by Molly Macrae
“I’m not sure. I don’t know how being suspicious of Kenneth is logical or follows Pamela’s fear about the contest. But who says murder is always, or even ever, logical? Maybe we should be glad he’s suffering from short-timer’s disease and wants to stay away.”
“There’s no maybe about it. What do we do?”
“Find what he left for us in yon drawer and be prepared to make good use of it.”
Janet and Christine agreed to leave their disquiet about the Lawries in the office with the bottle of whisky they found in the filing drawer. Their questions and concerns wouldn’t be appropriate topics of discussion at the sales desk. The whisky, an extraordinarily good single malt, was too precious to leave unattended in public. But now they had a trail Tallie could hunt for.
“There might not be anything as obvious as a trail for her to find,” Christine said. She watched as Janet tucked the bottle back into the drawer, cushioning it like a sleeping baby with the length of woolen fabric they’d found with the bottle. “His menacing and bullying might only go so far. They might not have earned him a charge or a record.”
“If it’s possible to find anything, my money’s on Tallie.”
“Mine, too,” Christine said. “I just want you to know the odds. We need to be realistic. Do you think he meant to leave that piece of tartan in the drawer?”
“The whisky was on top of it, and they’re in the right drawer. T for Tartan, W for whisky. It’s beautiful. I love the muted blues and greens, but what’ll we do with it?”
“Use it as plaidie. I wonder if it’s Lawrie tartan—a memento for us to remember them by.”
“If it is, then I’m less inclined to wrap myself in it. But that’s being unfair to the innocent plaid, isn’t it? And possibly unfair to Kenneth, because we don’t know anything for certain.”
“Let’s go set your daughter loose on that uncertainty.”
Tallie wasn’t at the sales desk when Janet and Christine returned to the floor. Janet thought she heard Tallie’s and another voice down the aisle near the cookbooks. Perhaps another early Christmas shopper.
An uncertain-looking young woman stood in the open space before the desk, her back to it. She appeared to be waiting but didn’t look entirely sure of what she was waiting for. She gave the impression of not wanting to make eye contact with any of the books shouldering each other for her attention on the shelves nearest her. She’d just cast an uneasy glance at the tall, narrow bookcase to her right, and shied away from it, when Christine nudged Janet with her elbow and called to the young woman.
“Is that you, Rosie?”
With minimal movement, the young woman swiveled on her toes to face them. She waved the tips of her fingers at Christine.
“I thought so. Good to see you, dear.” Christine kept her voice low and warm, and she held an arm out as though inviting Rosie for a hug. Rosie moved several minuscule steps closer to the desk, but not within hug’s reach. Christine didn’t lower her arm and Janet imagined it becoming the arc of a circle creating a connection between the three of them. “Janet, I’d like you to meet Rosie. She works for Jess Baillie. Rosie, this is one of my oldest and very best friends, Janet. Not that she’s all that ancient, but we’re both old enough to be your gran.”
“How do you do, Rosie?” Janet took her cue from Christine and kept her voice soft. She felt as though they were trying to lure a woodland creature toward them. Rosie had the delicate legs of a fawn, her russet hair styled in a waifish cut with a magenta streak over her left ear. Her shoulders were either tentative or cold in the thin blouse she wore—a schoolgirl’s white blouse. This wasn’t at all how Janet had pictured the chatty young woman Christine described after meeting her at the estate agency.
Like a fawn, Rosie picked her way closer, and then stopped again, still several feet away.
“You must be psychic,” Christine said with a smile. “I was going to phone you. But you saved me the trouble, and now that you’re here, what can we do for you?”
“I am,” Rosie said.
“Sorry?”
“That’s why I came. Because I am.” She hugged herself, her knees below her short skirt touching, her toes turned in. “Only, I didn’t realize it until this morning.”
“I’m sorry, dear. It’s my old ears.” Christine rubbed an ear as though clearing a muddle from it. “You’re here because you are . . . what?”
