Plaid and Plagiarism

by Molly Macrae

  “I need to be getting home to Mum and Dad,” Christine said, “before they forget I’m staying there. But here’s Norman coming back.”

  Hobbs had switched on a flashlight. He swept it back and forth across the grass as he came back up the hill. He flicked it off when he stepped onto the deck.

  “I’ve called the Specialist Crime Division,” he said. His tone sounded as though he’d brushed his cap and tugged the shoulder seams of his uniform straighter. Janet glanced at his shoes. They were impressively large, but beyond that she had no point of reference to know if they measured up to Specialist Crime standards. “A Major Investigation Team will be on its way shortly,” Hobbs said. “Although ‘on its way shortly’ does not mean the team will arrive anytime soon, as some of them may be coming quite a distance. Please don’t take that remark as a comment on procedure. When they arrive, they’ll want to speak to you. Mind you, we needn’t wait out here.” He cast a hopeful glance toward the house. “Perhaps a cup of tea would be in order, unless there’s some reason—” He took several more guarded sniffs toward the open windows. “Forgive me, but there’s a reek like a pot of three-week-old kale coming from the house. Can’t you smell it?”

  “Trust me, it’s much worse inside,” Janet said. “And that’s something we should probably warn you about before your specialists get here.” With a silent apology to Jess, she filled Hobbs in on finding the estate agent in the kitchen and what she’d told them about the vandalism. “Jess did ask us not to tell anyone. She’s sure it was only directed at her and her business. She’s certain it won’t happen again after I move in. And this morning I could almost believe her, but now . . .” Janet’s words trailed off under Constable Hobbs’s gaze, which was really more like a glare, she realized. She revised her opinion: His round baby face didn’t need help from a mustache. “So,” she said, mustering her courage, “a locksmith is coming tomorrow, and the vandalism really won’t happen again, but what all this means is that I can’t offer you tea.”

  “You didn’t think to mention Jess Baillie’s presence here today, or the ongoing vandalism, when I first arrived?” Hobbs asked.

  Tallie moved over to stand beside her mother. “The body seemed more important, and now you know the rest.”

  “Do I?”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Norman,” Christine said. “At this point, you know as much as we do. And this is our first murder, too, so you shouldn’t be surprised if we’ve made a few missteps. But you’ve gotten off to a brilliant start with our help. Think how difficult we could have made it for you if you’d found us weeping and wailing. Instead, we’ve been collected and coherent. In fact, we were in the process of making notes when you arrived and interrupted us. Now, here’s what I suggest we do—you go on in the house and look around so you can further impress your specialists when they finally do get here. We’ll finish our notes and make sure you get a copy. And you’ll be able to trust their accuracy, because amongst the four of us, we have the best brains and background you could ask for—we are a reporter, a lawyer, a social worker, and, best of all, a librarian. Don’t you worry, Norman; we’ve got your back.”

  It hadn’t occurred to Janet, until then, how easily Christine might stand in for the queen, should Elizabeth II ever have something else going on when the guards at Buckingham Palace needed encouragement. And if Elizabeth didn’t mind a stand-in wearing a comfortably worn twinset and jeans with elastic in the waist, or looking younger than her oldest child. It was too dark to gauge Norman Hobbs’s reaction to Christine’s speech, but he did leave them and go into the house. She found it endearing that, given what he smelled, he wiped his feet first.

  “There,” Christine said. “I’ve never used the phrase ‘got your back’ before, and now I’ve used it twice in one day.”

  “You probably shouldn’t overuse it, though,” said Janet.

  “I feel invigorated.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “I feel energized, and I think we should do something to help Norman make the best possible impression on these major criminal specialists of his.”

  “I have an idea that might work,” Tallie said. She waited until her mother and Christine were looking at her. “We’ve done well. We’ve contributed what we know and we’ll give Constable Hobbs our notes. Beyond that, we should let the police do their work.”

  “But—”

  “No, really. We should stay out of it.”

  “Well, shoot.”

  “And don’t say ‘shoot.’”

