by Molly Macrae
“Thank you,” he said. “That’s very helpful.”
Janet thought Hobbs had a good handle on the concept of forbearance.
“About the bags,” he said, “did you notice if they were all the same kind? Or did you notice if they or the loose rubbish were wet?”
Janet and Christine, on either side of him, looked around him at each other. Neither could remember exactly.
“What about the pictures you took?”
Christine showed him. They weren’t much. She’d taken them quickly, and there were only three. He asked her to forward them to him, just the same.
“Now, Constable Hobbs.” Janet moved around so that she was standing in front of him. She put her fists on her hips, a power stance she felt she needed when she recited the demands she’d promised herself she’d make. “I want to know what’s going on with my house, when I’ll be allowed to move in, and what they’ve found—”
Hobbs started to respond. Janet replanted her fists.
“I need to know these things so I’ll know what I’m dealing with. Whether there’s more of a mess than just the rubbish in the kitchen, which is bad enough. But are the police making their own mess? Is there fingerprint powder everywhere? Ripped up floorboards? I need to know. Oh! And I absolutely need to know if they’ve found rats in the house.” Her fists left her hips as her elbows pulled into her sides.
Hobbs drew back against the workbench. “I’ve heard nothing about rats.”
“Nor I,” Christine said. “Where did you?”
“Maida Fairlie. She heard from the renters. I’ve never heard anything like that from Jess, and I’ve always liked her, but I’m beginning to wonder. Constable Hobbs.” Janet’s fists were back on her hips. “The success of our whole bookshop, tearoom, B and B retirement scheme rests in part on that house being livable and me living in it. I need—” Her right fist left her hip again, and her index finger drew a half dozen rapid lines between herself and Christine. “We need—” The finger made a dozen dizzying circuits connecting the three of them . . . “We all need answers. So what are you going to do about it?” This was the real reason Janet had wanted to hold this conversation out of the public’s eye. She’d never liked confrontations, she wasn’t necessarily good at putting her foot down, and she hadn’t been sure she wouldn’t back down or burst into tears before or after having her say. She’d done well, though, and put her fists back on her hips. The power stance felt good.
“She’s made excellent points, Norman,” Christine said. “What are your thoughts on all this? What steps do you propose?”
“The rats I’ll check into immediately. Speak to Reddick. He owes me something, after the sheep incident this morning. For the bin bags, no doubt someone thought they were doing a good deed and cleared them away. I’ll ask around. See if I can locate them.”
“That’s it?” Janet asked.
“You might speak to Jess yourself.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.”
“In the meantime.” He pushed away from the workbench, and Janet and Christine stepped back. “How’s the redecorating coming along? Noticing any problems with paint odor?”
“For whatever reason, I think the rats lit more of a fire under Hobbs than the garbage bags, don’t you?” Janet asked.
“Much like finding sheep in the house would do for me,” Christine said. “He’s right, though. Give Jess a call. And I’ll call sweet Rosie at Jess’s office.”
Tallie was at the sales desk when Janet and Christine returned to the shop. She was ringing up a short stack of Recipes of the Highlands and Islands of Scotland for a young couple bubbling over with excitement. Excitement with an accent from somewhere in their own Midwest, Janet realized.
“Christmas shopping done!” the young woman said. “Can I have a bookmark and one of those bags with your logo on it for each one? Cool. Christmas wrapping done!”
Tallie accepted the woman’s high five, then, when she saw her mother, nodded toward the aisle of literature and poetry books. Janet saw who was browsing the shelf and wanted to high-five Christine, or at least nudge her with her elbow. But Christine’s attention was on two figures in a couple of chairs near the fire—Pamela, snoring not so softly in one, and sitting up and watching them from the other, a sandy-colored terrier.
“Is that Pamela’s dog?” Christine asked, not keeping her voice down because she hadn’t noticed the man browsing the poetry, and it was obvious to anyone that Pamela wouldn’t hear anything through her snores. Christine started toward the two.