“Psychic. That must be why I came here. Because you were going to phone me.”
“Didn’t you know you were coming here when you set out?” Christine asked. “Where were you? At home? In the office? Isn’t it likely you saw my name on a note, or remembered that we spoke?”
Janet could hear Christine’s inner social worker turning skeptical. She knew Christine wouldn’t be happy until she could dig into Rosie’s assertion, uproot it, and expose it to the harsh light of reality. And Rosie, who’d looked hesitant and shy to begin with, now looked spooked and skittish. Janet put her hand on Christine’s shoulder and gave a gentle tug backward. Christine tensed, and then Janet felt her relax and saw her give a quick nod of understanding.
“I’ve heard stories about second sight,” Janet said, “but I’ve never been lucky enough to meet someone who has it. Do you think that’s what’s going on, Rosie?”
“No,” Rosie said with a scoff. “That’s old wives’ tales and stories for weans. This is different.” She pulled her shoulders in, and she didn’t look much older than a wean herself. “But it’s never happened before.”
“I’m pretty sure it would’ve scared me,” Janet said. “What did happen? How did you know something was going on?”
“I didn’t. That’s the eerie part. I didn’t at first. I didn’t know until this morning. And then it hit me. Like a bolt of lightning. Out of the blue.” Her blue eyes went wide at the memory.
“What was it that hit you?”
“That I’m psychic.” Rosie pointed at Christine. “And she knew it, too. When I came in, she said it. But now she doesn’t believe me anymore.” She stopped with a yip. “Do you see how it works? That just popped into my head, but I know it’s true. You can see for yourself that she doesn’t believe me.”
Janet still had her hand on Christine’s shoulder and felt her tensing up again. Any second, she expected Christine to start gnashing her teeth.
“Rosie, dear,” Janet said, “we both believe you. But we want you to tell us how you know you’re psychic. What psychic . . . thing happened this morning to make you believe?”
“I knew Una Graham was going to die.”
Janet’s question and Rosie’s answer sailed into a momentary lull in the background music. Just before that lull, Tallie and her customer had finished their conversation about traditional haggis recipes and started back toward the sales desk. Hearing Janet’s question and Rosie’s ringing answer, the customer—Rosie’s employer, Jess Baillie—pushed past Tallie. Janet saw her first, storming toward them.
“Rosie Crozier, if you were psychic, you should have known I’d find out you left the office unattended, and you definitely would have known to keep your blatherskite mouth shut.”
13
Janet enjoyed watching Christine toss aside her inner social worker and take control of the situation with her not-to-be-trifled-with, though somewhat amused, Elizabeth II persona. Janet didn’t remember this aspect of Christine’s character making an appearance during any of their fairly civilized book club meetings back in Illinois. Or at any of the more rancorous city council meetings they’d attended, either. She hoped she would remember to ask Christine later if her impersonation was some kind of natural upwelling now that she was back home and living on her native soil, or if it was a conscious transformation. If Christine could call on the queen at will, how might that talent come in handy in a real crisis?
Under Christine’s direction, what might have turned into a prolonged spectacle was over in seconds. She sent Tallie after Rosie, who’d bolted down one aisle. While Tallie herded Rosie i
nto the tearoom, Christine told Janet to hold on to Jess, though not literally, and calm her down.
“Talk to her,” Christine said. “See if you can find out why she came in just now. I’ll go tap into our psychic’s powers.”
Janet took it as a good sign that Jess hadn’t stormed out after storming at Rosie. She stood looking the display in one of the windows—local histories and historical fiction—breathing hard, but no longer hissing or spitting. Janet went over to her and pointed out which of the books she’d read and enjoyed and which were on her teetering, tottering, ever-growing to-be-read pile. Jess listened and didn’t leave, so Janet told her about their plans for future displays, about the redecorating in the tearoom, and about the work to be done for the bed and breakfast. She felt she was making progress toward engaging her when Jess moved away from the window and cast the sort of appraising eye over the shop that Norman Hobbs had. The difference being that Jess had the eye of a professional estate agent and Norman Hobbs was probably just nosy. Janet thought about sharing that observation with Jess, to see if she could raise a smile, but decided against it. Mentioning Constable Hobbs might make Jess jumpy again.
