by Molly Macrae
“You apologized yesterday. It’s fine. Water under the bridge.”
“I’ve also come to apologize on Lauren’s behalf. She’s been under tremendous stress lately.” He’d moved closer and lowered his voice to a level of grave concern.
“Thank you. She was certainly very upset. How is she doing?”
“I should probably phone her and find out, shouldn’t I?”
“You mean you haven’t? Does she know you’re here?”
“No, but I feel I can speak for her, as her neighbor of several years, as a friend. I was by way of being a mentor to Neil, her husband. He’s a young man who dreams of writing. How could I not?”
“How indeed?” Janet looked for Tallie. She was reaching another knitting book down for Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle. They really should think about moving all those books down a few shelves. A young man approached the desk and stood to one side. “Ian?” Janet said, indicating the customer.
“Please, go right ahead.” Ian waved the customer forward. “I’ll take myself on a browsing tour, shall I?”
Janet rang up a book of Wodehouse short stories for the man, and then rang up the knitting book for Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle.
“Did you enjoy the tea?” Janet asked.
The woman smiled and nodded, took her change, and went back to her chair.
“She had a sip of tea,” Tallie said quietly, “but she wrapped the scone in the napkin and put it in her purse.”
“Did she say anything?”
Tallie shook her head; her thumbs were busy with a text. “I was going to hang out with Summer and Christine for a while,” she said when she’d put the phone away, “but when I saw our friend, I decided to stay. I let the kitchen help know, though, in case they want to come out and gawk.”
Ian strolled down an aisle toward the desk, hands in his pockets, and did a double take that wasn’t quite believable. He’d found his books and rocked on his heels as he looked at them. He took four from the shelf and brought them to the desk—two copies of The Bludgeon in the Bothy and two of an earlier title that hadn’t sold as well, The Halberd in the Hostel.
“Nice to see you again, Tallie.”
“Glad you stopped in.”
“I am, too. It’s such a delightfully cozy atmosphere you’ve got going on here, right down to the plump old dear with her tea and knitting. Do you have a cat or two nestled somewhere to complete the picture?”
Janet thought his remarks made him sound like the cat. Then she regretted that thought; it maligned cats. She brought his stack of books closer to the cash register. “Will this be cash or credit?”
“Sorry? No, my mistake. I’m not buying. I wondered if you’d like me to sign them.”
“Oh. But yes, of course. That’ll be great. Do you need a pen?” But he’d pulled one from his breast pocket. Janet picked up one of the books and flipped it over to read the back. She glanced between the book and Ian; it appeared he was wearing the same tweed jacket. Not that there was anything wrong with that; it was a good-looking jacket. She handed the book to him after he’d signed the others. “Are you working on a new novel?”
“That’s what I keep telling myself.” He looked up with a chuckle. “I’d rather not talk about it, though. Chases the muse away.”
“Don’t let that happen,” Tallie said. “Quick question, though, Ian, just to be clear. Sharon said something that made us think you might not be okay with an extra person on the committee.”
“You do realize that wasn’t a question, don’t you? But to answer it anyway, the ways of Sharon Davis are strange and sometimes tedious. I’m perfectly fine with any number of people being on the committee.”
“Good.”
“Then as long as we’re clearing the air,” Janet said, “and because we’re going to be next-door neighbors, I’d just like to say that we heard about your failed bid on this property, and we hope there are no hard feelings.”
“Hard feelings?” Ian looked at her with a narrowed eye. “What exactly was your role in that debacle? Were you working in the background with Una?”
“What? No.” Janet stepped back. Tallie was immediately beside her.
23
Poor joke.” Ian raised his hands. “Really, just a bad joke. I warned you yesterday about my regrettable sense of humor.”
He backed away from the desk, his hands still raised. Janet knew it might be contrition, but his backing away also made room for several customers. By the time she and Tallie had rung up the purchases, her heart had calmed down, and Ian’s hands were back in his pockets.
