by Molly Macrae
“Sorry, Daphne, you’ll have to bop her yourself. Who are we talking about, by the way?”
“As if you didn’t know.” Daphne chuckled.
Janet resented the conspiratorial tone of that chuckle. She was sorry, too, that there weren’t any other customers in the shop so she could tell Daphne to hush. She could tell her to hush, anyway, but she was also curious. “No, really, I’ve been asked to kill or bop several people lately and probably ought to be keeping better track. So who’s upset you?” This time, she wanted to add.
“Have you really been asked to kill several people? Are you more violent than you appear?” Daphne looked Janet over. “You don’t look like any of the assassins I’ve known.”
Janet told herself it was ridiculous to feel inadequate for coming up short against whatever assassins Daphne claimed to know, especially because she was exaggerating her invitations to murder. She tried to smile, and came up short there, too. “I tend to be a pacifist, Daphne.”
“A peaceable bookseller, a woman after my own heart. And, of course, my request wasn’t serious. I really came because I thought it would be good to touch base before the signing, if you have a few minutes.”
“Of course,” Janet said. “Let’s go in the office.”
Tallie was at the sales counter, reading and marking a restocking report, and gave a thumbs up when Janet let her know where she’d be. Janet ushered Daphne into the office behind the counter and closed the door.
The four business partners had plans to improve the office, which was currently about as appealing as a galley kitchen without windows, though the project was fairly low on their to-do list. The narrow space held two desks, one facing each long wall, and a bookcase at the far end.
Janet pulled out one of the rolling desk chairs and offered it to Daphne, taking the other herself.
“Your window display, by the way, is charming,” Daphne said. She looked around the office in a way that suggested charming wasn’t the word for it. “And I’m sure that, in its own small way, the shop will do nicely for Sunday’s signing. I dare say you’re working hard to keep up the tradition of Yon Bonnie Books, which is admirable from a purely historical point of view, even if the production of printed books is anachronistic in today’s society and ought to stop.”
Janet had been about to say, “We try,” but instead found herself trying not to sputter.
“Between the two of us, though,” Daphne continued, “we should be able to pull this signing together. You’ll see; we’ll make it an event this town will long remember. Do you have any questions?”
Janet did, but none were polite enough to ask. Instead, she counted ten imaginary bops with a bokken and then took a deep breath. “Thank you for your vote of confidence, Daphne. All four of us at Yon Bonnie Books and Cakes and Tales are working hard to make sure the signing is a success. Gillian gave me your list of suggestions—”
“Requirements. That’s good, and that brings us in a neat circle back to where I came in, because it is Gillian for whom you should be breaking out your bokken and jettisoning your pacifist tendencies.”
Janet counted to ten again. “Gillian is one of our favorite customers.”
“Is she? Well, I’m a wee bit miffed with her and I blame it on the numpty masquerading as an advice columnist in the Inversgail Guardian.”
No doubt Summer was the numpty in question. Janet felt the twinge in her neck again, this time on Summer’s behalf. “Did you follow the advice?” she asked. And if you did, who’s the numpty?
“Aye.”
Question answered.
“The column was about how to reconnect meaningfully with old friends,” Daphne said. “With a tip from the agony aunt about sharing old memories while creating new ones. So I called Gillian and we went hillwalking. Lovely day for it.”
“And it sounds like a lovely thing to do.”
“So you would think, but the agony aunt’s advice put pure agony into the afternoon.”
“How?” Janet asked.
“We walked. We chatted. Gillian remembered birthday parties and Guides. She thought I would remember that she got the two of us into trouble over forbidden cigarettes. I didn’t, but I laughed, anyway, the way one should, and then I dredged up something she might not remember.”
“It sounds as though you were having a good time, Daphne.”
“Up until then.”
“So she didn’t remember?”
“She said it couldn’t be true, which is a silly thing to say. We were back at our cars, by then, so I laughed and told her to forget it. She sort of threw something over her shoulder about the radio interview that led me to believe the interview wasn’t that important. So when I skipped it this morning, she called, and that created a memory I would very much like to forget. She was downright vicious.”
“She probably didn’t mean to be,” Janet said. “She’s been juggling a lot lately. She’s under a lot of stress. But vicious really doesn’t sound like Gillian.”
“Of course it does. I’ve known her for over forty years.”
“But you haven’t spoken in almost thirty.”
“And how does that signify?” Daphne asked. “If I’ve learned one thing in all my years alone in the woods, it’s that a tree never changes its bark.”
“Right,” Janet said. “Nor a leopard its spots.” Nor a bam its pot.
“We’re talking about trees. The remains of so many of which are entombed on the shelves out there in your shop.”
14
That’s when I took my bokken and bopped her a good one on top of her head,” Janet said that evening at Nev’s. “No, no, better yet, I bopped her in the snoot.”
“You should have bopped her in the behouchie,” Christine said, “so she’d have to stand when she signs books Sunday next.”