Janet very badly wanted to ask Jess what she knew about the couple who’d been renting her house, but she feared the timing wasn’t right. It didn’t feel right for her question about rats, either. She was easing Jess toward the chairs at the fireplace, trying to come up with a smooth segue that might ease them into that topic, when Jess finally spoke again.
“I doubt this building would have worked, anyway.”
“Sorry?”
“Ian Atkinson.” Jess said the name to the ceiling, in the corner where it met the chimney. When she looked at Janet, she drew back suddenly as though startled at seeing to whom she’d spoken. “I must have been telling your lassie. He was looking for commercial property in Inversgail. He wants to start a boutique distillery and tasting room.”
“You would’ve sold him this building?” Janet was appalled and didn’t think she was overreacting by adding, “You would have let him . . . do away with the bookshop?” She’d almost said kill the bookshop but was able to rein in her reaction at least that small step short of jumping off the cliff into absolute melodrama. She put a hand to her lips just in case her über-melodramatic thoughts tried to get out.
“Of course I would, if I could have,” Jess said. “But it was nothing to do with me. I only heard about it secondhand. He didn’t work through a local agency.” She sounded bitter.
“I’m glad we got our bid in first, then.”
“You didn’t,” Jess said. “This was a year ago. Kenneth and Pamela would have been happy to sell. To anyone at all, to hear him tell it in the pub. But something didn’t work out. If a local person had been involved, or could have got involved before it fell apart, it might have.” She shrugged as though it had been no skin off her nose or shirt off her back, but the bitterness still came through.
“Any idea what happened?”
“Aye. One word,” Jess said, near to spitting again.
The bell at the door jingled, and Summer breezed in, back from her trip to meet the editor of the Inversgail Guardian.
“Look who’s here,” Janet said, reaching for anything to keep a lid on Jess’s emotions. “You haven’t met our Summer yet, have you? Summer is the fourth member of our book business cabal, and she has the absolutely uncanny ability to enter any building, from any given weather condition, looking exactly like a ray of sunshine. How do you do that?”
“It’s useful camouflage,” Summer said. “I disarm people with Blond Barbie Syndrome, but I never use the power for evil. I should look particularly radiant right now, though, because I’ve scored a coup.” She laid a leather portfolio on the sales desk, spread her arms, and gave a shallow bow. “Applaud at will, because you’re looking at the new Una Graham.”
Except for a lively accordion version of “Laddie wi’ a Plaidie” in the background, the silence following Summer’s announcement deafened. Seeing Jess’s face, Janet didn’t want to hear how she would break that silence.
Jess stared at Summer. Her eyes might be seeing her, or they might instead be locked onto a ghost. She made an unintelligible gurgle low in her throat. Then, holding her purse to her chest with one arm as though it were a rugby ball, and with her other arm and palm in a classic stiff-arm fend from the same game, she drove for the door and right on through when Rab MacGregor, about to enter, saw her coming and opened it.
Rab watched her go, then came in, two bin bags clutched by their necks in his left fist. Ranger followed at his heels. “Had good luck,” Rab said. Neither he nor Ranger appeared to be bothered by the sight or sound of Jess leaving the shop as though pursued. “Found the paper I separated when I took it to the recycle center. Brought what I could in clean bin liners.”
“Is that where you went?” Janet’s mind skipped across several tracks to pick up on what he was talking about. “I never thought I’d be happy to see garbage, but I am. Thank you, Rab. Do you think it was behind the shop during the rain last night?”
“Bits of paper were damp, but that’s to be expected with it lying loose. But no water in the bags when I cleared up back there earlier.”
“When you were clearing up, or when you were getting it back, just now, did you see anything that could tell us where it came from?”
