you. I would be delighted to hear from you on this matter, and perhaps I can also assist you with oral histories of the island which you will not find in any book along the way.

  If you would like to discuss this, please speak with Morrison and he will arrange for someone to bring you to the estate for an informal meeting early tomorrow by 9AM.

  I look forward to hearing from you, and welcome to Deacon Island.

  Kind regards,

  Will Deacon

  Melody finishes the letter and stares out to the sea. She has no doubt that George Millingford is the same George working for her uncle. The second name is probably a fake, but she can feel in her bones that this is the same person. The burning question is: Why does he want Melody to go to Deacon House?

  Chapter 5

  Tomorrow is going to be one of the most stressful days of her life. Melody has never pretended to be someone she is not before, and she has no idea whether this Will Deacon will instantly see through her fake identity or not. Melody is going to try to relax, and the best place for that seems to be the Howling Dog
itself.

  It is 7PM and after a shower and a change of clothes, Melody is descending the stairs to the bar on the ground floor. As she moves down the stairs, she sees Bruce walking upward in the opposite direction.

  “Evening, Miss,” he says. This time he is smiling, and seems a little less nervous than before. Melody is glad that she has helped set him at ease.

  “Hello, Bruce. Is the bar busy?”

  “Just the usual. A few folk here and there. Mr Maclean is in, he was looking for you, but I didn’t want to come and disturb you.”

  “The pilot?” Melody now remembers his talk of a drink at the Howling Dog.

  “Yes, Miss. The pilot.” There is something about Bruce’s voice that tells Melody he has reservations about him.

  “You don’t like him?”

  Bruce blushes at Melody’s directness. He lowers his voice. “It’s not that. I’m sure he is a good person. But it seems like he’s always trying to get with any new face that comes to town. Just to warn you.”

  “Thanks for the heads up, Bruce,” Melody says, patting him on the shoulder as she passes him on the stairs. “But don’t worry, I’m not that easy.”

  Bruce seems uncomfortable again, and Melody regrets being playful. He’s clearly the shy type. She tells Bruce to have a good evening and exits the stairwell into the bar. As she does, there is a rich smell of tobacco. Smoking inside in public places is illegal in Scotland, but it appears there is no one here to enforce that rule. Especially considering that someone in a police officer’s uniform is sitting in one corner with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He looks over to Melody and nods. Melody nods back.

  Who polices the police? Melody wonders.

  “Ah, there you are!” Rob Maclean darts out of a stool at the bar and walks over enthusiastically.

  “Hi Rob. Here for that drink?”

  “I’m nothing, if punctual,” he says, his smile wide and welcoming across his handsome features. Melody notices the scar across his cheek again. It adds a mystery to his face, a history that Melody feels would be fun uncovering.

  “How long have you been here?” Melody asks, looking around. The bar is fuller than before, but not by much. Morrison smiles at her from behind the bar.

  “A little while,” Rob says. “I said to young Bruce, but I think he has a crush on you, you know?”

  “I’ve noticed,” Melody answers. “He’s a nice kid. Had some lovely things to say about you.”

  Rob raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I bet he did. Don’t pay no heed. The men on this island like to compete, even the young ones… What would you like to drink?”

  “Anything local?” Melody asks as she sits on a stool next to Rob at the bar.

  “That is the right answer, lassie!” Morrison says with glee from behind the bar. He reaches to the back of the gantry and picks up a large green bottle from underneath it. He hands it over to Melody. “Take a gander.”

  Melody holds the bottle. The green glass is transparent enough to showcase the spirit sloshing around inside. The yellow label on top reads “Glen Talon”.

  “Whiskey?” Melody asks.

  “Aye! Brewed down at the distillery in Glen Talon. It’s no far from ‘ere.” Morrison takes the bottle back off of Melody and then pulls the cork out. A loud pop sounds, and then the glug of the spirit being poured into a whiskey glass.

  “Ice?” Melody asks.

  Rob laughs.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Tell the lassie, Morrison.”

  Morrison pushes the glass forward in front of Melody. “Well, Ms. Winter, ye only put ice in a spirit when you cannae handle the taste. That’s aw fair an’ that with a cheap spirit, but no for first class single malt whiskey like this. Naw ice, nae water. Just the spirit. Aged 21 years! Go on, take a sip!”