“To make up for my poor taste and bad judgment, would you like to hear my own theory for the origin of the name Inversgail? It involves whisky, which I had such high hopes of distilling in this very room.”
“Sure,” Janet said, not sure at all.
“The debate is quite fascinating, in terms of the literary festival and for me as a scribbler and true lover of whisky—the water of life.”
“Um, sorry.” Tallie waved to catch Ian’s attention. “I’m just going to help—” She pointed down an aisle he couldn’t see from where he stood—or he would have seen there wasn’t anyone who needed her help—and she weaseled away.
Janet watched her daughter go and planned the sour look she would give her later. As soon as she glanced back at Ian, he started in again.
“I’m sure you’ve been a good little incomer and read the tourist bureau brochures, yes? Well, you can forget all that havering on about ‘river mouth’ and ‘confluence of waters,’ and the Sgail, Skail, Sgeul schools of nonsense. My own theory does account for the importance of stories in this, the storytelling capital of Scotland, and the flowing of our little river, but more importantly, my theory takes into account that other great product of our region. Are you ready?”
Janet could hardly wait.
“When whisky flows, so do the stories.”
“Ah.”
“Short and perfect, don’t you think?” Ian asked. “I’m toying with the idea of using it as the slogan for my Inversgail Distillery.” He framed the name with his hands.
“Very catchy,” Christine said, coming up behind him and catching him by surprise with a hand clapped on his shoulder. “Christine Robertson. Pleased to meet you. And this is Summer Jacobs. We’re the tearoom half of this operation. Open for business in about a fortnight.”
Tallie slipped in beside Janet behind the desk again. “Fetched emergency backup,” she whispered. “In case of terminal bloviating.”
Janet turned thankful eyes on her daughter. Ian only had eyes for Summer.
“Janet,” he said without taking his gaze from Summer, “did I tell you what I was doing Monday? Why I didn’t see anything going on next door? I was out at my bothy, getting it ready to put on the market. I wish I had seen something that could clear up that terrible crime.” He heaved a sigh in Summer’s direction. “Have I told you about my bothy?”
“What’s a bothy?” Summer asked.
“It’s actually an old croft house,” Ian said, “and not your traditional bothy for ploughboys and whatnot. I bought it as a writing retreat, and it served its purpose well.”
“Cool. Where is it?”
“Out in the heather-covered hills.” Ian maneuvered so he could lean artfully against the end of one of the taller bookcases. “Even cooler, I could tell the place had been used by someone making illicit whisky. That was the spark my imagination needed. I blew on the spark and came up with the idea for my Single Malt Mysteries. So the bothy is where my muse and I got together, as it were, and my first best-selling thriller was born.”
“A place with a storied past, then,” Christine said.
“Ha-ha! Yes, exactly. I say, if any of you are interested,” he said directly to Summer, “would you like to see the place? The view is divine.”
Summer looked over at Janet and Tallie and shrugged. “Sure. It’d be nice to take a walk in the hills, and I’ve never seen a traditional croft house.”
“You unders
tand it’s quite rustic.”
“But charming, I’m sure,” Summer said.
“Absolutely,” said Ian. “Completely full of the old R and R—rusticity and romance.”
“But by rustic, you mean no plumbing; isn’t that correct?” Christine asked.
“Sadly, that is one of the drawbacks, and one of the reasons I’m looking to sell. But it’s a gorgeous location up there in the hills. What do you say—one evening, before the gloaming sets in, will you come with me?”
After Ian left, the other three women told Summer that under no circumstances was she to go to the bothy alone. Tallie and Janet, however, said they wouldn’t mind seeing it, too. Christine wasn’t interested. It was bound to be surrounded by sheep.
