Scones and Scoundrels

by Molly Macrae

  Daphne Wood let Maida’s words wash her in through the front door, the dog following at her heels. She still hadn’t said anything beyond questioning Janet’s knowledge of her identity.

  “Tallie, will you show Ms. Wood the bedrooms and bath?” Maida said. “And while Ms. Wood freshens up, Janet, why don’t we find the kettle and make tea? Then we can just run the dust mop round and make sure things are nice and tidy. All right? We’ll have tea shortly.”

  “Janet,” Maida said when they were in the kitchen, “that’s a peculiar person out there. Are you sure it’s Daphne Wood? Maybe we should ask for identification.”

  “I think peculiarity is her identification,” Janet said. “But, yes, I’m sure that’s Daphne. She does look just like the picture on her books. Besides, she has a maple leaf shoulder patch on her jacket.”

  “I didn’t notice,” Maida said.

  “You were probably looking at the dog,” said Christine. “You were probably wondering what a back-to-nature, living-in-the-wilds woman who wears buffalo plaid is doing with a Pekingese.”

  “The dog looks as though it should appear at that poncy show in Birmingham,” Maida said, as she looked for the teabags. “Crufts, isn’t that what the show’s called? What do you think the dog is called?”

  “Rachel Carson,” a voice said behind them.

  Janet, Maida, and Christine flinched and turned to find Daphne Wood standing in the door. Rachel Carson stood beside her. Maida smiled and held up the box of tea she’d finally found. Janet flinched again. No one had warned Maida about Earl Grey.

  Daphne held her phone up. “Low bat. I need to make a call.”

  Her shortage of verbiage proved contagious. “Use mine,” Janet said. She pulled her phone from a pocket and handed it Daphne.

  Daphne consulted a number written on the palm of her hand and keyed it in. While she waited for an answer, she and Rachel Carson stared at the wall. Janet realized that she, Maida, and Christine were staring at Daphne and Rachel Carson. She pulled Maida and Christine out of the room, but no farther than just around the corner.

  “Peculiar with a capital P,” Maida whispered.

  “Shh.” Janet put a finger to her lips. “I want to hear what she says.”

  Maida gave Janet a scandalized look.

  “Janet’s right, Maida,” Christine whispered. “This is a peculiar person come to stay in your house. Hearing what she has to say might give you peace of mind.”

  Daphne had called Gillian and made no effort to keep her end of the conversation private. They might have stood in the back garden and heard her, Janet thought.

  “Someone has risen to his or her level of incompetence,” she enunciated into the phone. “No, I do not know to whom I am referring. What I do know is that the house is not ready. You said it would be. . . . I am barely more than twelve hours ahead of my revised estimated time of arrival. Within the great scheme of things, I hardly call that a day early. There are people here who insist on yammering at me and giving me Earl Grey tea. I thought I made it clear. I loathe Earl Grey tea. . . . I see. . . . I don’t know their names, no. . . . That’s entirely up to you. Good night.”

  Daphne stopped talking and they heard footsteps and the clickety-clickety-click of tiny dog toenails crossing the linoleum. Janet, uneasy now at their eavesdropping, looked at the others. Christine, head cocked for more sounds from the kitchen, wasn’t bothered in the least. Tallie had apparently joined Rab and the lads outside—a smart move, Janet thought. Maida had her phone out and appeared to be turning it off, possibly to avoid calls from Gillian. Also a smart move, if somewhat cowardly.

  They heard the refrigerator open. It stayed open longer than seemed necessary, considering all it contained was a pint of milk. The refrigerator door closed. More clickety-clicks followed, and then Daphne and Rachel Carson were standing in the kitchen doorway again. She held Janet’s phone out. Janet waited to see if Daphne would come hand it to her. She didn’t.

  “Gillian says hello,” Daphne said.

  “Oh? That’s kind of her.” Janet took her phone and smiled. Her smile wasn’t properly returned, either.

  “Now I am tired and want to go to bed,” Daphne said. “It was a pleasure meeting all of you. Perhaps I’ll see you again someday. I will unpack myself in the morning. Please take everyone with you when you go. Good night.”