  Melody feels the eyes of the bar on her. She nervously picks up the glass, thinks of her old professor and the whiplash of academia, and then takes a large belt. The whiskey slides down her throat. Instantly, she feels its warmth. It’s a hot feeling, but not too intense. She tastes oak and smoke from the liquid, and then… She coughs.

  The police officer in the corner of the bar comes over and pats Melody firmly on the back as several others laugh.

  “Welcome to Talon’s Point,” he says loudly. “You’ll get used to it!”

  “Thank you, Officer,” Melody says with a hoarse voice.

  “And don’t let any of these islanders mess you around, Miss,” the police officer says, taking a last sip of his drink and putting it on the bad. “We outsiders need to stick together.”

  Melody can hear the strong hint of a different accent, probably from the South of England, but she doesn’t have time to ask about it as the officer mentions his rounds and walks out of the pub.

  “If you want, Ms. Winter,” Morrison says. “I can get you a tour of the distillery down at the Glen, if you’d like. You get some free whiskey out of it!”

  “Sounds like a good deal. Glen… That means valley, doesn’t it?” asks Melody.

  “Yes,” says Rob, ushering Melody and her drink away from the bar. “Let’s sit by the fire.”

  As he moves with his arm over Melody’s shoulder, Melody remembers Bruce’s words and wonders how many times Rob has tried to seduce women coming to the island. Still, she enjoys his company, so she plays along. Besides, she reckons he might have some good information.

  They sit opposite each other in the armchairs by the fire. Despite it being the summer, the cool sea air brings an icy chill with it in the evenings, and so the fire is blazing, burning brightly beneath the large mantelpiece and stuffed stag head.

  “So, Melody,” Rob says, holding his glass firmly. “What brings you to Deacon Island?”

  “I…” Melody remembers the letter from upstairs and her backstory. “I’m researching a book. Actually.”

  “Oh, wow. What’s it about?”

  “It’s… About Deacon Island. It’s history. Kind of a research project. I have a background in History studies.” Melody almost says archaeology, but she dodges that mistake just in time.

  “Well,” Rob says, interrupting himself with another sip from his glass. “There are plenty of people around the island who can help with that. I’m more about the here and now, though. What room number are you?” He grins devilishly.

  Melody would normally shoot such a forward comment down, but she remains playful. She wants to know if Rob can help her.

  “Maybe you’ll find out one night, but not tonight,” she says playfully.

  “That’s okay, I’m a patient man.”

  “Rob,” Melody says, leaning forward in her chair. “What do you know about Will Deacon and Deacon House.”

  Instantly, the atmosphere in the room changes. It was jovial, but now with the mention of those words, a palpable dread has come. Melody looks around and sees several unfamiliar faces looking at her, then whispering to each other about something they clearly do not want Melody to hear.

  Even Rob’s face flickers for a moment. It’s as though he thinks of something uncomfortable before quickly plastering on a smile that he doesn’t quite mean.

  “I’m sorry…” says Melody loudly. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “Not at all,” Morrison booms from behind the bar. “It’s just the Deacons are no exactly the most well thought of folk around here, lassie. It’s best if ye stay clear of them.”

  “Oh, why’s that?” asks Melody, now more curious than ever.

  “Never mind, lassie. Just, if ye want my advice,” Morrison says, cleaning a glass. “You’ll keep oot of their world, and keep them oot of oors.”

  Melody understands the sentiment well, but she plays the fool to see if she can get more information. Leaning forward further, she whispers to Rob. “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that.”

  “He’s right,” Rob says quietly. “Will Deacon is no good, and neither is his brother Maximillian. Why do you ask, anyhow?”

  “I’ve been offered
a job up at Deacon House, to help Will’s niece Rebecca with her studies.”

  Rob grimaces for a moment. “I honestly wouldn’t get involved, Melody. Everything the Deacons touch turns to dust.”

  “Well… I’m going, so I just wondered if you knew what to expect.”

  “You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you?” Rob laughs. “If you have to go, all I can say is you should take anything they say with a grain of salt. The Deacons manipulate, that’s what they do. It’s why they own two thirds of this island.”

  “It is called Deacon Island.”

  “It wasn’t always!” Morrison says loudly from the bar. “Lassie, I take it Will told ye I’d organise a lift for ye?”