by Molly Macrae
Janet laughed. “That’s a good title for it.” She went over to the window with Gillian. “Tallie had a lot fun of putting it together. You get the same effect whether you’re looking at it from outside or in.”
Their window displays weren’t ordinarily more elaborate than books on easels or in stacks facing the street and more books facing the interior of the shop. But to celebrate their visiting author, Tallie had let her inner crafter loose into the wilds of Canada. With help from Rab and children at her story and craft times, she’d made a miniature forest clearing with Daphne’s cabin standing in the middle.
“Rab made the cabin,” Janet said. “Out of a box, I think. He used the cover of The Deciduous Detective to get it right.”
“Did he make the wee beasts, as well?”
“Tallie and some of the kids at her programs. They used polymer clay. They’re baked so the kids can take them home later. She let them use whatever colors they liked.”
“Hence the green squirrel and multicolored moose,” Gillian said. “They’re brilliant. The whole window’s brilliant.”
“The kids are proud of it. They’ve been bringing their families and friends to see it.”
“And to shop?” Gillian asked.
“Shopping is always encouraged.”
“And so I should hope. I’m all for anything that keeps my favorite business going strong.” Gillian adjusted her glasses and looked more closely at one of the animals in the window. “What’s that, then, poking its nose out from behind the stack of books?”
“A wombat,” Janet said. “The boy put so much time into getting it exactly right, that Tallie couldn’t bear to tell him it’s the wrong continent. But, really, how can you go wrong with a wombat?”
Gillian winced.
“What? You think Daphne will mind?”
Gillian lifted one shoulder infinitesimally.
“But if we have a porcupine with purple quills, how can a wombat be so bad? I’ve read some of Daphne’s books; she seems to have at least a bit of a sense of humor.”
“You’ve also met her.”
“Point taken. But I hate to take it out of the window. The little guy will be so disappointed.”
“Tell you what,” Gillian said. “Never mind. Leave it. It isn’t worth worrying about.”
Janet didn’t find the words or Gillian’s smile especially convincing. The initial wince struck her as more genuine. “You’re sure?”
“Aye, absolutely. Leave the wombat. Now, I’m on my own time. Let’s not spend it worrying about wombats, or batty authors, or anything else. I’d like to visit with some of my books, if you don’t mind.”
Janet went back behind the counter to the hold shelf where they kept books that customers asked them to special order. They’d been surprised and gratified by how many customers did that, what with the ease of online ordering. Gillian had a permanently labeled space on the shelf, where half a dozen titles waited patiently for her budget to catch up with her lust to own.
“Which ones, Gillian?”
“I’m in an all-or-nothing kind of mood.”
Janet handed the stack to her. Gillian took them to one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace and let herself collapse into it.
Unlike some of their self-proclaimed best customers, Gillian made good on the title. She loved everything about books, but especially owning them. New mass market paperbacks or rare antique volumes—if a book interested her, its pedigree made no difference. She’d been a chain smoker until she’d sat down one day and calculated how much she spent on cigarettes each year. Then she’d quit, cold turkey, and spent the money she saved on books and the spare time building more bookshelves. It had made her lungs happy, she said, and it made her happy. It made the new owners of Yon Bonnie Books happy, too, although Tallie said it made her feel like an enabler.
Gillian kept herself to a strict book budget so she wouldn’t end up starving toward the end of each month. That meant she usually had a small family of books sitting on the shelf for which she only had visiting privileges. Janet and Tallie didn’t mind being soft touches, though, and they let Gillian spend as much unsupervised time with her brood as she wanted. They pretended not to notice when they caught her stroking the covers or smelling the ink.
Tallie came back from her errands and dropped her shopping bag on the counter in front of Janet. “Success. I got Daphne’s pens. I swear, Paudel’s is like the bottom of Mary Poppins’s carpetbag. If you need it, Basant has it.”
“I often think I don’t need anything,” Janet said, “but he sells me something anyway.”
“That’s because there’s no point in going in if you aren’t going to buy something.”
“A sentiment I understand and endorse,” Janet said quietly, then she nodded toward Gillian still sitting in the chair by the fireplace. Most of her books sat on the arm of the chair, but she cradled a Wodehouse first edition in her arms, her eyes half shut, shoulders relaxed. The picture of biblio-bliss, Janet thought.
A few minutes later, Gillian gave herself a shake and yawned. She gathered the rest of her books and took them back, going around behind the counter to personally tuck them onto the hold shelf.
“Feel better?” Tallie asked.
“Mm.” Gillian seemed to be struggling to throw off the biblio-haze, her verbal skills not quite functioning.
“Tallie was just telling me that she found the pens Daphne specified for the signing,” Janet said, watching to see if Gillian would reach for her wallet and take one or two of her books home. “She bought the pens, so that’s them taken care of.”
“Ah, that’s great,” Gillian said. “Thanks, Tallie. And thanks for the tip about the house. I owe you one. I owe you more like a dozen. See you Friday, yeah?”
After the door closed behind Gillian, Tallie said, “Subtle, Mom. Real subtle.”
“Too much?”
“Nah. She didn’t notice. We know she loves books, though, and we know she’s good for them.”