  “Maida didn’t leave the loathed Earl Grey back there, did she?” Tallie asked.

  “No, she took it with her,” Janet said.

  “A missed opportunity,” said Christine. “If she’d followed her own advice about using some imagination in where to put things, then she might have shoved it—”

  “Thank you, Christine,” Janet said on top of her.

  After being dismissed by Daphne, they’d gathered their things quickly, and left even faster. Maida, who had always reminded Janet of a mouse, reinforced the image by scurrying off with her nephews. Before Rab drove away in the van, Janet saw Ranger staring out the passenger window at Maida’s house. He hadn’t barked when Rachel Carson arrived on the scene, but it was difficult to tell what he thought of the situation. Janet and Tallie rode with Christine back around to their house and asked her in for a nightcap.

  “As long as it’s a proper nightcap,” Christine said, “and doesn’t involve the loathed Earl Grey.”

  Janet’s house, up the hill and a century older than the one they’d just abandoned to the unusual visiting author, was a traditional detached stone cottage, with four rooms down and two up. Janet had worried, on making the move to Inversgail, that bitterness toward her ex-husband would color her feelings toward the house. They’d spent happy summers there with the children, and planned for longer stays in retirement. It would have been such a shame if she’d only wanted to stare coldly at the house and wish it grief, and then a pox and a painful death. The granite cottage proved sturdier than her resentment for her husband, though, and Janet had caught herself patting one of its blocks as she went in the door, as though patting a dear old shoulder to lean on. She patted one now, damp with the mist, and the three went through to the snug family room—the lounge, as Christine called it—where Tallie got out the sherry.

  “I’ve never heard Maida talk so much as she did when that woman arrived,” Christine said. “No doubt she’ll have to sleep in to get over it.”

  “Daphne might improve with a good night’s sleep, too,” Janet said.

  “Speaking of delusional,” Christine said, looking at her sherry against the light and then fixing her eye on Janet, “do you think Gillian should have asked for a certificate of mental health before engaging Daphne?”

  “I want to know how she knew to go to Maida’s,” Tallie said. “No one knew that until this evening.”

  “Gillian was going to text her,” Janet said. “She would’ve given Daphne the address when she did.”

  “And Daphne didn’t bother to mention she was already in the country, on the ground, and arriving any second.” Christine sipped her sherry, marveled, and then pronounced, “Daphne is definitely a daftie.”

  “She was probably exhausted after the trip,” Janet said, “and driving in the fog on top of it.”

  “Exhausted or not, the woman could have shown some common courtesy.”

  “You’re right,” Janet agreed. “But let’s see how she is in a day or two. It can’t have helped that she heard you call her Daftie Daphne.”

  “Don’t go blaming any of this on me,” Christine said. “She’s spent too much time alone in the woods, pure and simple.”

  “She couldn’t have expected to get in the house tonight,” Tallie said. “She didn’t have a key.”

  “She was doing a drive-by,” Christine said. “Casing the joint. I propose a toast to poor Gillian. She’s going to have her hands full.”

  “Should we call Gillian?” Tallie asked. “What time is it?”

  “Going on midnight,” said Janet. “Good Lord. Much too late. We’ll all turn into mist or murk if we’re up much
longer.”

  Christine’s phone trilled.

  “Danny’s brain must be murk to call so late,” Christine said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just take it over here.” She wiggled her eyebrows at the Marsh women and took her phone to the window that looked out on the back garden.

  “Mom?” Tallie got up and nodded toward the kitchen. “We have no reason at all to overhear this phone call.”

  “But I think we do.” Janet rose and started toward her old friend.

  Christine had turned from the window, her face slack with shock. “It’s no bother,” she said into the phone. “You’re no bother, Danny. I’ll call round tomorrow.” She shut the phone off. “A man’s been killed. At Nev’s. At Danny’s.”

  5

  In Danny’s hurried call to Christine, he’d only been able to give enough detail to chill the three women and add further dismay to the evening. Christine wouldn’t sit down again after she disconnected. Though she couldn’t stop rubbing her arms, she didn’t want the sweater Tallie offered, or something warm in place of the sherry.

