by Molly Macrae
Daphne smiled. She’d started smiling as soon as she saw Tom, and she continued smiling as she watched them bring a couple of empty chairs from another table.
“We’ve already met,” Daphne said after they’d sat. “Tom took me on an extraordinary photo shoot.”
“He—”
“Took me on an extraordinary photo shoot.”
“How nice,” Gillian said.
To Janet’s ears, it sounded more like how ice. Appropriate, she thought, because Gillian’s smile froze for the fraction of a second it took her to look from Tom to Daphne and back again.
“She was asking questions,” Tom said, “talking to people who’d been at Nev’s that night. One thing led to another. More of a sightseeing trip, really.”
“To get my Inversgail legs back under me, so to speak,” Daphne said.
“We’re going to do a calendar together,” Tom said. “That’s brilliant, isn’t it?”
9
What do you think a predatory smile looks like?” Janet asked Christine.
“Like this.”
“Whoa. Where did you learn to do a thing like that?”
“Shark Week, a few years back. Tony adored those documentaries,” Christine said, referring to her late husband. “Why?”
“The way Daphne smiled at Tom Laing, just now.”
Janet had hopped up after Tom announced he and Daphne were working together on a calendar. Gillian’s reaction to that news had convinced her it was the perfect time to get more lemonade for everyone, and she’d interrupted Christine’s mother in the middle of describing her latest bout of vertigo to ask Christine for help carrying. When they reached the drinks table, Janet filled Christine in on the developing awkwardness. Then, still haunted by the unpleasant salad greens, she downed another whole glass of lemonade while Christine looked back toward Gillian, Tom, and Daphne. Tom and Daphne were talking and laughing. Gillian appeared to be stabbing Janet’s blackberry tart.
“Huh,” Christine said. “I didn’t see Daphne smile, but my professional diagnosis is that she isn’t predatory; she’s crazy. Or to quote from the official DSM translated for Scots, she’s a bampot.”
“You’re a social worker, not a psychologist,” Janet said, “but she’s definitely an odd duck. The dog, for instance. A husky, in the wilds of northern Canada, that I can understand. But a Pekingese? And she brought it tonight? Has Sharon or anyone from the library noticed?”
“Good points,” Christine said. “Did no one check her out beforehand?”
“There probably wasn’t a sanity box to check off on the application.”
“But surely there was something like an interview.”
“You know how much a clever person can hide in an interview.”
“Good Lord, yes.”
“It’ll be a relief when the signing’s over,” Janet said. “Then I can stop being so unnaturally nice to Daphne. It’s too much hard work.”
“You’re a bampot,” Christine said. “You’d be nice to Nessie if she paddled in to buy books.”
“That’s called good customer service and for Nessie, it wouldn’t be hard at all. Not compared to Daphne.”
“Well, she’s not quite normal,” Christine said, “but who would be after living alone out in the woods for so long?”
“I wouldn’t be normal. I like watching people too much.”
“We call that being nosy,” Christine said, patting Janet on the back as though she was a good puppy, “and we love you for it. So why aren’t you back there sticking your nose in right now?” When Janet didn’t say anything, Christine looked at her. “You’re staring into your lemonade.”
“Trying to see myself,” Janet said. “I don’t like the image of me sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
“No one’s at her best reflected in the bottom of a lemonade.”
“I don’t like the idea that I stick my nose in, and I don’t like the idea that people might think I do it for fun. Like a hobby. I don’t want to stick myself anywhere I don’t belong.”
Christine took the lemonade glass from Janet, making her look up. “Now then. You are standing here. You are not sitting over there. You left the scene of that awkward moment because you felt your nose didn’t belong there. As for ‘stick,’ that was a poor choice of words on my part. I’m sorry.”
“It makes me sound like a buttinsky.”
“Which you’re not. I really am sorry.”
“Or worse, a busybody scandalmonger.”