  From Tallie’s fondness for trousers with pockets to her decision to quit the law, Janet knew that what she said and did almost always made sense. She told Christine that before they repeated what little they knew to the Major Investigation Team when it finally arrived. She reminded Christine of it again, after they’d been dismissed—“Dismissively,” Christine said with a huff—and cautioned not to leave the area.

  By then, the activity in and around the house had attracted the attention of neighbors and passersby. Janet saw the silhouette of someone watching from an upper window next door. Ian Atkinson? How fascinating for the crime writer to have this going on below his window. Unless he was annoyed by the commotion and looking out to see who was disturbing his peace. The local press came sniffing around, too, but the victim’s name hadn’t been released yet, so they weren’t aware they’d lost one of their own.

  “If you can leave your keys with me,” Constable Hobbs said, “and postpone the locksmith, that will be helpful. The house will be safe enough with the experts in charge of it. Now, I’ll see you safely past the gawkers.” He walked with them, clearing his throat every few yards as though preparing them for something he had to say. After turning the corner into Fingal Street he said it. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Hear what?” Summer asked. She took her phone from her pocket. Hobbs looked at her and cleared his throat again. She put it away.

  “That Jess Baillie isn’t guilty,” he said.

  “You didn’t hear any of us say that she is,” said Janet.

  “And what makes you so sure she isn’t?” Christine asked on top of her.

  For a brief moment, Norman Hobbs looked as though he might be sorry he’d broached the subject.

  “He’s speaking as an unauthorized source,” Tallie said, studying his face as though looking for further nuances to interpret for the others. “What else shouldn’t we hear, Constable Hobbs?”

  Before he could add anything, or retract the little he’d said, voices rose behind them from the onlookers. Hobbs touched his cap and returned to the scene.

  “I think they’re bringing the body out,” Christine said.

  “I think he weaseled out of telling us something,” Tallie said.

  “Do you?” Christine asked.

  Janet thought Christine might follow Hobbs and took her arm. “Come on. I can’t bear to look at the house again tonight.”

  “Are you going to be okay?” Tallie asked Janet.

  “Compared to poor Una Graham?”

  “Compared to the mom who didn’t expect to find her house buried in putrid garbage. Or the one who didn’t expect to find a murder victim in her garden shed.”

  “Well, if your dad hadn’t bought the shed and had it installed in the first place, then we wouldn’t have found a body in it.” Janet immediately felt bad for being snarky. She gave Tallie a kiss to make up for it, and said she’d be along to their temporary accommodations above the bookshop before too long. “But first I’ll walk Christine home.”

  “You know you can’t blame Dad for Una ending up in the shed, don’t you, Mom?”

  “I do know that, dear. You and Summer go on, now. I’ll be fine. Fix yourselves a tot of something when you get back. Summer’s had a bigger shock than any of us.”

  Summer, bouncing on her toes, looked less shocked than she did ready to take a run in the heather-covered hills. “When I was at the newspaper,” she said, “I learned that typing fast and pushing on th
rough is the best way to get over shock. So I’ll get on those notes we said we’d share with the constable. Sorry, Tallie. Notes first, tots later. ”

  “No worries,” Tallie said. “I’ll use pre-tot time for a spot of online research. How’s this for a topic—Scottish case law on meddlers and meddling?”

  “Excellent,” Janet said. “Information is power. If we know where we stand, those specialists won’t be able to scare us with fancy titles or false threats.”

  “Not exactly what I meant,” Tallie said.

  “I know that, too, dear.” Janet gave Tallie another kiss. “Remind me to call Allen when I get back. There’s no telling how or when this will end up in the news, but we don’t want Allen and Nicola hearing it that way first.”

  “I’ll text him so he doesn’t read it first in a tweet,” Tallie said.

  “Or hear it first from Nicola’s mother,” Christine put in. “She has that competitive streak.”

  “Oh, my word.” Janet looked back toward the house. She hadn’t seen her son’s mother-in-law there, but she hadn’t looked closely at any of the faces in the small crowd. “I’ve been terrible and haven’t even called Maida since we got here. I’d better fix that in the next day or two. Tallie, dear, tell your brother I’ll call him in the morning.”