“You are so right, Christine, and if I ever do any real bopping, that’s exactly where I’ll do it. My make-believe bopping was extremely satisfying, though. Cathartic, even.” Janet raised her half pint of Selkie’s Tears to celebrate her satisfaction, then took a healthy swallow. The four women were at their usual table, enjoying their weekly wind-down. Janet, who didn’t ordinarily need much winding down, felt as though she was fizzing after relating her meeting with Daphne for the others.
“Just as long as you don’t cross over into the realm of reality bopping,” Tallie said. “As tempting as it might be.”
“Sorely tempting,” Summer said. “Daphne was in the tearoom this afternoon, and asked for another table because the people behind her ordered a pot of Earl Grey. That would’ve been fine. If she really objects to the smell of bergamot, I can understand that. But she made such a production out of it that she embarrassed the couple at the other table.”
“Summer smoothed it over,” Christine said. “They insisted on paying for their tea, but she gave them half a dozen scones to take away.”
“To Summer’s good sense,” Tallie said, raising her glass.
“And swordsmanship,” Christine added, raising hers. “Do you realize our daftie author has only been here a week? And look at all she’s stirred up.”
As though taking Christine literally, Janet looked around the pub—at the tables of twos and threes and a few solitary patrons. A hand on a shoulder there, heads close together in a booth, laughter at the next table, a snatch of song from Christine’s dad and her mum gazing at him with her chin in her hand as though she’d just fallen in love again. Danny orchestrated drinks behind the bar. Janet picked out the smells of good ale, greasy chips, and wool wet from the smirr coming down outside. The one week since Daphne Wood had arrived hadn’t stirred the essential picture of Nev’s. Snap a photo, right now, in black and white, she thought, and except for minor details and no haze of cigarette smoke, this might be any decade for the past hundred years.
“Only a week,” Summer said. “On the one hand, that’s hardly a blip. On the other, that means it’s been a whole week since someone killed Sam Smith.”
“Not
all crimes are solved quickly,” Tallie reminded her.
“No, and they aren’t all solved.” Summer raised her glass. “In memory of Sam.”
“To Sam,” the others said. As they raised their glasses, James Haviland, from the paper, arrived and made his way over to their table.
“Evening, all,” James said. “Celebrating?”
“Remembering,” Janet said.
“Do you remember that you owe me a column?” James asked Summer.
“Do you remember that I’ve never been late?”
James laughed. “If only your darts were as sharp and fast. Fancy a game?” His smiling invitation took in the whole table. Summer and Tallie picked up their pints.
“Coming?” James asked Janet and Christine. Christine shook her head. He nodded amiably and followed Tallie and Summer into the darts room.
“You know, though,” Janet said after he’d gone, “if Rab’s in there, maybe I can corner him. What with one thing and another, we had an odd week, and he made it odder with more erratic hours than usual. Maybe I can get something like a schedule out of him. If nothing else, I’d like to get a commitment out of him for the signing.”
“You might have an easier time getting a commitment from a cat,” Christine said. “I’ll go check on my ancient lovebirds.”
Janet took her glass and went to the doorway of the darts room. She stood to one side before going in. Not peeking in, she told herself. Not spying; getting the lay of the land. Rab was there, toward the back right. Slightly surprising was Reddick’s presence, standing ready for his turn to throw. Quantum, Reddick’s smooth collie, sat beside him. Janet sidled into the room and over to Rab.
“How’s the game?” Janet asked.
“See Reddick’s dog staring at the other team?”
Janet looked and it did appear as though Quantum was staring down his long nose at each of the other players in turn.
“Psyching them out,” Rab said. “That’s why Ranger stays home. Unfair advantage.”
“Isn’t it unfair for Quantum to be here, then?”
“Ranger’s more sensitive to that kind of thing.”
“We didn’t see much of you at the shop last week,” Janet said. “Did you meet your deadlines?”
“Deadlines?”
“Yes, the ones keeping you from more regular work hours.”
“Och, aye.”
“Can we count on your help for Sunday?”
“For the signing?”
“Yes. In fact, can we count on you coming in, occasionally, the rest of the week, too?”
“Hmm.” Rab appeared to be consulting a mental social calendar, looking off to the side, slowly tapping his cheek bone with two fingers as he sorted obligated from free times.
“Rab?”
He stopped tapping his cheek and refocused on Janet. Then, before answering, he drank some of his ale. And then he didn’t really answer. “I heard something you’ll want to know. She’s been telling people she’s joined your investigation team looking into the young man’s death.”
“Daphne’s been saying that?”
“Aye. That you’re calling yourselves SCONES.”
“Oh, for—”
He nodded at her empty glass. “Can I get you the other half?”
Janet shook her head. Rab excused himself and slipped past her. She saw Reddick’s dog giving her the eye. That made her wonder if Reddick had heard Daphne’s ridiculous claim and what he might have to say about it. While he took his turn at the dart board, she ignored the dog’s furry eyebrow, and went back to the table in the other room. By the time she realized she’d let Rab get away without committing to a schedule for the week, he’d disappeared from Nev’s altogether. Christine’s mum and dad were nowhere in sight, either, but Maida stood beside Christine at the bar.
“Look who I bumped into outside when I helped Mum and Dad into Rab’s car,” Christine said. “He offered to get them home.”
