A Spelling Mistake by Nancy Warren

Author:Nancy Warren [Warren, Nancy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781928145868
Publisher: Ambleside Publishing
Published: 2020-11-06T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

“So he was here,” I said as we looked at the brochure featuring A Killer in His Sights to be launched at The Blarney Tome in Ballydehag.

He nodded, and we headed back to the car.

I had that frustrated feeling you get when you run for a plane or a train or a bus and just miss it. You kept cursing fate. If only I hadn’t wasted so much time trying to shove myself in trousers that no longer fit. If only we’d discovered Candace’s body an hour earlier. We might have caught Tristan Holt red-handed.

Lochlan didn’t share my frustration. “He’s not left the area. We’ll find him.”

His cool assurance was irritating but also reassuring.

I clicked my seatbelt back on, and once more we headed down the ocean road. Twice more we stopped, and while I stayed in the car, Lochlan got out to do his bloodhound thing. Both times he got back in the car with a shake of the head.

But the third time, I could tell just from looking at him that he’d caught a scent of his quarry. He remained with his head raised in one spot, utterly still. Goosebumps rose on my arms. If I was Tristan Holt, I was certain I’d feel the hairs on the back of my neck start to rise.

I got out of the car without being fetched and came up beside Lochlan.

“Stay behind me. And don’t speak. Stay as quiet as you can.”

I nodded, and we set off. I stayed behind Lochlan, worried that my jangling heart and nervous sweat would get in the way of his tracking. I didn’t see any evidence of tents or other people, but he remained on the course he’d set himself, striding off in virtually a straight line. I nearly screamed when a rabbit broke cover and ran right in front of me, but otherwise I managed to keep my mouth shut.

At length we came to a patch of flat ground beneath a tree.

In the clearing was a dark green pup tent that had seen better days. But more interesting than this was our quarry himself, sitting on a flat rock with his back resting against a tree trunk. He had a portable stove, and he was drinking coffee from a tin mug.

He was reading Bartholomew’s latest book, appropriately named A Killer in His Sights.

“Good day to you, Mr. Holt,” Lochlan said, sounding as pleasant as though they’d just bumped into each other on the high street of Ballydehag.

Tristan Holt nearly jumped out of his skin, splashing hot coffee on his bare hand, which made him curse and struggle to his feet. He looked surprised, angry, and guilty all at once.

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s a fine day for a drive. Quinn and I decided, after the exertions of Bartholomew Branson’s book launch, to take a day off. Have a bit of a holiday.”

Tristan Holt didn’t look thrilled to see either of us. His gaze darted between the two of us. He looked like he wanted to scamper away the same way that rabbit had done when I stumbled across it.

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