by Molly Macrae
Janet had liked Reddick each time she met him, even with his BBC butler’s rectitude. She liked him now for the gentle kindness he showed Maida. She couldn’t help thinking, though, that Norman Hobbs, having known Maida most of his life, would see something Reddick was missing. It was Janet’s theory that the ghosts of Maida’s Presbyterian ancestors stood shoulder to shoulder with her as she navigated her way through life—a way that Janet estimated at roughly ninety-five percent straight and narrow. Janet had seen the remaining five percent take Maida down interesting byways. And right now, Janet was sure Reddick was wrong. Maida didn’t look uneasy or afraid; she looked shifty-eyed and a bit piddled.
Maida glanced up and caught Janet studying her. Judging by the way Maida’s cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink, Janet was sure she was right.
“Ms. Fairlie?” Reddick prompted. “Did Ms. Wood say or do anything?”
Maida looked at the floor again and shook her head.
Reddick went to the window.
“We each have a back gate,” Janet said.
“Right, and a light’s just come on over there. I’ll just nip through, then, and have a chat with Ms. Wood. You say you left your coat and purse there, Ms. Fairlie?”
“And her keys,” Janet said.
After he stepped out the back door, Janet asked Maida if she’d changed her mind about a cup of tea. Maida answered with a barely audible no. Janet picked up a crossword puzzle and the two sat in silence.
Maida might have dozed off by the time Reddick returned. Janet decided to be charitable and believe that was the reason she seemed to jump when he rapped on the door and stepped in. The extra pink was back in her cheeks, though, and her gaze didn’t rise quite so far as to meet Reddick’s when he cleared his throat.
“You have Maida’s things,” Janet said. “Wonderful.”
Reddick laid Maida’s coat neatly over the back of a chair. He kept hold of her purse. He waited until Maida looked up at him, then he handed it to her. Purse regained, she regained some of her original, bristling anger.
“What did she have to say for herself?” she demanded.
“She said you gave the plants to her.” Reddick’s tone was even, as though he delivered a traffic report. “She thought they were a housewarming gift and hers to do with as she saw fit.”
“What about restitution?”
Reddick’s face remained impassive. His tone didn’t waver. “Ms. Wood had a guest.”
“Tom Laing?” Janet asked. Impassive though Reddick’s face might be, a glance from him was enough to clamp her lips again after a quick, “Sorry.”
“According to Ms. Wood, a reporter with the Inversgail Guardian happened by. Martin Gunn. He waited in another room while we talked. The question of restitution for your loss didn’t arise, Ms. Fairlie, but the question of pressing charges did.”
Maida gave a yip of pleasure. It was short-lived.
“Ms. Wood said that if you’ll forgive her for treating the houseplants like fresh groceries, then she won’t pass details of the story along to Martin Gunn and she won’t press charges against you for burglary and attempted murder.”
11
Reddick had found Maida’s coat and purse right where she said she dropped them in Daphne’s kitchen. He also found the liquid contents of an unlabeled bottle spilled on the cutting board and across the counter.
“My special plant food,” Maida said. “I make it myself with powdered bat guano. I brought it for her. But when I found nothing but the stumps of my beautiful plants in their pots—it was too horrible. I dropped everything and ran, just as I told you.”
“Ms. Wood claims you were trying to poison her. That you were going to mix the liquid in her organic muesli but got cold feet.”
“I was not! I didn’t open the bottle because there were no plants left to feed. What’s more, it’s quite dear to make and pouring it on muesli would ruin the muesli and be a waste of the plant food.”
Janet was still in the family room when Tallie got home, feet curled beneath her in her favorite chair and working her crossword. After deciphering the hysteria of Maida’s story, the black and white grid was more calming than any amount of empathy meditation she had the patience for, and safer than another whisky.
“What happened to your threesome with Jeeves and Wooster?” Tallie asked.
“Change of plans. What’s a four letter word for ‘recurring pain’?”
“Ache.”