Maida held her elbows close to her sides as though her strict ancestors whispered dire warnings in her ears.
“It’s déjà vu all over again,” Christine said. “Another Monday night, and Maida would like our help again.”
“I called Rab,” Maida said. “He told me you were here.”
“Would you like to sit?” Christine asked. “And something to drink?”
“Water,” Maida said.
“There’s a booth,” Janet offered. “It’ll be quieter.”
Christine got a glass of water from Danny and the three of them slid into the booth, Janet next to Maida so she wouldn’t feel alone facing the two of them.
“Now, isn’t this cozy,” Christine said.
From the way Maida dithered and twisted her fingers together, they gathered she felt far from cozy.
“What can we do for you?” Janet asked.
Maida started by thanking Janet for Friday night and apologized for having to sleep over. Then she told them she’d arranged with Gillian to clean the house for Daphne once a week. “Keep it tidy, like, and keep an eye on things because of the dog. I’m not certain the wee thing is quite as housetrained as Daphne says.” But Daphne had nixed the housecleaning.
“That saves you time,” Christine said.
“Aye.”
Janet watched Maida’s fingers twist into another set of knots. “What else, Maida? It’s not just the cleaning, is it?”
“Och, it’s daft, I know, but it’s the pots my plants were in.” They were three special pots, she told them, given to her by her daughter. She wanted them back, but was afraid to go ask for them. “When you’re dealing with someone who roasts weasels and serves up a houseplant salad,” Maida said, “there’s no telling what she’ll do next.”
“It’s a fair guess it won’t be normal,” Christine said. “It’s early evening yet. Why don’t we pay a neighborly visit and get your pots back?”
“Would you? I’d be grateful,” Maida said. “Will I wait here for you?”
“You’ll come with us,” Janet said. She went back to the darts room and told Tallie and Summer where they were going. She invited the younger women along, but they declined.
“Just as well they gave it a pass,” Christine said as she, Janet, and Maida got into her car. “There’s no need to arrive at Daphne’s looking like a boarding party.”
“I hope we don’t look like any kind of vigilante gang,” Janet said.
“We won’t at all,” Maida said. She’d taken the front seat next to Christine, no knitting of fingers evident now.
“Maida’s right,” Christine said. “We won’t at all, at all. A social call. A judicious nudge of our noses into Maida’s house to see that all is well.”
From the back seat, Janet looked at Maida’s profile, then Christine’s. They looked oddly similar—both leaning slightly forward, eyes bright. Their voices were bright, too, and Janet recognized that as Christine’s “eager” tone of voice. She was beginning to wonder if those two had something planned, and was glad Christine hadn’t added, How can that hurt? Or, What can possibly go wrong?
While they’d been in Nev’s, the soft smirr of rain had condensed into a moth-eaten blanket of fog—woolly in some places, patchy in others. Christine drove cautiously toward Ross Street; familiar landmarks loomed and then were lost.
“We just passed the house,” Janet said. “I think.”
“Safer to park off the street at your place.” Christine turned the two corners taking them onto Argyll and then into Janet’s driveway. “If it weren’t so dangerous to drive without lights in this pea soup, I would have turned them off and crept down Daphne’s street like a shadow. I’ve always wanted to make a silent, dark approach like that.”
“Aye, stealth,” Maida said.
“We’re paying a neighborly visit,” said Janet. “There’s no need for stealth.”
“Try not to slam your doors when you get out,” Maida whispered.
“Oh, for pity’s sake.” But Janet got out and closed her door softly, anyway. �
��I hope you noticed that her rental car was gone.”
“Shh,” Christine and Maida both hissed.
“The Land Rover being gone doesn’t mean anything,” Christine said. “She might have realized she doesn’t need a vehicle that size and turned it in for something more sensible.”
“Well, that’s certainly possible.” Janet nodded. “Or Gillian might have told her the grant wouldn’t cover that kind of expense.”
“That thing she chose is one of the most expensive vehicles to rent,” Christine said, “and completely unnecessary. Inversgail isn’t as wee as a village, but we’re hardly Oban or Inverness.”
“Right then. Let’s go see if Daphne’s home.” Janet glanced around. “Where’s Maida?”
They heard the creak of a gate, and through the patchy fog saw Maida at the bottom of the garden. She’d opened the gate just enough to slide through like a curl of mist. Light shone from the kitchen windows of Daphne’s house—Maida’s house—cozier and more beckoning because of the fog. Maida stood with one hand on the gate looking toward them. Then they saw her skitter across Daphne’s garden to a rowan tree. It was hardly big enough to hide her from anyone looking out the windows.
“A tiny Mata Hari,” Janet said. She and Christine stifled giggles. Then they jumped at the sound of a throat clearing directly behind them.
15
During the split second Janet was airborne, she knew that if she were a braver person, or more practiced at sneaking and skulking, she would be able to turn upon landing, greet the throat clearer with a confident smile, and say something pleasant or disarming. Instead, she witnessed one of Christine’s transformations. Elizabeth II turned with a frosty look to quell any further coughs directed toward them. It fell with full force on Janet’s neighbor, Ian Atkinson.