Janet stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Shhh. It’s all right.”
“What if it has muddy paws?”
The dog turned its nose to the fire, essentially turning its back on them.
“Ranger has very clean paws,” Tallie told them. “Don’t you, Ranger?
Ranger lifted a desultory shoulder without looking back at them. Then he flopped down in the chair with his head on the arm.
“Rab’s dog,” Janet whispered to Christine.
“We’re not hiring his dog,” Christine whispered back.
“I’ll go speak to him.”
Rab had moved from poetry to the crafts section and appeared to be captivated by a book of Fair Isle mitten patterns.
“Do you knit?” Janet asked after greeting him.
“Not as well as my father did, but maybe a bit better than Ranger.” He took a book of cardigan patterns from where it stood face-out on the shelf and tucked it where it belonged alphabetically spine out. He put the mitten book in the face-out position and turned to her. Then, before she could bring up the dog who’d settled in for a nap in one of their chairs, or the job she hoped he’d take, he offered an apology. Of sorts. “Jess Baillie hired me for a job at your house earlier this week. It didn’t work out.”
“Yes. I heard something about that. Why didn’t it work out?”
“A phone call.”
“Saying what? Who called?” Janet asked.
“Caller ID didn’t work out, either, but somebody telling me not to go to your house.”
“Was it Jess?”
“No.” After answering, Rab moved the question around with his eyes and several twists of his lips, as though investigating its facets. “Someone trying to sound like her, maybe.”
“That sounds awfully—”
“But maybe not.” He shook his head. “No, she gave me that impression—that she was Jess—at first. But that made no sense, because then she said, ‘Tell Jess you’re sorry, but you’re otherwise committed.’ I didn’t like to lie, so I told Jess I had a subsequent engagement.”
“An earlier one, you mean?”
“No. If I’d told her it was a prior engagement, I would have been lying. The anonymous call definitely came after.”
“Did your subsequent engagement pay better than Jess would have?”
Rab straightened the books on the next shelf up from the mitten patterns. “I felt bad about it. About your house, I mean. Not about Jess. She can afford to hire someone else.”
“Well, thank you for that.”
“No thanks needed.” He patted the spine of an origami book and then turned to face her again. “Anyway, I hope I’ve made up for it.”
“Sorry?” She’d been wondering who could have known Jess had hired Rab in the first place. Had that person also found out about the cleaning firm in Fort William that Jess had called?
“I made up for it,” Rab repeated. “Some bugger broke open your bin bags in back. But it’s all right. I cleared it up and took it to the Recycling Centre.”
“Bugger. Can you get it back?”
12
Janet’s outburst came with enough feeling to make moderate Rab MacGregor’s eyes fly wide. Then, before he could come up with a better answer to her question about getting her rubbish back than a stuttered, “Eh, erm,” someone switched the music on the sound system. The mellow strings in the background were abruptly replaced by an electric, percussive exuberance that leaped into the foregr
ound.
“Sounds like Runrig,” Rab shouted. “‘Alba.’ Bit loud.”
Janet started toward the desk but saw Tallie dive for the office, where the sound system controls were. Before she reached the door, the volume was squelched, and Christine emerged from the office looking sheepish.
“Sorry, sorry,” she called to the patrons, all staring in her direction like startled meerkats. Seeing Janet, she waved. Seeing Pamela, woken from her nap, she slunk back into the office.
Janet looked to see how the sound explosion had affected Ranger. He was no longer in the chair—perhaps under it? But Ranger didn’t project the image of a cowering cur, and when she stooped to see, he wasn’t under the chair. She turned back to where she’d left Rab. But—like dog, like man—Rab was no longer there, either. She made a circuit of the store without finding them.
“Bugger,” she said under her breath. She hadn’t often used the word and didn’t intend to start using it more often now. It suited her mood, though, so that she checked ahead and behind and, seeing no one near enough to hear, said it one more time softly, but with percussive feeling. Then she called Constable Hobbs to save him the trouble of asking around about the garbage.
