“Did he bother you?” I asked.
“Not really. He’s just so larger than life. There’s no question that the man comes from Texas. He’s so like the American television shows and movies that take place in Texas. He wears it well, and very proudly.”
“You think he’s working too hard to be genuine?”
Tom thought a moment. “No, I just think he is what he is and he wants tae make sure everyone knows it. Nothing wrong with that, but I’d like tae hear about the thieving ways of his grandfather.”
“Okay, only if you drive me over to Cowgate, let me out of the car, and drive away quickly.”
“You really don’t want me tae see the dress. I promise I won’t peek. I’ll wait for you outside.”
“Nope, not an option. A girl’s got to have some superstitions, right?”
Tom laughed, and as he drove me to the errand he couldn’t take part in, I not only told him all the details about Angus and his priceless book, I added the part about Edwin’s new girlfriend.
He was equally intrigued by both stories.
FIFTEEN
I waved as Tom reluctantly pulled away from the curb. It was a little more than being superstitious about the dress. He had plenty to do, and I didn’t like people waiting for me.
Besides, Rosie bought into the superstition completely and had begged me not to let Tom see the dress before the wedding. I’d promised her.
Located in Cowgate and tucked in between a tobacco shop and a butcher shop, Petal Dress Designs was a pocket of a place that would have been claustrophobic if it hadn’t been filled with so many beautiful dresses to distract one from feeling like the walls were closing in.
The dress I’d found was as simple as a dress could be, but I’d tried on a few others. In fact, since my mom couldn’t be there with me, I’d tried on a few and texted her the pictures. The comments had been varied:
-Almost.
-Not quite.
-Beautiful, but is it you?
-Oh no.
And then …
-That’s the one!
It had been the perfect one, except for the way it fit. It was a bit tight up top and a bit loose on the bottom. But then I’d met with Bonnie Warren, the shop’s seamstress. In a flurry of measuring tape and taffeta that had been absently wrapped around her neck, she’d proclaimed that my “difficulties would be fixed.” At least, I thought that’s what she said. Her accent was as strong as Rosie’s.
Once Tom was well out of sight, I pushed through the shop’s door, the bell above it jingling.
“Welcome to Petal,” a voice called from the back.
I made my way carefully down the short and narrow aisle, thinned because of the skirts poofing from the racks. The side walls each held two rows of dresses, as did the four circular racks on the floor. Most of the dresses were white or off-white, but some bright colors sprouted here and there.
The owner appeared from the back, a pencil in her mouth and two dresses folded over her arms.
“Oh, hello there. You here tae see Bonnie?” She took out the pencil.
“I am.”
“She’s just in the back. G’on.”
The back of the shop was even more cramped than the front. Bonnie’s workroom was at the very back. Small and cramped with dresses and a sewing machine, I wondered how she managed to get anything done in the space.
I stuck my head through the doorway.
“Bonnie, hi. It’s Delaney Nichols.”
She looked up and put a hand over one of her eyes. “Och, lass, I have yer dress right here.”
I was perplexed that she’d covered one eye, but she uncovered it as she began the search for the dress. She found it quickly and held it out toward me.
“It’s a lovely frock, aye?” she said as the eye she’d covered closed, seemingly involuntarily.
“Bonnie, are you okay?” I pointed toward my own eye.
“Och, aye, I’ve a bad eye, lass. Happens when ye get old. Things stop working, one at a time. My eye’s aboot the fourteenth thing tae go.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Not tae worry. What do ye think of the dress?”
It was something I’d envisioned Audrey Hepburn would wear, a long-sleeved, white satin frock, with a scoop neck and fitted bodice, a loose skirt that fell just below my knees. There was no lace, nothing other than the silky material of the dress. I loved it.
But something seemed wrong as I looked at the dress.
“Bonnie, it looks great … except … well, did you loosen the top, tighten up the waist?”
Bonnie looked up at me with furrowed brows. “Lass, it was the opposite. I was tae tighten the bust, loosen the waist.” She looked me up and down. She looked the dress up and down. “Oh, dear.”