  Danny had found a man curled on the pavement behind Nev’s when he took the rubbish out at closing. The blood had convinced him the man hadn’t merely chosen a poor place to sleep it off.

  “But could he have fallen and hit his head?” Janet asked.

  “Something told Danny no, I think.”

  There’d been no reason to call an ambulance. He’d called Norman Hobbs, the local police constable, but someone else answered.

  “Did you know Norman’s away?” Christine asked.

  They didn’t, and they mulled that over as they finished their sherry.

  “We’ll hear more in the morning,” Tallie said. “Let’s hope it isn’t as bad as we think.”

  Christine put on her coat without saying anything else. Janet gave her a hug at the door, then went back to the lounge, turned off the lights, and stood by the window. Before going up to bed, Tallie asked her mother if she was all right. Janet said she was. She listened to familiar, soft creaks as Tallie climbed the stairs, then turned back to the window.

  Curtis, her ex-husband, had often teased that she wasn’t any good at reading weather signs. Curtis, you might be right, she thought as she stared through the window, trying to see through the mist, down through the back garden to Maida’s house with its strange occupants. I might not be good at reading weather signs, but I’m brilliant at feeling them. She shivered and followed Tallie up to bed.

  Morning came sooner than Janet would have liked, but on pulling back the curtains, she saw that it was bright and clear. And bright and clear is more than that unfortunate man behind Nev’s will ever care about again, she thought. Her initial good spirits properly put in their place, she let the smell of fresh coffee take her by the nose and down to the kitchen. Tallie always started a pot before going out for her morning run. As intrigued as Janet was by the possibilities of empathy meditation, she fully believed in the reality of coffee.

  She poured a cup and as she and took the first sip, her phone rang. She thought it might be Christine, but it was Gillian, who didn’t sound at her best. Janet guessed she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep, either.

  “I spoke with Daphne this morning,” Gillian said, with little preamble. “She said you were there when she arrived last night. Now she isn’t answering her phone. Neither is Maida Fairlie. What exactly is going on?”

  Janet decided the anxiety in Gillian’s voice warranted a double-barreled approach; she took another sip of coffee and channeled every ounce of empathy she could dredge up. She gave Gillian an abridged version of the previous evening, leaving the full story for Maida to tell, if she saw fit. “We were tidying,” Janet said. “Giving Maida a hand, making sure things were nice for Daphne.”

  “She said the house wasn’t ready.”

  “Did you know she was arriving last night?” Janet was proud of herself for the mildness of her question and the lack of accusation in her tone. Then she immediately felt bad for wanting to accuse Gillian. “Things might have gotten off on the wrong foot last night, Gillian, but don’t worry about it. Daphne surprised us. We surprised her. She’d had a long day and probably wasn’t at her best. Flying in, renting the vehicle. Driving here. The fog.”

  Janet realized she was gesturing with her coffee mug for each added trauma Daphne must have endured. She put it down. “When it comes down to it, Gillian, Rachel Carson appears to be capable of many things and Daphne might think she’s capable of anything, but she couldn’t have shared the driving from Prestwick. That was all on Daphne and it would’ve exhausted anyone.” Janet took another sip of coffee and heard nothing on the other end of the line. “Gillian?”

  “Rachel Carson is a dead environmentalist. Were you talking to Daphne like that last night? No wonder she said people were yammering at her.”

  “Daphne named her Pekingese Rachel Carson.”

  “Pekingese.”

  Janet heard an amazing number of subtle undertones in that single word. Doubt was the only one she could identify with confidence, so she tried to reassure Gillian. “Rachel Carson only yapped once. She seems quite well trained.”

  Gillian disconnected without saying goodbye.

