As Skye made his way towards his hostess, an overpowering miasma of sweet and cloying perfume announced the presence of Nick, the island’s black entrepreneur, with his blonde of the year. He was wearing an embroidered white guyabera and a small fortune in gold chains. Nick was the proprietor of a bar that bore his name—Nick’s—and he would be catering the party. He catered all the parties on the island. Skye and Nick shook hands perfunctorily and with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. Skye found Louella standing by the bonfire, her plump softness enveloped in a flowing muumuu. She greeted Skye warmly. He was a favourite of hers ever since he had helped her overcome her fear of flying by explaining exactly how airplanes managed to stay in the air. She had listened intently as he described how when air is bent around the top of the wing it pulls the air above it down. The pulling down of the air causes the pressure above the wing to become lower which creates lift that keeps the plane in the air. She thought about it for a moment then nodded acceptance. The cure was complete on one unforgettable afternoon when he let her take the controls of the forgiving 180.
“You look wonderful, Louella,” said Skye, kissing her on both cheeks. They were warm and powdery. She did look immeasurably better than when he had last seen her, two years ago at Jocelyn’s memorial service. Louella’s colour was good, and her eyes, once dull and cloudy, were clear and shining. “You must have had the operation,” he said.
She nodded happily. “It’s like a miracle. Not to be chained to that machine and to be free to go where I want. I feel alive again.”
“Where did you have it done? Detroit?”
“Heavens, no. It would be another two years before I got to the top of the list for a kidney transplant. I had it done at a very posh private clinic in Florida. It’s almost like a spa.”
Louella turned away to greet another guest as a waiter appeared at Skye’s elbow and handed him a vodka tonic without being asked. Skye smiled his thanks. There was something comforting about a place where your every whim was known and catered to. Lord Fraser, resplendent in a kilt, mess jacket and sporran, came up to greet him, hand extended and a delighted smile on his rather craggy face. The Scottish nobleman was Skye’s closest friend on the island. Skye sometimes thought of him as a living oxymoron. Robert Lovat Fraser had inherited a title that had been conferred on his family by the English crown in the early 1800s and spoke in the tones of the classically educated Englishman, yet he was Scottish to the core. Skye would never forget the first time he was introduced to him. On hearing Skye’s name, Fraser had given a great shout of delight, uncharacteristically clapped him on the back and immediately launched into a long dissertation on the MacLeods of Skye. Skye knew the basic elements of the story from his father—also called Skye, as had been his grandfather. An ancestor had fought in a Highland regiment on the side of the British during the American Revolution and somehow, probably by deserting, had contrived to stay on in the new country when the war ended.
All this Skye knew, but Fraser was able to fill in the details, and describe the places that still resonated in Skye’s tribal memory. He spoke of Dunvegan, a castle on a rocky cliff overlooking the sea that was the seat of the clan chief on the Isle of Skye. One night, while taken grandly with wine, Lord Fraser tried unsuccessfully to convince Skye and Jocelyn to change the name of their villa to Dunvegan. Jocelyn’s face had been a study of horror and amused incredulity. Fraser’s own villa, one of the largest on the island, built on a rocky promontory on the windswept Atlantic side, was called Beaufort after a castle near the river Beauly. When at home in Scotland, the Frasers lived in another ancient castle called Airdwold, on a small island in the same Beauly River. Fraser often complained that the cost of its upkeep was slowly bankrupting him. “And we don’t have any Rembrandts or Gainsboroughs to sell off, either,” he had added, “Celtic chieftains weren’t much into culture back in those days. They were too busy feuding with each other.” But he was scandalized when Skye had once innocently asked him why, if that was the case, he didn’t simply shut the place down.
“Simon Fraser built Airdwold in 1746,” His Lordship had spluttered, “and Frasers have lived in it ever since. Besides, the villagers depend on the estate for their livelihoods and I can’t abandon them. Noblesse oblige, and all that.”
Soon after building Beaufort, Fraser had brought over a piper, a member of the famous MacCrimmon clan of hereditary pipers, to instruct the villa’s black butler in the art of playing the bagpipes so that His Lordship could awaken each day to the skirl of pipes. Fiona, Lord Fraser’s serenely patrician wife, came over to greet Skye. “It’s wonderful to have you back, Skye. We’ve missed you terribly. Especially Robert. Now you two can go back to having your learned discussions about everything under the sun.”
“I already have some topics in mind,” Skye grinned, pleasantly aware of how much he enjoyed the company of these two.
Over in the parking area, Nick cleared his throat noisily. A cavalcade of three jeeps was advancing slowly down the rocky trail. It was time for the “entrance.” Inspector Foxcroft was riding in the passenger seat of the first jeep while one of his men drove. There were two other Scotland Yard detectives in the third vehicle. Except for the royal standard flying from the left fender, or “wing” as the English called it, the second jeep was identical to all the others. Curious to see who the royal companion was this year, Skye stared at the man climbing out from behind the wheel. With a faint sense of shock, he realized that he recognized him. Although his involvement with the horse show world had waned considerably in recent years, Skye still subscribed to the International Journal of the Horse, and the exploits of Harry Downing-Harris had been featured in recent editions. Downing-Harris was the youngest member of a revitalized English equestrian team that had recently won a World Cup in Dublin. The lanky horseman was at least a foot taller and more than twenty years younger than Princess Helen, but that was the way she increasingly seemed to like them.
Princess Helen occasionally went horseback riding with Skye and had always been fond of him, and she made her way directly to him, ignoring her hostess. He inclined his head in a modest bow and murmured, “Your Royal Highness.” After one “Your Royal Highness,” it was permissible to address her as “Ma’am.” She hadn’t attended the memorial service but she had written a thoughtful letter of condolence. The chances were that it had been written by one of her ladies-in-waiting, but at least she had signed it. Now she held out her hand to be kissed, and Skye kissed the air just above it in the prescribed manner. “We were so sorry about Jocelyn. She was such a lovely person.”
“Thank you, ma’am. And thank you for your letter.”
Turning to Downing-Harris, she introduced Skye as a fellow horseman. The young Guards officer greeted this news with bored indifference. Skye had intended to congratulate Downing-Harris on his brilliant wins in the show ring, but the words died unspoken in his throat. Was it possible the guy was jealous? It seemed inconceivable that the dowdy, thick-waisted Princess could inspire such feelings, but being her acknowledged companion could have many advantages in the Byzantine social world they inhabited. As Downing-Harris turned to follow Princess Helen over to greet the Frasers, Skye was amused to see he had a badly receding chin.
Lady Fraser swept low in a practised curtsy and her husband bowed from the waist. Finally, Princess Helen deigned to greet her hostess. Louella Harper almost stumbled as she attempted a curtsy, then uttered a flustered “Oh, dear,” as another jeep pulled into the parking lot.
“Trust the Rastoks to make a gaffe like that,” muttered Lord Fraser. The Rastoks were a wealthy couple from La Jolla who rented Banyan every February and March. The jeep jerked to a halt and a slender figure sprang lithely over the tailgate.
In the flickering light of a torch, Skye saw with a sudden lurch of his heart that it was Erin Kelly, the ex-wife of the man who had killed Jocelyn. There was no mistaking