“Should I try it on?” I asked, trying to be helpful.
“I doubt you’d get it over your neck and down tae cover … well, tae cover yerself.” She put one fist up to her mouth and I thought I heard a snicker. “Lass, it’s that one bad eye, that must be it. I read my notes all wrong.”
As another chuckle escaped her lips, any terror that might have been creeping up my spine because of the disaster that was now my wedding dress dissipated. I felt laughter bubble up my own throat.
I looked at Bonnie and she covered her bad eye, trying hard to also cover her laughter.
“Oh, Bonnie,” I finally said with a real laugh of my own. “It’s not only wrong of me to laugh about you having a bad eye, it’s downright rude. I’m so sorry.”
“Lass, it’s the liveliest thing that has happened tae me in many months. I’m so sorry I didn’t … well, I didn’t read my notes correctly. I will fix your dress. Will two more days cause any problem?”
My mom would be there in two more days. “Not at all! Thank you!”
And then we both collapsed into laughter. Later I might realize that it really wasn’t as funny as all that, but we both must have needed the release. I couldn’t wait to introduce Bonnie to my mother. I suspected they’d get along very well.
I left the shop with a smile still on my face. The only thing that would have been better would have been for my mom to be there too, for that fitting. She would have also laughed. I’d tell her all about it.
I boarded the bus to head back to The Cracked Spine, and let my thoughts roll around in my mind. By the time the short trip was over, I had solved nothing, come up with no answers, and only felt worse for Norval Fraser. I could not imagine him killing anyone, no matter what.
I was so lost in my thoughts that it wasn’t until I disembarked the bus that I noticed a police car outside the bookshop. It was parked normally on the street and its lights weren’t flashing. Maybe whoever it belonged to wasn’t even inside the shop, or maybe it was just Inspector Winters visiting. I quick-stepped my way to the front window. I craned my neck and spied Inspector Winters inside at the front desk, talking to Rosie.
Though he was a friend, he also was an officer of the law, and there had been a murder, and I’d been somehow in the vicinity of it—again. No matter friendships, a surge of anxiety went through me. I wished for a bookish voice to let me in on what might be going on inside before I joined them. But the bookish voices didn’t work quite that way, and they were stubbornly silent.
The bell jingled above the door as I entered, and Inspector Winters and Rosie looked in my direction. Hector was stretched out on the floor, playing with a sock that had been knotted on the end. He stood, barked once, and trotted toward me as if he hadn’t seen me in years. I scooped him up as I eyed a scrapbook lying open on the desk. It was the scrapbook, the one I’d heard about the day Angus came into the shop and diverted everyone’s attention before I could take a good look at it.
There were no other customers in the shop and shadows were coming and going as clouds rolled over the sun. It was my favorite time of the day; I called it the lazy time, and if I happened to be in the shop instead of the warehouse, sometimes I would grab a book from the shelves, fin
d a comfortable seat, and read an hour or so away. The perks of working at the shop were endless, but that was one of my favorites.
“Delaney, my dear, we’ve been waiting for ye. As luck would have it, Inspector Winters stopped by tae speak with ye. I’ve been showing him some things,” Rosie said. “I had some memories, and the scrapbook was nearby anyway.”
“Hello. Memories about what?” I carried Hector to the desk.
The scrapbook’s binding had long ago been ripped and stretched. The spine was probably about six inches high, broken and thready, but the pages sloped up to about twice that size at their outer edges. I peered at the newspaper clippings on the exposed pages.
“Aye, look here.” Rosie pointed at a picture of two men, one of whom I immediately recognized as a younger Norval, “this is the man ye met with, the one who’s been arrested, God rest his poor great-nephew’s soul. This is another man who lives for Nessie, maybe not in the same way, but is also obsessed.”
“I came in tae talk tae you about Norval being arrested,” Inspector Winters said. “I didn’t know the paper would have a story this morning. I’m sorry if you were surprised.”