  Janet looked online for news of the death at Nev’s, but learned only that police had put out an appeal for anyone with information to contact them or Crimestoppers. She hesitated, and then decided not to call Christine. She would see her at the shop or hear from her soon enough. Instead, she skipped her usual breakfast porridge and went to the shop early to ask a favor of Summer. Scones had worked on Gillian the day before. Maybe Summer’s scones would have a sweetening effect on Daphne, too. But in Daphne’s case, Janet hoped that what her father had liked to say was true—if some is good, more is better.

  “Half a dozen? Sure,” Summer said.

  While Summer put an assortment of scones in a bag, Janet started to tell her about the death at Nev’s. Summer cut her off.

  “I heard.”

  “I should have guessed you would.”

  Summer folded the top of the bag. “My grandma was big on taking food to newcomers in the neighborhood. After a death, too.” She handed the bag to Janet. “So this is doubly nice. Are you sure she’ll be up?”

  “Oops.”

  “Bring them back, if she’s not,” Summer said. “I’ll never tell.”

  “Thanks. See you in a bit.”

  On the short walk to Daphne’s, Janet wondered about telling her of last night’s death. But with what aim, and is that being a good neighbor? She decided not.

  A gray cat sat on the harbor wall, washing its ear. It might have been the one sitting with Rab and Ranger the day before; she couldn’t tell. Rab and Ranger weren’t there or she could have stopped to ask and maybe rub the cat’s chin. She passed the chemist, the chiropodist, and the cheese shop—the “chops” as the children had called them—feeling very much a local for hardly giving them a glance. The cheese shop wasn’t open, yet, or she couldn’t have helped giving it a sniff. She hurried back up Fingal Street, and made the uncustomary turn on Ross, the street below her own. And stopped.

  Halfway along the street, standing in the middle of it, was a woman dressed for some form of martial arts, waving what appeared to be a sword.

  Janet studied the situation and started forward again. The “sword” was no doubt wooden, as it didn’t glint in the sun. And the woman’s movements with it were more deliberate than random waving. They looked like a choreographed routine. And, of course, the woman was their peculiar author, Daphne Wood.

  “Glorious morning,” Daphne called upon seeing Janet. A night’s rest had apparently done its best for Daphne. That would be a relief for Gillian.

  “Enjoying the fresh air?” Janet asked.

  Daphne did several deep lunges, thrusting with the sword each time. “This isn’t fresh air.” She slashed the sword from right to left and then from left to right. “You haven’t breathed fresh air until you’ve filled your lungs wit
h the crystalline purity that is the atmosphere of the Canadian woods.”

  That crystalline purity had done more to preserve Daphne’s soft burr than the windswept prairies had for Christine’s, Janet noted. “You could be right.” She held up the bag. “Have you had breakfast? Perhaps you should move out of the street. There’s a car coming.”

  Daphne brought the sword upright and touched it to her nose. Without a look at the approaching car, she strode to her front gate, where Janet saw Rachel Carson waiting. Daphne gave a hand signal to the dog, and then opened the gate, went through, and closed it, leaving Janet on the other side. Janet decided she didn’t mind.

  “Have you discovered the back garden?” she asked. “You might find your, er, swordplay more enjoyable there.”

  “Forza,” Daphne said.

  “Sorry?”

  “What I’m doing is Forza, an exercise routine based on samurai sword work. And no, the back garden is out. The trees won’t give me enough room to swing properly and I never like to hurt trees.”

  “I suppose the front garden’s too small? I’m just thinking about your workout being interrupted by traffic. And safety.”

  “I’ll tell you something about myself, Janet. You are Janet, aren’t you?”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “An excellent memory, which is a feature people notice about me immediately. But I find that people notice very little else about me. In fact, I often feel invisible. Compound that with my theory that most people, these days, are more interested in divining the truth on their screens, and I suspect that no residents on this street even noticed me this morning. Other than the fellow in the car, and he’s probably already forgot that he saw me.”

  Janet was pretty sure Daphne was wrong about at least some of the residents. She’d noticed a curtain twitch in one window and an elderly man had come out of his house and must have swept his stoop to a nub by now. On the other hand, judging by the number of public service announcements Police Scotland broadcast about distracted driving, Daphne might be right about the man in the car. Rather than argue either point, Janet held up the bag.