“I wonder how many times I should apologize,” Christine said, appealing to the acoustic tiles in the ceiling. She looked back at Janet. “Will it do if I choose another word? I’ll agree that ‘stick’ isn’t the right one, but there is some truth to the ‘nose’ part of the equation. You and I both know that we are inquisitive.” As Christine spoke, she drew herself up into her Elizabeth II pose. Janet was never quite sure if Christine was aware when she did it. The pose would be perfect with the addition of a hat, if only Christine didn’t despise wearing them. “We’re also insightful, thoughtful, and helpful, and we have proven that discreet and nonjudgmental nosiness is sometimes necessary.”
“From time to time,” Janet agreed. “Back to Daphne, though. She heard that our business is implicated in the death at Nev’s.”
“Did she? And I mean that literally,” Christine said. “Because if she did hear that, I’d like to know where. And if she didn’t hear it, but she’s saying it anyway, I’d like to know why.”
“And if it was true, we would probably know. Police crawling all over the place is something we’d notice.”
“Eagle-eyed as we are. So,” Christine said, “I propose replacing ‘stick’ with ‘nudge.’ We nudge our noses in where they’re needed.”
“That does sound better,” Janet said. “And knowing us, we’ll continue doing it, if we think we can make a difference.”
“Whether our noses belong where they’re nudged, or not.”
Rachel Carson was finishing the salad on Janet’s plate, now on the floor, when she and Christine returned to the others. Christine’s parents had been joined by their equally elderly neighbor. Daphne was licking the last of Janet’s blackberry tart from her fingers.
“We seem to have lost Gillian and Tom.” Christine set down the four cups she’d juggled to the table and took two more from Janet’s precarious grasp.
“She’s gone off to ably organize,” Daphne said. “No idea where he went, but that sort always turns up again.” She helped herself to a lemonade and then, without thanks, another word, or bothering to pick the plate up off the floor, she and Rachel Carson left the table.
Janet watched them navigate past people toward a less-populated spot in the room. Daphne didn’t seem to give any more thought to the people she brushed by than she did the furniture. “Definitely an odd duck,” Janet said.
“That’s the nature of ducks,” Christine’s mother said. “I’ve never quite taken to them, with their wee black pudding eyes. Mind, they’re a treat roasted at Christmas.”
As Christine’s mother and the neighbor started comparing notes on the proper roasting methods for various fowl, Janet caught sight of Sharon near the stage and pointed her out to Christine. “She’s looking less frazzled than I expected. Let’s go find out how that’s possible.”
“Dad,” Christine said, giving her father a kiss on the head, “don’t let these two challenge each other to a roast-off.”
Sharon and a group of GREAT-SCOTs were chatting, her russet cardigan like a dead leaf among their verdant shirts. Autumn leaf, Janet corrected herself. Like an autumn leaf. Nothing dead. No dying.
“What a wonderful, lively turnout,” Janet said when Sharon saw and greeted them. “You must be pleased.”
“Fair pleased, ready to dance, and looking forward to the whole thing being over in a matter of hours,” Sharon said. “We just need to get Daphne to the microphone on time and then away again so James can start the music.” Except for a twitch i
n her eye when she mentioned Daphne, she appeared to be calm and enjoying herself. “We’re moving like clockwork,” she said, “ticking down the minutes, and then it will be over with. Done. Finished. Finis. And would you like to know what happens after that? A good night’s sleep and then tomorrow, I’m away for my holiday.”
“Yes, you told me,” Janet said.
“I did? When?”
“When you came in the shop the other morning. Never mind. That’s the sure sign your holiday is overdue.” Janet patted Sharon’s arm, then looked at Christine. “Overdue—a little librarian humor.”
“Very good,” Christine said. “I’ll borrow it sometime. So where are you off to on your hols, Sharon? Did you book someplace warm and sunny?”
“Isn’t that the only way to travel? I’ll send you a postcard and make you jealous.”