“If he was asking around,” Tallie said, when Janet told her about the garbage and where it had gone.
“I think he probably was, or was planning to,” Janet said. “I think he’d like nothing better than to solve this before the specialists. Remember he asked for our notes. He’s taking a real interest in our contributions.”
“Who’s this who’s interested in contributions, then?” Pamela asked, joining them behind the desk. Despite her unexpected waking to the blast of music, she appeared to be refreshed from her nap. “You want to be careful when it comes to requests for contributions. You’ll find everybody and their brother will be after you for donating merchandise to one worthy cause after another. ‘It’s just a wee book or two,’ they’ll say. But when you add up all those books it’s not so wee anymore. Always remember, your first business is business.”
“Good point,” Janet said, feeling as though putting more space between herself and Pamela could also be good. Or bad, depending on the message stepping away might send. She was already feeling possessive of the shop, though, enjoying the sense of ownership and control. She stayed put and used the power of her straight, white American teeth in a full smile. Unsuccessfully.
“Do you mind a private word?” Pamela asked her, moving in closer. “In the office?”
“I’ve got the desk,” Tallie said. “Go ahead.”
Pamela moved past Janet and through the door. Before stepping inside, Janet exchanged raised eyebrows with Tallie.
The office was a room about the size of a galley kitchen, partitioned off from the sales floor. There was room for two desks, one facing each long wall, each with a rolling chair and flanked by a three-drawer filing cabinet. A bookcase stood at the far end. It was Janet’s least favorite part of the shop. The first time she set foot in the room, she half expected to see the ghost of a chartered accountant, hunched and rubbing its hands over a candle. She’d told Christine, who’d agreed and said they would think of some way to make the space more welcoming. When Christine saw her now, she drew her shoulders up and rubbed her hands.
“Cold in here, isn’t it?” Pamela said, catching Christine’s mime. “You wouldn’t think it would be because it’s so close. It’s an awkward room, though. Tall, dark, and cramped. I think of it as Kenneth’s man cave and try to stay out of it as much as possible. Do sit down, please. I’ll be quick, but no point in us all standing.”
Janet was tempted to stay on her feet and tell Pamela to take a seat, but the woman definitely didn’t look comfortable in the room. Christine rolled a chair from one of the desks into the space between them. Janet followed suit, and they sat elbow-to-elbow facing Pamela.
“Kenneth told me about the misunderstanding over the judging committee with Sharon Davis yesterday,” Pamela said. “He wants you to know that he regrets it.”
“Oh, well, I’m sure—” Janet said.
“Where is Kenneth?” Christine asked on top of her.
Janet shot a glance at Christine. Christine either didn’t catch it or ignored her—she was watching Pamela, studying her. Pamela must have noticed. She fidgeted with an earlobe. The interplay made Janet uncomfortable, too.
“Ken’s gone for the day.”
“That wasn’t our agreement,” Christine said.
“Unusual circumstances,” Janet murmured. “Not really a problem.”
“He’s suffering from a bit of short-timer’s disease,” Pamela said with a forced laugh.
Christine knit her fingers together and brought them up so her chin rested on her knuckles, her gaze not leaving Pamela.
“It’s hard, though, giving up a business we’ve grown and loved. You must know how it is. You’ve each retired from your own careers. I told him to think of himself as Andy Murray retiring at the top of his game.” She forced another laugh. “Go out with a bit of topspin or whatever they call it. But do it while the business is still thriving. Well. That doesn’t really make it easier for him, does it? And I think it might be best if he stays away at this point.”
“Certainly understandable,” Janet said. She tried to cross her legs and accidentally rolled her chair backward.
Without turning her head, Christine shot her hand out and stopped the chair, then returned the hand to nestle with its mate beneath her chin. “How do you feel about retirement, Pamela?” she asked.