I relaxed and looked closely to see if he was just saying something that would make me let my guard down, but I didn’t see anything other than sincerity. He continued, “Rosie was telling me about the feud Norval was a part of about ten years ago.”
“It’s okay. Thanks. What feud?” I said.
“Aye. That’s what I was remembering. It made the newspapers. I thought maybe I clipped the stories. And I did! This other man,” she pointed, “his name is Albert Winsom, he said that Norval told him he could have all of his papers.”
“That’s what Norval told me,” I said. “I believe that’s what he told Edwin. We could have his papers if we promised to continue his work.”
“Aye, but ye and Edwin said ye wouldnae carry on the research. Norval claimed that Mr. Winsom reneged on taking over the research so Norval refused tae give him the papers. Mr. Winsom claimed that taking over the work was never part of the deal. They both felt cheated and it somehow became more than just a personal argument; ’twas an interesting Edinburgh scandal for a day or two. Not long, but there was talk of fisticuffs.”
I had a hard time imagining mild-mannered Norval lifting a fist, no matter the situation, but as I’d pondered already I also had a hard time seeing him as a killer. There was a chance I needed to admit to myself that I simply didn’t know him very well. I glanced over the scrapbook but didn’t see a picture where it looked like he’d taken a beating.
“How is Winsom obsessed with Nessie?” I asked.
“He’s a chemist,” Rosie said, “but his shop is filled with souvenirs and what he calls artifacts. He claims he’s seen her a time or two but has no photographic evidence.” She put a finger on the picture in the scrapbook. “He said he would display the important parts of Norval’s collection, but he’d be the one tae determine which things were important. I believe that bothered Norval too, someone else deciding what was important and what wasnae.”
A chemist was the same thing as a pharmacist. I looked at Inspector Winters. “Were drugs in any way used to kill Gavin?”
“No, the medical examiner has determined the manner of death conclusively. Death by stabbing with a knife.”
“Are Rosie’s memories important to the case?” I asked.
“Aye, believe it or not, maybe,” he said as he scratched his head.
“Of course, this is important,” Rosie said. “How could it not be? Did ye read the article this morning?”
“I did, but not well, perhaps,” I said. In fact, I had skimmed much of it, the important fact that Norval had been arrested needing some digesting before I moved deeper into the article.
Rosie pursed her lips. “Gavin MacLeod’s clients.” She lifted the edge of the scrapbook and fished out the flattened newspaper from this morning. She held it up. “Mr. MacLeod’s investment firm has recently become the subject of a Ministry of Finance investigation. It doesn’t list the details as tae why, but that wee bit tells me that he had some unhappy clients. And then the paper goes about listing some of his clients. I ken a number of the names, but the one I zoned in on is Albert Winsom! That’s how I remembered.”
I looked at Inspector Winters. Birk had mentioned some possible issues with Gavin’s company, but it seemed a much bigger deal now. I wished I’d read the article more thoroughly. “Who released this to the press?”
“I’m not sure. In fact, I wondered if by some chance it was you,” Inspector Winters said. I shook my head. “Right. We’ve already begun looking at his clients, but until Rosie told me I had no idea that Mr. Winsom and Norval had such a public row. It was a time ago and who knows if the connections mean anything, but in a way, there could be motive there. We’ll take a better, more informed approach with Winsom now.”
I smiled at Rosie. “Good job.”
“Thank ye, lass.”
“Am I in trouble?” I asked, turning to Inspector Winters.
“Not at the moment,” he said with a half smile. He looked at Rosie, seeming to debate if he should continue in front of her. She didn’t look like she was going anywhere. Inspector Winters forged ahead. “Not only was I curious if you knew the list of clients, I also wanted tae let you know that I’m making sure Norval gets some help with his mental health. I believe you are correct that he’s not well. Though he’s our suspect, I’m aware that other issues might be at play.”
“That’s great,” I said.
“Aye. He’s … fond of you. Are you certain you just met?”
“Yes, but he … well, he was worried the police might try to set him up because they don’t like him, think his apartment is a fire hazard.”