“No, I don’t see how that will work. Ah, got it.” Janet filled in the letters and put the crossword aside. “It was ‘pest,’ and that reminds me. Try to avoid the creaky step when you go upstairs. We have a guest.” She picked up the two whisky glasses and took them to the kitchen. Tallie followed.
“A real guest, or did you fix drinks for Jeeves and Bertie and then have them both yourself?” Tallie looked at her mother’s eyes. “You aren’t just still up-awake, you’re up-excited, the way you are when something’s happened and you’re trying to fix it. So what’s going on, who’s upstairs? And please don’t say it’s Daphne.”
“No, it’s Maida and—”
“Maida?”
“Shh. She was still upset and I didn’t like the idea of her driving home on a night like this. Although, come to think of it”—she held up one of the glasses—“I gave her more than I’m sure she’s used to. She was a wee bit squiffed, so it’s just as well she did stay.”
“No such thing, Mom. To be squiffed or not to be squiffed, but a wee bit squiffed is out of the question. And now why are you staring out the window and why does it look like you’re trying to burn through the mist between here and Daphne’s house with laser vision?”
“Because I wish I could find out what she’s up to. But if I could see her, then she could see me.” Janet shivered, the way Maida had earlier, and backed away from the kitchen window. “Come back to the living room. We’ll close the curtains and I’ll tell you what Maida told Reddick.”
“Reddick?”
“Shh, yes. But please, squiffed or not, let’s not wake Maida. The poor thing needs her sleep and I don’t need any more of her hysterics. Reddick, bless his heart, knew exactly how to handle her, and got her calmed down enough to talk. Between hiccups. And it’s all because of the salad.”
“That’s how all the best bedtime stories begin,” Tallie said. She drew the curtain for her mother then settled in a chair with the knitted throw Janet had put around Maida earlier.
“I saw Maida looking at the salad on the buffet tonight,” Janet said, “and I thought she just didn’t like the looks of it. But it turns out she was puzzled by it, because it looked oddly familiar.”
Maida had told Janet and Reddick that she finally had a moment of horrible, dawning recognition. She knew where the salad greens had come from and she’d tried to approach Daphne, to confront her. Daphne eluded her, though, so Maida went to find out for herself.
“She said she knew she shouldn’t let herself in while Daphne was out,” Janet said, “but she couldn’t help herself. In case she was wrong about where the greens came from, she stopped at home, first, and picked up a bottle of plant food—a concoction all her own—to leave for Daphne.”
“A heart of gold, our Maida has,” Tallie said.
“A broken heart of gold. She loved those plants.”
“Where does Reddick come into the story?”
“As a stand-in for Norman, whom Maida insisted on calling.” Janet told her about Reddick’s arrival, his departure for Daphne’s, and his return with Maida’s belongings and Daphne’s accusation.
“Does Maida need a solicitor?” Tallie asked.
“Reddick didn’t seem to think so. He thinks it’s a game of brinksmanship on Daphne’s part. If Maida doesn’t say anything more about destruction of property, Daphne won’t repeat her ridiculous claim about poison. Reddick didn’t come right out and say it, but it’s pretty obvious he thinks Daphne’s as nutty as we do.”
“But he didn’t say that?” Tallie ask
ed.
“No.”
“Then we don’t really know what he thinks.”
“No, we don’t. We don’t know what Daphne’s thinking, either, or what she believes happened. But even if Daphne doesn’t believe Maida was trying to poison her, I’m pretty sure she’s capable of making people believe that’s exactly what Maida was doing. Martin from the paper, for instance.”
“Why Martin?”
“Didn’t I tell you that part? He’d come home with Daphne. Hadn’t he been with you and Summer?”
“He got a text. Left early.”
“I wonder if it was from Daphne,” Janet said. “I don’t like not knowing what she’s thinking or what she’s said to Martin about all of this. Or what she’s going to say to anyone else. It worries me, and makes me wonder what she’s up to.”
“We don’t know that she’s up to anything, but I think maybe you’re up way past your bedtime and worrying too much.”