“Like a million.” The answer was immediate. So was the reaction to it. Pamela bit her lip, then in a rough gesture, scrubbed her lips with her fingertips. “A bit guilty, too,” she said. “I don’t know if Ken would have ever left if I hadn’t pushed for it. That’s why I wanted to tell you.” She stopped, lips pursed, head shaking. “It hurt him when he wasn’t asked to be on the judging committee this year. And I badgered him a bit to call and ask Sharon about it. Told him he should tell her he wanted to stay on for this last year. He’s a proud man, though, and he wouldn’t. And now I can’t get it out of my head that if he’d been on the committee, Una might still be alive.”
Christine lowered her knitted hands from beneath her chin to a place in front of her heart. Her voice was as calm and deliberate as that movement. “Do you think Una was killed because of the writing contest?”
Janet’s voice wasn’t quite as steady. “Have you told Norman Hobbs?”
Pamela looked from one to the other, seemingly unable to decide where to focus or which of them to answer first. Then Christine asked one more question.
“Have you told Kenneth?”
This time Pamela’s short, sharp laugh sounded bitter. “I wouldn’t dare tell Kenneth a thing like that, and don’t you tell him, either. In fact, I already told you that you’re doing a fine job, and I think it’s time we both stayed away.”
“Pamela, are you sure?” Janet asked, suddenly feeling . . . she wasn’t sure what she felt. Motherly? Hardly.
“We’ll be in Inversgail awhile yet. Busy. We’ll be busy getting sorted before we’re away. You won’t need us, but if you do, phone me. This is best, though. I do think so.”
“This really feels too sudden,” Janet said. She stood up and offered her hand, ready to turn a shake into a hug if Pamela showed any signs of melting into an emotional parting. “Thank you for . . . entrusting your baby to us. Thank you for everything.”
Christine stood, too. “If you need anything, Pamela, you know where to find us.”
“Kenneth said to let you know he left something for you in the T-to-Z drawer, there. Filed correctly.” Pamela nodded at one of the filing cabinets. “I meant to take a last look round the shop.” She threw her head back and stared at the ceiling with an intake of breath that sounded as though it might manage to hold back tears. “Now I know I’ve stayed too long.”
“You know where to find me at home, too,” Christine said.
Pamela waved
and backed out of the doorway.
Janet waited, listening for the jingle of the bell on the door, then asked, “What was that about? If you need us? What do you imagine they would need from us?”
“She, not they.” Christine sat back down and swiveled her chair back and forth. “A cup of tea and a friendly ear? I might be mistaken.”
“You hardly ever think you’re mistaken.”
“Because too often that’s the mistake.” Christine had a quick smile for their well-worn joke, then rubbed her hands as though now they really were cold. “No. You’re right. I don’t think I’m mistaken. Were you watching her? Have you watched the two of them together? I don’t know what’s going on between them. They work well together, but there’s some sadness behind it all.”
Janet had gone to the filing cabinet and bent to open the bottom drawer. She sank to her haunches and looked up at Christine. “You don’t think that comes from leaving the shop and leaving home?”
“That could be all it is.”
“You’re better at reading people than I am, though.”
“It was even in the way she reacted to being in this room,” Christine said.
“So what do we do? Tell Hobbs?”
“Tell him what?”
“That Pamela has a theory about Una’s murder being connected to the writing contest. You notice she didn’t answer when I asked if she told him.”
“I’m sure she didn’t tell him. I don’t think she’d dare,” Christine said. “She’d be afraid of Kenneth’s reaction if he found out.”
“But does she really believe there is a connection? Or is she afraid to find out that Kenneth is the connection?”
“That Kenneth killed Una?” Christine’s lips thinned as she thought that over.
“That’s so . . . stark. And I’m not sure that’s what I meant. More like his absence from the committee put her in danger, not necessarily that he was the danger.” Janet hadn’t risen from her crouch at the filing cabinet. She shivered. “But I’m not sure what Pamela meant, and I definitely felt menace when he and Sharon faced off. But again, do you really think?”