“I love them too, dear. Those particular books I’d love even more going out the door.”
The business day yawned toward an end. While Janet went around the shop straightening shelves, she toyed with idea of leaving Tallie to finish closing so she could go home and have an early glass of wine. Wine and cheese. She took a knitting book from the philosophy shelf and returned it to crafts and hobbies. Leaving early would give her a chance to stop at the cheese shop and pick up something sharp and smelly before they closed, too. She could also stop at Paudel’s Newsagent, Post Office, and Convenience to see what Basant would sell her that she didn’t need. He had a wall of old-fashioned sweetie jars behind his counter and she definitely didn’t need anything from them.
The door jingled. Janet heard Tallie start to greet the customer, but the customer’s own greeting washed right over Tallie’s and drowned her out.
“You must be very happy to see me. People in bookstores usually are.”
That voice. It could only be their visiting author. Janet, hidden from the sight of anyone at the sales counter by the row of tall shelves, cravenly stayed where she was.
“What do you know about this murder last night?” Daphne asked.
“As yet, details are sketchy,” Tallie said in her best lawyer’s voice.
“And I think we need to change that, don’t you?”
7
Janet waited in her craven position behind the bookcase, hoping she’d hear the sound of Daphne reversing course and marching back out the door. She didn’t hear anything other than the cool jazz bass playing over the sound system. She imagined her sensible, serious daughter and the unpredictable Daphne staring at each other over the counter. She sighed, found her backbone, and went to join them.
“There you are,” Daphne said as Janet appeared. She’d turned her back on Tallie, apparently finished with her. She’d exchanged her martial arts outfit for jeans and the buffalo plaid jacket of the night before. Her tone of voice suggested she’d had an appointment
with Janet and suspected her of trying to wiggle out of it. That tone added an extra rod of stiffening to Janet’s backbone.
“Nice to see you again, Daphne. How’s Rachel Carson adjusting to her new surroundings?”
“Jet-lagged.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m not sure you met my daughter last night.” Janet gestured toward Tallie. Daphne ignored the gesture.
“I was asking your clerk—”
“My daughter.”
“Daughter? Where?”
This time Daphne tracked Janet’s hand and turned back toward the counter. But she didn’t see Tallie, who’d moved faster, mouthed “tearoom” at her mother, and disappeared in that direction.
Like mother, like daughter, Janet thought. But there is strength behind counters for the craven. She moved past Daphne to take up her position behind the polished oak set in place ninety-nine years earlier by Colonel Farquhar himself. She felt instantly centered and in control.
“You must have been mistaken,” Daphne said. “It’s only you and the clerk here, and now she’s gone off. So.” She leaned an elbow on the counter as though they were good mates sharing a pint. “What do you know about this murder last night?”
“Details remain sketchy.” Janet remained librarian erect.
“I keep hearing that.” Daphne stroked her chin. “And who’s in charge? Someone in the local constabulary who has risen to his level of incompetence, no doubt.”
“That’s unnecessarily harsh,” Janet said. Not to say rude. She’d heard Daphne use her “level of incompetence” assessment the night before. It didn’t sound any better the second time around. “We’ve found the local police to be responsive and community oriented.”
“Have you? And where’s your local copper now? He’s not in his tidy station.”
“Out investigating would be a good guess.” Janet didn’t like defaulting to sarcasm, but Daphne begged for it. Daphne also didn’t react to it. “From what I understand, Daphne, the Specialist Crime Division of Police Scotland handles these cases.”
“Solving murders.”
“Yes.”
“With which you and your business partners have some experience. Ah.” Daphne wiggled a finger at Janet. “I’ve done my homework on Inversgail current events.”
The door jingled, bringing in what Janet hoped were the last customers of the day.
“We’ll talk again,” Daphne said. “I’ll just nip next door for more of your delicious scones.”
The new customers were delighted by the window display and bought one of Daphne’s picture books. Daphne hadn’t said a word about the window.
The cheese shop was closed by the time Janet passed it that evening. She didn’t stop at Paudel’s, either. She would have felt virtuous about bypassing empty calories, but she didn’t have the energy. When Tallie had scooted to the tearoom, she’d been able to convince Summer to describe their bed and breakfast customer of four nights earlier. Christine relayed the description to Danny. When they’d locked their shop doors for the night, they knew that Sam Smith, the American who’d wanted a comfy bed and a hot shower, was the victim.
“Were you talking about that when Daphne came in?” Janet had asked.
“No,” Christine said. “She breezed in, said nothing, and breezed right on out the front door.”
Maida was right, Janet thought. Peculiar with a capital P.
Tallie had thought they should all eat at Nev’s. Not as curiosity seekers, but as locals supporting locals. Christine said she needed to get home for an evening of supporting her local oldies, and would talk to Danny later. Summer said she would go, which Janet thought was a good sign. She’d let them go without her, though. A quiet evening in sounded good.