“Maybe.” Janet let her head nestle against the back of her chair and closed her eyes. “This feels awfully comfortable all of a sudden, so you’re probably right. But half of me wants to cancel the signing, send all Daphne’s books back to the publisher, and absorb the loss.” She opened her eyes again and saw the reaction to that idea on Tallie’s face. “Don’t worry. The business person in me who likes to pay bills and eat knows we’ll have to play nicely with our back garden neighbor and make this work. If I say that firmly enough, I’m pretty sure I’ll believe it, too.”
“Well, it won’t hurt to be careful around Daphne.”
“After Reddick left, Maida said she felt like she’d stepped in a patch of nettles and she couldn’t stop rubbing her arms. She looked absolutely sick when she heard Martin Gunn was over there. She’s worried it’ll end up in the paper or as breaking news in one of its tweets—except she called them twits.”
“Come on.” Tallie took Janet’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “The Guardian has the murder to keep it and its twits occupied. This sounds more like gossip and misunderstanding. You’ll see. You’ll feel better in the morning. So will Maida.”
“Mmm,” Janet said. “Or worse.”
Tallie jogged in place at the bottom of the stairs as Janet came down the next morning, then she was out the door for her run. Maida had already crept out, having stripped the bed and dusted the room before going. Janet found a note from her on the kitchen counter, thanking her and also reminding her that she’d promised to talk to Gillian for her. Janet didn’t remember making that promise, but decided it wouldn’t hurt and might help if she, rather than Maida, made the call. She tried Gillian twice and then left a message. That would give her time to think through more carefully what to say, anyway.
At their morning meeting in the communicating door, Janet was ready with words of wisdom for the others: “Buffets and bampots don’t mix.”
Tallie snorted and went to run a dust mop around the floors while Janet explained to Christine and Summer.
“Any chance you can talk to Martin?” Janet asked Summer. “Is that kind of thing done? Asking for something to be kept out of the news?”
“Hang on.” Summer was already scrolling through tweets on her phone. “I don’t see anything, and seriously? If he hasn’t said anything yet, he probably won’t.”
“But is it worth asking?”
“I kind of hate to draw more attention to Maida by bringing it up. My advice? Let sleeping bampots lie.”
It was Christine’s turn to snort. “Speaking from a purely personal point of view, I can’t wait for the book signing to see what happens. And you know other people will feel the same. Whatever else she is, Daphne will be good for business.”
Gillian called shortly after Janet unlocked the door. Tallie was getting ready for the story and craft time, and Janet apologized for interrupting her.
“Let me take this in the office,” she said. “I’ll try to keep it short.” She still hadn’t thought through what she was going to say on Maida’s behalf, but she needn’t have worried. Gillian cut her off as soon as she heard Maida’s name.
“I already heard about it from Daphne,” Gillian said, “and I really didn’t need this on top of everything else. Frankly, I’m surprised at Maida. And disappointed.”
“What did Daphne tell you?”
“She thought, at first, that Maida let herself in while she was out walking the dog. As if that isn’t bad enough. As far as I’m concerned, as long as Daphne’s staying in that house, paid for by my grant money, it’s her property and she deserves her privacy. Do you not agree, Janet?”
“I do, but—”
“But when the police arrived, she says that’s when she got frightened, because things were blown out of all proportion.”
“The policeman said Daphne accused Maida of attempted murder.”
“Daphne says she didn’t.”
“Really?” Janet asked. “She actually said, ‘I didn’t accuse Maida of attempted murder’? Why would that even come up in her version of the story if she hadn’t said it?”
Gillian didn’t answer and Janet wondered if her phone had dropped the call. “Gillian?”
“Aye. Right. Well, if Maida thinks Daphne said that, then maybe the policeman exaggerated to scare her, to keep her from doing it again. But I really don’t need this additional aggro, Janet. Daphne said the whole thing was a misunderstanding—all of it—and I believe her. So, tell Maida everything’s fine, but no more snooping. And no real harm done, ken?”