He lifted the bags and studied them for a moment—trying to remember or running through a mental inventory. Or maybe he has X-ray vision, Janet thought.
“Besides addresses on envelopes? No,” he said with a shrug, “but I’ll think on it. Best I can say is the rubbish was fresh.”
“Fresh?”
“Nothing rancid or terribly stinking.”
“Oh. Interesting.”
“The food waste was already gone when I got back to the center.”
“Thank you, Rab. Why don’t you put those . . .” Where? She didn’t want the garbage disappearing again. But then she realized she didn’t want it in the office or stockroom—anywhere that Kenneth might have a reason or take an interest to go. If he wandered in, which seemed unlikely, but . . . “Put it around the corner in the tearoom, for now, will you, Rab?” She almost added, And I’ll run it upstairs later, but decided she didn’t want to offer that information.
“I’ve missed something,” Summer said, pointing after Rab and Ranger on their way to the tearoom. Then she pointed her thumb over her shoulder at the door. “And I was incredibly insensitive just now, wasn’t I. Calling myself the new Una. What a klutz. Was she a relative?”
Janet’s mind skipped to another track.
“Should I bake something and deliver it with an apology?” Summer asked. Not getting an answer, she tapped Janet’s shoulder. “Janet?”
“I don’t think they’re related,” Janet said. “It’s an interesting thought, and we only have Kenneth’s word that Una had no family in the area. But they do look somewhat alike.” She shook herself and focused on Summer. “That was Jess Baillie. Come on back to the desk. We might still have a customer or two browsing, although it’s hard to keep track with all that’s been going on.”
Summer took her portfolio from the desk and ducked into the office to leave it and her jacket out of the way. When she returned, Janet was ringing up a book of knitting and crochet patterns for stuffed animals. The elderly woman buying it nodded and smiled but said nothing in response to Janet’s thanks or wishes for a good day. She had her own carrier bag with her. Janet offered her another, but the woman ignored her and took the book over to the chairs by the fireplace.
“Cute little old thing,” Janet murmured to Summer when she was sure the woman was beyond earshot. “A comfortable chair, a good book— look at her. This is why I love books and why this bookshop is going to be the perfect place. Why it is the perfect place. Why I’m so glad we did this. Look, she’s only lacking a cup of tea and a cat to be the picture of contentment. Please remind me to look that content ten or twenty years from now.”
“We need small tables by those chairs so people can bring their cups in from the tearoom,” Summer said. “And it’s at least twenty years before you’re her age. Those were some seriously beautiful wrinkles. Like lines of poetry on her face.”
Janet raised her eyebrows.
“That’s good,” Summer said. “Keep that up and you’ll have your own lines of poetry someday. But you’re right, you know. A picture of her sitting there reading, with a cat on her lap, or a cute kid, would be a great media piece. Something to counteract the ‘all that’s been going on’ that’s been going on. So tell me about it.”
“I’ll tell you what occurred to me when you asked if Jess is one of Una’s relatives. What if the—” Janet checked for anyone nearby before continuing. “What if the killer mistook Una for Jess? Remember that night, Tallie asked if it was Jess in the shed.”
“Isn’t Jess a bit taller?”
“Not by much, and not with those heels Una had on. Did she have them on when . . . in the shed? Did you notice?”
Summer looked at the floor, and Janet knew she wasn’t seeing the polished wood, but instead was looking at Una on the floor of the shed again. “It was the same outfit,” Summer said, a shade paler. “She hadn’t changed. And those trousers wouldn’t have worked without the heels. They would’ve been too long.”
“And if she had the heels on, she would’ve been closer to Jess in height.”
“I wish I could swear to the shoes. I didn’t really focus on them.”
“Of course not,” Janet said. “But they weren’t the ideal shoes for creeping around or snooping. So what was she doing there?”
“Their hair was different,” Summer said. “Pretty wildly different.”
“But we can find out if Una changed hers recently or frequently. To mousse or not to mousse—that might have been a daily question.”