“It’s good you had your trip to look forward to,” Janet said. “I know all the arrangements and special requests haven’t made this easy for you. Keeping your eye on the prize was smart.”
“Eh?” Sharon looked confused. “No. It was never the trip that helped me get through all this, but I’ll tell you what it was. I made a wonderful discovery.”
“Tranquilizers?” Christine asked. “Whisky?”
“Guilt.” Sharon cast glances left, right, and behind her before continuing. “Specifically, Gillian’s guilt over saddling me with that ridiculous list from Daphne. I sent her a very long, very stern email telling her exactly what I would and would not be responsible for in terms of this occasion.” She crossed her arms, the picture of an implacable librarian. Janet thought she ruined that image, though, with another round of uneasy glances. “As a result,” Sharon said, “Gillian stepped up, as well she should, and I had very few details to deal with for this evening. The power of guilt is golden. Thank you for the suggestion to go after Gillian, Janet.”
“I’m not sure I said anything—”
Sharon swirled around to the table nearest them, picked up a plate and cup, and handed them to Christine. “You don’t mind clearing these away for me, do you? The program is about to start and I’m needed.”
“I’m sure I didn’t say anything remotely like ‘go after Gillian,’” Janet said.
“It doesn’t sound like you,” Christine agreed, staring at the plate and cup in her hands.
“But it doesn’t matter what I said, because now I feel guilty.”
“That does sound like you,” Christine said. “Sharon’s theory of golden guilt is interesting, too. Let’s test it, shall we?” She studied Janet in a way that suggested measuring or weighing. “Aye, I see the guilt you’re feeling, and between you and me, it doesn’t do you any favors. But I reckon you’re feeling just guilty enough you won’t mind taking care of these.” She handed Sharon’s plate and cup to Janet. “The program’s about to start, and I might not be needed, but I’ll go on back to Mum and Dad, anyway.”
Janet picked up a few more stray plates and cups on her way to the bin, running into Tallie, who was on the same mission.
“Did you see Reddick come in?” Tallie asked.
“I didn’t.” Janet scanned the room and spotted the policeman standing at the back of the stage. He and James Haviland seemed to be sharing a joke while James tuned his fiddle. “Is he on the job, do you think, or here for the ceilidh?”
“Hard to tell with him. You know who isn’t here, though? Norman.”
“Doggone. You’re right. It isn’t like him to miss music and dancing.”
“And food.”
Janet looked for Reddick again. Now he and James were sitting at the table with Summer and others from the paper. “I might have to corner Reddick, see if I can get him to cough something up.”
“I’d love to watch you sweating it out of him,” Tallie said, “but maybe you should wait until you can get him in a dark alley. And promise you’ll make sure your phone is charged so you can call me from the pokey.”
By then, the GREAT-SCOTs were heading for the stage, so Janet promised to keep her phone charged and she and Tallie went back to their respective tables. Christine and her parents were deep in conversation when Janet arrived. Catching the words irritable and bowel, she moved on to the next table and sat beside Rab.
“Did you see that Daphne brought her dog?” Janet asked.
Rab nodded.
“Is that allowed, or—”
He shook his head. “If it were, Ranger wouldn’t be interested, anyway. He prefers a wooden floor for the dancing.”
“Maybe she’s taken the dog out. I don’t see either of them.”
Some of the GREAT-SCOTs on stage scanned the room, too, faces not quite to the point of being worried. Janet didn’t see Sharon, but maybe she’d gone to find Daphne. Then Rab pointed and Janet saw Daphne emerge from the short hallway where the toilets were located. From somewhere, probably her backpack, she’d produced and put on a floor-length, moss-green robe. With the backpack slung over one shoulder and Rachel Carson’s leash in hand, she headed for the stage. Gillian and her father intercepted her, and Gillian’s father took Daphne’s arm. She deftly substituted the leash for her arm and shooed Alistair and Rachel Carson ahead of her and Gillian. The four of them made for an interesting procession up the middle of the room, Alistair making small overtures that Rachel Carson ignored.