  Janet gave each of the younger women a hug for good measure. She watched as they started down Fingal Street toward the High Street, Summer clearly on a mission, and Tallie with the backward glance of a sensible daughter who knows her mother well enough to have forebodings. Then, her arm linked with Christine’s, Janet turned so they were heading up Fingal Street in the opposite direction.

  “Come on, we should walk faster,” she said.

  “Cutting over on Victoria will get me home fastest.”

  “Not if we’re stopping by Jess Baillie’s on the way.”

  Ben Nevis Mews, where Jess Baillie lived, lacked the former stables that would make the street a true mews. It lacked a view of the mountain it boasted, too. A halfhearted streetlight showed Janet and Christine a short, narrow road with no outlet and three modern semidetached houses on either side. The light’s brackish glow also showed them a half dozen people watching as Jess Baillie was helped into the backseat of a police car.

  6

  Don’t stare at her,” Janet said. She turned her back as the police car bearing Jess Baillie came toward them. The windows of the car were closed, but she imagined she heard sobs as the car passed behind them.

  “Well, that’s a shame,” Christine said.

  “And that’s an understatement. Who was that in the car with her? It wasn’t Constable Hobbs. Didn’t he tell them she wasn’t guilty?”

  “Would they believe him?” Christine asked. “Should they believe him?”

  “They should take what he says into consideration. He’s one of them. He knows the town. He knows the people. He’s their man on the ground with local expertise.”

  “Maybe lack of familiarity with him, or prejudicial familiarity with the Highlands, has bred contempt.”

  Janet made a rude noise.

  “Then maybe they found something Norman didn’t know about,” said Christine.

  “When? They’ve hardly had time.”

  “A witness?”

  “A witness who waited until the body was discovered to come forward?” Janet asked. “What a fine, upstanding citizen that would be. Okay, earlier today you wanted me to be suspicious. Now tell me you’re not.”

  “They’re creeping closer.” Christine tipped her head toward Jess’s neighbors. The neighbors had shifted their attention from the departed police car to the women standing at the entrance to their enclosed domain. “Let’s take our suspicions for a walk.”

  “Fine.” Janet didn’t spit the word, but her walk was more of a stalk. “I had two small pieces of consolation to hold on to through this horrible evening. First,” she said, jabbing a finger skyward, “that Una was killed in the shed and not in the house.”

  “Definitely a relief.”

  “Don’t interrupt.” Janet raised a second finger beside the first and stabbed both of them as though putting out the eyes of the moon as it shone its cheerless light on the street before them. “Two—that Jess isn’t guilty. Because if she is, then all that garbage in the house will be considered evidence. The whole house will be considered evidence. And I’ll be living out of a suitcase above the shop for who knows how long. And I’m a total, complete, miserable, and selfish so-and-so for thinking of my own comfort when—”

  “Stop it.” Christine grabbed Janet’s hand and held on just as Janet turned the stabbing fingers toward herself. “I need to get home to Mum and Dad, and you need to go have your own tot and then have Tallie’s and Summer’s on top of it.”

  Janet pulled her hand away.

  “We’ll get through this,” Christine said. “And don’t start grinding your teeth. I know you. You won’t be happy with the National Health dentist.”

  Janet left Christine trying to get through a creaky front door without waking her parents. She continued her stalk home, supposing she should feel uneasy being out alone with a murderer on the loose. “But I don’t,” she said aloud. She’d enjoyed jabbing her finger earlier, and jabbed it again, this time at a wheelie bin left on the pavement. “I refuse to be a cliché.”

  A startled cat hissed, making her jump. The cat slunk behind the bin, and Janet hurried to the next corner and into the better-lit High Street. The tide was out in the harbor, leaving moored boats tipped as though napping on their seabed. Her adrenaline had ebbed, too, and she wanted her bed. Her own bed. As she approached the bookshop, a figure sitting on the steps waved. Her sensible Tallie.