Janet disconnected. Gillian’s probably right, she thought. No, not probably. She is right. In the great scheme of things, and compared to the sad death of Sam Smith, this eccentric author and whatever she’s up to are a mere blip. She nodded, in firm agreement with her own thoughts, and stepped out of the office in time to hear the door jingle.
“Oh blip,” she said under her breath. If it wasn’t one eccentric author casting a pall over her day, it was another. “Hello, Ian.”
Ian Atkinson was also an incomer to Inversgail, having lived in London most of his five or so decades. He was the author of the Single Malt Mysteries, international bestsellers and bestsellers at Yon Bonnie Books, too. Ian almost never bought anything himself when he came in the shop, though. He hadn’t had a new book in several years, but as he explained it, he believed in meticulous research and never liked to rush the process. Whisky wasn’t only the focus of his books, either. Ian was on the lookout for the right property in Inversgail to start a boutique distillery.
Tallie had a theory that Ian thought of himself as a replacement for the late actor Alan Rickman during his Jane Austen period. He wore his hair long enough that he had to flip it out of his eyes and he went in for languid poses. He also went in for somewhat passé author wear—turtleneck and tweed jacket with elbow patches. His trousers and shoes varied. Today, it was dark corduroys and chukka boots.
Ian was also Janet’s next-door neighbor. One living to my left and one behind me, she thought as she returned to the sales counter. If I’m not careful, I’ll be surrounded by writers.
“You missed a good time at the library last night, Ian,” Tallie said.
“And I hated to miss it,” Ian said with an artful slump. “Some writers are able to take three months at a time off, but that’s not the way it works for me. You two, though, you must have had quite the wild party at home after the ceilidh last night.”
“Sorry?” Janet said.
“I thought that might be why the police stopped by.”
“You’re such a kidder, Ian,” Janet said. He was obviously fishing for information, and she didn’t feel like obliging him. “Will we see you at the signing next week?”
“I’ll check my schedule. See if I can fit it in.”
A few families with children came in and they went with Tallie to sit on the rug in front of the fireplace for stories. Ian wandered over to listen as Tallie read one of Daphne’s picture books, then he went to browse the cookery books. Janet had noticed that he often spent time loo
king at the cookbooks, yet he never bought one. She knew he might be “shopping” their shelves and then going online to find the books at a discount. He might also be taking pictures of the recipes he liked with his phone.
True to form, after story time was over and the children had giggled out the door, Ian wandered back to the sales counter empty-handed. “I’m assuming something,” he said, his face and voice sliding into a tone of quiet confidentiality that Janet immediately doubted. “All joking about wild parties aside.”
“What are you assuming, Ian?”
“That you’re looking into our most recent tragic death. That is why Inspector Reddick called on you last night, isn’t it?”
“Good lord, Ian. Is that what you think?” Christine startled Ian with a hand clapped on his shoulder. “You didn’t know I have ears like an old bat, did you?” She further annoyed him by standing too close behind him. He put more space between them by moving along the counter a foot or two.
Sliding to the right, Janet thought, like a dancer at a ceilidh. Or an oil slick. “Why on earth would you assume that, Ian?”
Ian took a moment to adjust his dignity and the lines of his jacket. “It’s meant as a compliment, you know. You have a track record.”
“I’m pretty sure the police don’t think of it that way,” Janet said.
“They’re more likely to think of it as a fluke,” Tallie said. She came back behind the counter and stood next to Janet.
“Well, now, it wasn’t a complete fluke,” Janet said. “We put a lot of thought and effort into it, and we—” She stopped when Tallie’s foot nudged her own. “But the answer is no, Ian.”
“You write mysteries,” Tallie said. “We sell them. We leave the police to solve them.”
“Very nicely put,” Christine said. “Both of you. We are anything but flukes, but neither are we in the detecting business. No, Ian, the reason Reddick called on the Marsh household last evening is much more interesting.”