“Microphone on that podium is a wee bit sensitive,” Rab said. “We’ll hope the dog doesn’t bark directly into it.”
“Unless Daphne picks her up, she probably can’t,” Janet said.
“Pekes are great jumpers.”
One of the GREAT-SCOTs, flushed and beaming, moved to the podium in the center of the stage and welcomed the audience.
“The head GREAT-SCOT?” Janet asked.
“Aye. Rhona McNeish. She’s a wee bit sensitive, too.”
Rhona’s brush of red hair stood as erect and looked as excited as she did to be introducing Daphne Wood and Alistair Gillespie. “The mission of GREAT-SCOT,” she told the audience, “is to work for conservation and sustainability, but especially for the education of future generations. That is why we are proud to be part of the grant that brought Daphne Wood home to Inversgail.” Rhona stopped to beam anew, her GREAT-SCOT shirt looking barely large enough to contain her swelling pride. “Tonight, Daphne will give us a taste of what we can look forward to during her stay, after which she’ll present the plaque honoring Alistair for his life’s work and his life’s love—the restoration of Glen Sgail. And then it’s on to the ceilidh. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Daphne Wood.”
The audience clapped. Daphne made brief eye contact with Rhona, then she and Rachel Carson walked around the podium and stood in front of it. Daphne raised her arms toward the audience, opened them in a wide, sweeping gesture, and stood that way, palms up, staring straight ahead. As far as Janet could tell, Rachel Carson stared at the pattern of the tiles on the floor. Daphne stayed in her pose long enough that people began to look uneasy. Then she raised her arms higher and every eye watched as she brought her palms together and lowered them. She breathed out, smiled, and took her place behind the podium.
“Thank you, Joan McNeish,” she said without another glance at Rhona. “Thank you for your kind words. If I’d known you and your eco-contingent were going to wear such a startling shade of green, I would have chosen another color myself. Where is Gillian?”
“Here, Daphne,” Gillian said from not many feet away.
“Gillian, my old friend.” Daphne sounded delighted to find her, although the delight didn’t extend to more than a quick smile. “Thank you for bringing me back to my roots—to the place of my own origin story—Inversgail.” She swept her right hand out, which Rhona only narrowly dodged. “And Inversgail, thank you for welcoming a daughter and her dog home again.”
She scooped up Rachel Carson and waved one of her paws at the audience. Rachel Carson leaned toward the microphone, looking as though she might have a few words to add. Janet cringed in anticipation of an amplified yip, but
the dog only sniffed the equipment and then licked Daphne’s chin. The audience loved it, laughing and clapping again.
Daphne put Rachel Carson down, raised her arms, and there was instant hush.
“So kind. Thank you. Now, let me save you time and me untold repetitions by slaking your curiosity with the answer to a question I hear a great deal.” She turned a brief, bright smile on Rhona. “The question is, why do I live the way I do? Why do I choose to live alone, save for my companion dog, in a simple cabin in the deep woods of Canada? The answer is found in St. Bernard’s epistle 106. Also, for those who read carefully, in the front of each of my books.
“St. Bernard says, ‘You will find something more in woods than in books. Trees and stones will teach you that which you can never learn from masters.’ A wicked quotation to find on the title page of a book, but true, and over the next few months, you will find that I am an honest person who believes in living an honest life. Allow me to illustrate.”
Though she was right about their green shirts looking bilious behind her mossy robe, Rhona and the GREAT-SCOTs remained a friendly backdrop to Daphne’s lengthening remarks. Alistair stood by, too, smiling and waiting, ready to step forward to receive his plaque and deliver his own short speech. Daphne didn’t seem ready to give up the microphone, though. Her voice rose and fell in time with dramatic arm gestures that looked almost balletic, or possibly like a form of tai chi. Janet couldn’t tell if the arms added anything to Daphne’s message or if she was trying to hypnotize the audience. She gave herself a shake to dispel the effect, either way.