When she got home, she kicked off her shoes and puttered in the kitchen, heating a bowl of leftover lentil soup and buttering a piece of toast. She poured the glass of wine she’d wished for earlier, tipped a splash of it into her soup bowl, and balanced everything through to the lounge. Feet up on a hassock. Crossword puzzle and a pencil waiting on the end table. A sip of the wine. A spoonful of soup. A knock on the back door. She would have ignored it, but before she could get up, there was Daphne, hands cupped to either side of her face, staring in the window.
“I’m good at this, aren’t I?” Daphne said when Janet opened the door. “You probably didn’t notice me following you home.”
Janet thought that remark should merit alarm, but was too tired and annoyed to dredge it up. “What can I do for you Daphne?”
“It’s what I can do for you. May I come in?”
Against her better judgment, because Daphne sounded like the worst kind of persistent door-to-door salesman, Janet nodded her in, but not to the lounge where her cozy meal sat congealing. She took Daphne to the small dining room. There, for lack of a polished oak sales counter, she could put the dining table between them, settling for Danish modern.
“Your home has more character and charm than mine,” Daphne said, “but how lucky for us that we’re connected through our back gardens.”
“I know I sound unneighborly, Daphne, but I’ve had a long couple of days.”
“Exercise and proper diet will solve your problems with that, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to offer my expertise.”
“In what?”
“I love it,” Daphne said. “I see how you do it and why you’re successful. You are quintessential.”
“No, just tired. What are we talking about?”
“Crime investigation. You and your business partners solved another murder in this town.”
They had, but Janet didn’t think it was widely known. It hadn’t been reported that way in the papers. And, actually, they’d been working alongside Constable Norman Hobbs. Or, if not quite alongside him, then at least tangentially. They’d been well aware of the problems that might cause him with the Specialist Crime Division, so they’d effaced themselves and let Norman take the credit.
“Where did you hear that, Daphne?”
“I won’t give away my sources. That proves I’m trustworthy. But I heard that you came down on the villain like the four horsemen of the apocalypse.”
“We did not.”
“Forgive me. I’m a writer and I was using literary license. The four of you are cozier and more likely resembled Flopsy, Mopsy, Peter, and Cottontail. But you enjoyed yourselves? You enjoyed the danger?”
“I’m not sure I’d go that far.”
“But you obviously have a flare for this, and I’m offering my services for the current investigation. Attaching myself to your cadre, as it were.”
“There is no cadre.”
“You’re right. Cadre isn’t the best word, but the four of you need an identity. A name.”
“We really don’t.”
“Interesting.” Daphne cocked her head. “I’d rather hoped the gung-ho American can-do spirit that brought you to Inversgail would have you jumping at the chance to prove yourselves again.”
“Don’t you have enough to do preparing for three months of programs and classes?”
“Do you see how well-tuned you are for this? Your lowball questions. The way you hide behind your graying hair and well-upholstered figure. Your lovely outrage. Give me one good reason for your reluctance.”
Daphne’s accent made outrage sound more like oat rage, and almost made Janet smile. Instead, with her hand unseen below the table, she took pleasure in counting on her fingers the excellent reasons she wouldn’t be jumping at a chance to investigate anything with Daphne.
“The police are competent. We have a business to run. We know nothing about the victim.” This last wasn’t quite true, because they now knew he’d been hiking, had taken a break for a comfy bed and a hot shower at Cakes and Tales, and he was an American named Sam Smith. Janet briefly wondered what else Summer remembered about him. If he’d been traveling alone, or if he and the other guests had talked over breakfast. But then she realized she’d trailed off and Daphne was watchi
ng her the way a hawk watches a rabbit—if hawks licked their lips.
“The cause of death hasn’t been made public, so it might not be a murder investigation,” she continued. That was also only partly true, since Danny had been absolutely sure it was murder. Now Janet had four reasons, and four fingers jabbed toward Daphne, and she remembered an old joke about giving someone five good reasons that ended in a fist. “If it is murder,” she said, “we have no reason to insert ourselves in an ongoing investigation and possibly trip up the professionals.” With that, she curled her fingers into a fist and shook it at Daphne—still below the table.
“There, that last reason must be why you’re able to work so well with the professionals. You sound just like them. Well.” Daphne stood up. “Take a few days to think over my proposal and get back to me.”
Janet had no intention of thinking it over. When she’d closed the door behind Daphne, she reheated her soup and toast. She drank her wine and refilled her glass. She attacked and conquered her crossword puzzle. She was in bed and sound asleep before Tallie crept up the stairs at ten.
And over the next few days, she very carefully didn’t think about Daphne’s proposal. But it would have been next to impossible not to hear what others were saying about their peculiar visiting author.
Danny let Christine know that Daphne and her dog dropped in for a drink at Nev’s. She circulated, listened in on conversations, and generally acted nosy. She made people uncomfortable. When she started taking photographs, Danny took her aside and asked her to stop. On a hunch, then, he stepped out the back and found her snapping pictures there, too.
Summer told them she’d heard through the Inversgail Guardian grapevine that Daphne had paid a visit there, too. She’d introduced herself to James Haviland, the editor, and offered to write a series of articles about her experience as a visiting author. James had welcomed the idea and set her up to meet with one of his reporters. The visit had ended on a sour note, though.
“She as much as accused James of being in a policeman’s pocket,” Summer said.