Inspector Winters shook his head. “No, lass, of course you know that isn’t true.”
I didn’t, but I hoped not.
Inspector Winters cleared his throat. “He was under the impression that you might be helping clear his name. If so, how?”
I nodded. Time to confess. “He left me a key to his flat. He’s convinced there’s something inside that would help prove his innocence, if need be.”
“If need be?”
“Yes, he prepared a note for me and didn’t give it to me until after we found Gavin’s body.”
“I see.”
Inspector Winters knew all the implications of Norval’s pre-preparation. “You didn’t tell me that in your statement.”
“No, I’m sorry. It wasn’t … quite what it turned out to be.”
“What do you think is in his flat that will help him?”
“I don’t know. Did he give you any indication what it might be? I mean, you guys have searched the place, right? I haven’t gone in yet.”
“We have.” Inspector Winters bit his bottom lip. “We’re done, though. There’s a lot of junk in there, and nothing that could serve as any sort of alibi for Norval. Nothing yet that points our suspicion in any another direction.”
I sensed that Inspector Winters wanted Norval to be innocent. Maybe he’d grown to like him too. “Tom and I were near there, at the church across the street this morning. Crime scene tape was over Norval’s door. We didn’t go in. I didn’t take the key with me. I haven’t used it. It seemed … wrong.”
Inspector Winters nodded. “The tape is mostly tae keep out curious reporters and the like, but I thought it was put up yesterday. I’ll have to check the timing.”
“Do you know who Brodie Watson is?” I asked.
Rosie huffed a noise that made it clear that she knew exactly who he was.
“The writer?” Inspector Winters asked.
“Yes, he’d been by to visit Norval recently, at least according to Reverend Nisa. The reverend at the church by Dean Village. You should go talk to her too.”
“Really? Brodie Watson?”
“Yes. I’m afraid I’ll get something wrong if I go into more detail. What I learned was according to Nisa, and I don’t want to m
isspeak. Norval didn’t mention Brodie to me at all.”
As Inspector Winters fell into thought, Rosie and I exchanged raised eyebrows.
Finally, Inspector Winters looked at me. “If you’re inclined, go on into Norval’s flat. There’s … well, there’s so much there. Our people looked thoroughly, but you are used tae those sorts of items. You might know more. Let me get one more final assurance that we’re done, and if you want tae, please go on in and look around. I’ll talk tae my chief-inspector and let you know later today.” He paused, then looked at me. “Is that something you’d like tae do?”
Of course it was, but not for the reasons he might think. I’m always up for working to clear an innocent man’s name, but if proof that Nessie existed was somewhere inside that apartment, I was sure to become quickly distracted by those items. A thread of shame choked off any phony altruism I might have felt.
“I would,” I said.
“Good. I’ll let you know. What do you make of Norval’s obsession?”
“You mean, do I believe in Nessie?” I said. Hector barked.
“That’s my boy,” Rosie said as she reached over the desk and patted his head. “Of course, Nessie is real. It’s foolish tae believe otherwise.”
“Really?” I said.
“Aye, of course,” she said as she placed her hand on the scrapbook again. “In fact, it’s all here in this book, I suspect.”
Inspector Winters and I looked down at it again. The idea of going through it was daunting—terrifying, actually—even for people who liked tedious tasks. It would be easier to find a needle in a haystack, proof of Norval’s innocence inside his apartment, than finding any real evidence inside that overstuffed book.
“Take it if ye’d like,” Rosie said to Inspector Winters. Even she thought it was too big a task. “It’s all yours.”
“Thank you, Rosie,” he said, but he didn’t reach for it immediately.
“Do you believe in Nessie?” I asked him.
“I do not,” he said with a careful glance at Rosie. She lifted her eyebrows as if to say she didn’t care whether or not he believed anything. “But I wonder what Norval might have in his flat that would prove me wrong, or make me rethink. I don’t know.” He looked at me. “And I know you wonder the same thing.”
The Loch Ness Papers Page 10