Norman Hobbs stopped in soon after Ian departed. He’d stopped in and made a solemn circuit of the shop each day since the murder, and Janet wondered if they’d become part of his patrol. But if so, why? Because of the case? Because the Lawries are no longer here? Because Rab MacGregor so often is? Should we be more worried about the threat from the garbage—whatever it is? Or is he here today because he’s been keeping an eye on Ian? So many possibilities.
“Oh, you’re buying a book?” Janet said. That possibility hadn’t occurred to her.
“My youngest niece, who gave me the pink princess notebook, is having her own birthday.” Hobbs handed her his credit card and a copy of The Pink Princess Cookbook. “I thought I should return the favor.”
“A perfect choice,” Janet said. “She’s a very lucky girl. Does she live here in Inversgail?”
“Inverness.”
“If she ever visits, you should bring her in for tea.” She completed the sale, slipped the book into a bag, and handed it to him. “Any word yet on the house?”
“I’ll be sure to tell you as soon as it becomes available.”
“I have a proposal,” Tallie said as Christine locked the door behind the last customer that afternoon. “As long as two of us are reading contest entries, and acting as one judge, why don’t all four of us read them? This is a lot to churn through. We’ll still act as one judge, but this will spread the joy.”
“Oh, joy,” Christine said. She eyed the manuscripts Tallie held. “If we’re dividing them by category rather than weight, I’ll go for the poetry.”
“We did quite a bit of the poetry already, but here’s the rest.” Tallie set the stack on the desk, took a good two inches from the top, and handed the pages to a gaping Christine.
“I might back out,” Christine said. “Honestly, there are this many poets in the area? Where did they all come from?”
“Most of those are Skye-ku,” Janet said, “but your critical eye will flatline if you try to read and rate all of them. Why don’t we each take some from each category, so we don’t bog down? Pick your favorites from each category and we’ll go from there. And unless anyone else wants to read the novels, I’ll keep those as punishment for getting us into this.”
“I’m game for a novel,” Christine said. She subdivided the stack of poetry, and then leafed through the chunk she’d kept for herself. “Good heavens. Who knew there were so many ways to talk about hills, heather, and rain in seventeen syllables? Here’s one with a water horse, though. I’ll read these to Mum and Dad. They’ll enjoy them.”
“I don’t mind taking a novel, either,” Summer said. She sat on the high stool behind the sales desk, already drawn into the first manuscript in the stack Tallie had handed her. “I’m glad to see they have a creative nonfiction category, but—” She looked up. “There’s an introduction to this one and it’s kind of disturbing. The essay’s called ‘Ferry Boat,’ and it goes on to talk about working the boats between the islands, but listen to this. ‘Lose hold and you sink, and you know that the only way to save yourself is by grabbing the outstretched hand of your rescuer and pulling. Pull, man, pull yourself from the depths, but always know there’s a very real possibility you’ll unbalance your rescuer, and she’s the one who’ll lose hold and sink into the violence below.’ I’m not really sure what that means, but—”
“But it’s not your typical boat ride to Mull,” Christine said.
“Neil Pollard works for CalMac, doesn’t he?” Tallie asked.
“Ian said he’s been mentoring him,” Janet said. “How disturbing is it, Summer? Enough to call Norman?”
“Or are we jumping at shadows at this point?” Tallie asked.
“And losing perspective,” Summer said. “Call the police? Really? I only said it was kind of disturbing. And you’d call Hobbs about this, but not about the letters? Think about it. This essay was written and turned in weeks ago. Weeks before Una was killed. It isn’t a blueprint for murder. Or a confession.”
“I’m only trying to think things through in my own stumbling, bumbling way,” Janet said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Yeah, well, it’s been a long day.”
“You don’t have to make it longer by reading those if you don’t want to.”
“No. It’s fine. I said I would.” Summer stood up. “But I’m going to do it quietly, alone, in my room.”
After she left, Janet looked at the others. “Did it sound like I was calling it a blueprint?”
“Don’t worry about Summer, Mom. I’ll check on her later. But yeah, you kind of did.”