  “I’d forgotten how everything sounds louder in the dark,” Tallie said when Janet dropped down next to her on the stoop and sighed. “Things smell stronger, too. Or do you think that’s an illusion?”

  “If you’re speaking in subtext, I’m not up for it.”

  “No subtext,” Tallie said. “Just an observation. The harbor is full of good, basic smells.”

  “If you like stranded seaweed and muck. I’m not up for more smells tonight, either.”

  “Christine called.”

  “And I didn’t think to call you. Don’t fuss at me, Tallie. I’m especially not up for that. I was going to tell you about Jess when I got home.”

  “No fussing. I called Constable Hobbs. He might have been more surprised than you about Jess being taken in. He hadn’t heard.”

  Janet stopped picking pills from the cuff of her sweatshirt. “What did he say when you told him?”

  “He asked very politely for our notes.”

  “How is Summer coming with them? Wait, first, what did your research into laws about meddling tell you?”

  “I made cocoa instead,” Tallie said. “Let’s go warm it with a tot.”

  The Lawries brought fresh scones to Yon Bonnie Books the next morning. Janet hadn’t expected Pamela and Kenneth for another hour. She hadn’t expected the scones at all, and she felt bad for being tempted to leave all of them out on the stoop, no matter how persistently they tapped on the glass for her attention. She’d looked forward to getting the shop ready and to opening it solo for the first time.

  Tallie was out for a morning run—her way of dealing with stress. Christine and Summer were driving the forty miles to Fort William for a meeting with a baking and catering supplier for the tearoom. Janet had phoned her son in Edinburgh, a necessarily short call because Allen and Nicola were getting the children ready for day care and themselves for work. She’d sung a quick “Itsy Bitsy Spider” for Freddy and Wally, the two- and three-year-old grandsons she adored, before disconnecting with a loud smooch for each of them. Then she’d planned to sweep, dust, polish, and straighten the bookshop with such muscle that she would force the worst of last night’s worries out of her nightmares and into the rational light of day. But she was willing to see if scones from Paudel’s Newsagent, Post Office, and Convenience could do
that, as well.

  “Pear ginger,” Kenneth said, handing one to her. “Best take a serviette, too.” The buttery, spicy scent of the fresh pastries soothed Janet’s disappointment at having company. Kenneth passed a scone to Pamela and paper napkins to each of them. “Did Paudel have the shop the last time you stayed in Inversgail?”

  “Yes. I remember Basant quite well,” Janet said, “and his sisters, Arati and Puja.” The siblings had emigrated from Nepal. Basant Paudel had been a teacher in their country. He’d given that up and bought the business as a way to support his younger sisters in their education.

  “Arati makes these whenever she’s home on holiday from her nursing course,” Kenneth said. “Mind you, it takes second sight to know when they’re available.”

  “Listen to him,” Pamela said. “The man’s havering. He saw the girl arrive home last night. She won’t be making scones for the shop many times more, though. She’s been offered a job in Glasgow when she finishes her course, so enjoy them while you can.”

  “They’re delicious,” Janet said around a mouthful. “Thank you. If she isn’t going to be making them anymore, do you think she’d be willing to share the recipe, or maybe sell it?” She studied her scone after each bite. “These would be wonderful in the tearoom.”

  “She might,” Kenneth said.

  “Don’t be daft,” said Pamela. “You don’t sell a recipe like this.”

  “Everything has a price, dear heart.” Kenneth took the pastry bag from Pamela as she reached inside for another. “We’ll save the rest for the others, shall we?” He folded the top of the bag and creased it. Then he went around behind the sales desk and made himself comfortable on the high stool. “Now that I think on it, Arati very likely bought the recipe from us in the first place. She came in for weeks on end, drooling over a cookery book we had on display, and if I recollect right, there were scones on the cover. This was two, three years ago. Then one day she up and bought it, and soon after that Paudel’s started selling scones. There, you see? I’ll give myself a pat on the back for having a good memory and for being the best kind of bookseller. There’s a tip for you, Janet: Remember your customers’ names, remember what they like, and remember what they buy for friends and family. We were quite good at it, weren’t we, Pamela?”