Christine put her arm around Janet. “But that’s all right, because we’re all wondering if it might be.”
Curtis the rat finally got back in touch that evening. Janet thought she handled his call well for someone prone to stumbling and bumbling. She listened through his apologies—there hasn’t been a good time; my new in-laws were visiting. She didn’t ask leading questions, and she kept her voice steady and under control. Mostly.
“This is so difficult, Janet.”
“Go on.”
“I had an affair. In Inversgail. With a young woman named Emma.”
“Go on.”
“There was a child.”
“Was?”
“Is. I’ve been paying for it. I mean, I’ve been paying child support.”
“Emma?”
“Do you know her?” He sounded . . . eager.
Janet gave in to a moment of being human and vindictive. “Which Emma are you talking about, Curtis? There are so many of them around these days, for all I know you’ve had more than one.”
Curtis didn’t say anything right away. She waited.
“Emma Graham.”
Janet’s words and voice were back in check. “Emma Graham?”
“Do you know where she is?”
“You don’t?”
“I’ve lost track of her,” he said. “And the child. A girl. Her name is Lucy.”
“But you’re sending support. How does that work?”
“She wanted nothing to do with me. I don’t know where she is. Or the child.”
“Lucy. Her name is Lucy, not ‘the child.’”
“I made arrangements through Lucy’s grandmother.”
“Her name. The grandmother’s name.”
“Una Graham. Janet, do you remember when we’d read the paper and laugh and the jokes we heard wondering whether or not she was a real person? Well, she is.”
“Not anymore.”
24
Janet wanted to scream at Curtis. She didn’t. But she did give in to the urge to tell him Una’s murder was entirely his fault for buying the horrible garden shed. Then, because she’d been reading so much bad poetry for the literary contest, she told him, “That wasn’t fair, but I don’t care,” and then she hung up and turned off her phone. It gave her a wonderful feeling of release. She turned the phone on again to quickly text Christine the details of the rat’s perfidy, then turned it off again, and she slept better than she had for days. At one point, she thought she heard Tallie come to the door and call softly, but then she was surrounded by selkies singing lullabies and she drifted back out to sea in a teacup.
The next morning she once again felt mature and t
urned the phone back on. And found a commiserative text from Christine. And another from Tallie. She sat up in bed. There was a soft rap on the door and Tallie came in.
“I was listening for the bedsprings. When Dad couldn’t get hold of you last night, he called me.”
“He told you?”
“And I told him that he isn’t to call and ask you to forgive him. That you might offer it, but it isn’t his to ask.”
“Will you forgive him?”
“He didn’t ask and I didn’t offer. Someday I probably will. He said he would call Allen, too.”
“Let’s call Allen ourselves.”
Allen answered with a quick hello; then Janet pulled the phone from her ear as he spoke firmly and loudly to Freddy, telling him to return the Marmite to the counter and leave the cat alone.
“Sorry,” he said, “trying to get them organized and out the door. Mom, Dad called last night.”
“One more thing to rock your world.”
“I’ll deal with it. How are you, though? How’s Tallie? I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“We’re okay.” She looked at Tallie, who nodded. “We are. I am. And I’ll continue to be.” She disconnected with smooches and hugs for all of them, and realized she really was okay. Curtis and his messy affairs were something separate from her now. Maybe I’m compartmentalizing my problems, she thought, but it works. I am putting this one on a shelf with the other discards going to the used-problem sale. I don’t need it anymore and good riddance.
Janet shrugged into her bathrobe and went to look out the window. Not a clear day. Swathes of rain-heavy clouds moving in. “Interesting that no one we’ve talked to has mentioned a granddaughter.”
“No one in Inversgail seems to know much about Emma. I’ll see what I can find.” Tallie joined Janet at the window. She looked out, looked at Janet, the windowsill, out the window again. Janet recognized it as a regression to childhood habit—vacillating over an awkward question.
