by Molly Macrae
“Ian.” Janet patted her heart back into place. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people that way.”
“Nice evening,” Ian said, taking a step back. “For clandestine casing, I mean.” He’d met Christine’s eyes and quickly looked away, but Janet saw them shift again, and now he was looking over her shoulder. “There go Christine and Maida.”
“What?” Janet whipped back around to see both of them creeping in the most obvious way possible up Daphne’s back steps. “Oh, for—Christine!” Janet didn’t call her name nearly loud enough to be heard.
“It’s all right,” Ian said. “Daphne isn’t home. She left quarter of an hour ago with her dog and a young fellow in her expedition vehicle. Do you suppose she’s planning a quest of some sort? And what are they looking for?” He nodded toward Christine and Maida.
Daphne isn’t home. Those three words gave Janet strength. The strength to lie. “I think they just didn’t want to startle the dog, Ian. We decided to stop by to, you know, see how Daphne and Rachel Carson are settling in. Let them know where the fuse box is, that kind of thing.” Janet smiled and wondered if such a thing as a fuse box existed in Maida’s house.
Ian winked.
Janet looked back toward the house. Christine and Maida crowded the stoop, faces pressed to the window in the back door.
“Oh, gosh, wouldn’t you know it? The doorbell must be on the fritz,” Janet said quickly. “I’ll go let them know Daphne isn’t home after all. Thanks for stopping by, Ian. See you.”
Janet smiled again, but only until she’d turned her back on Ian, then she tried her best not to run down her garden path and up Daphne’s. Christine was now stretching up, trying to get a look in another window.
“Just a little higher, Christine,” Maida was saying.
“Christine, stop it,” Janet said. “For heaven’s sake, we have a witness. Maida, stop encouraging her. Do you both want to spend the night in jail?”
“Nothing illegal about fresh air exercises, Janet,” Maida said.
At this, Christine turned around and did half a dozen jumping jacks and then bent to touch her toes. Janet closed her eyes.
“You can open your eyes now. He’s gone,” Maida said. “Yon glaikit lump.”
“Maida!” Janet said, surprised to hear her speak so rudely about Ian, for whom she occasionally worked. Maida might have been surprised, too. She coughed until Christine gave her a few thumps between her shoulder blades.
“Ian’s a … a good neighbor,” Janet said.
“A neighbor of some sort, anyway,” Christine said.
“A neighbor who was kind enough to overlook your suspicious behavior.” At least Janet thought he was overlooking it.
Maida wrinkled her nose. “I’ve gone off him since that business with your last murder investigation.”
Christine made a noise that managed to sound both rude and in agreement with Maida.
“Ian also told me that Daphne and Rachel Carson left in the Rover before we got here,” Janet said. “So there’s nothing to see here, nothing to do, and let’s please not give him a reason to call the police—like breaking and entering, which you have already been warned about. Put your key away, Maida. We’re not going in there. I’ll come over tomorrow, when Daphne is home, and knock on the door like a civilized person, and get the pots, and that’s the end of it. Okay?”
“You’re a wee bit tense, Janet.”
“You could be right, Maida. I’m going home now.”
“We’ll come with you,” Christine said.
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Och, I don’t see why not.” Christine put an arm around Maida’s shoulders. “We could all use a glass of your restorative sherry and will sleep better for it.”
Janet looked up into the twilit sky and sighed. “All right.”
Christine’s arm dropped from Maida’s shoulder and she started for Janet’s house.
“Come along, Janet,” Maida said, taking her arm. “And dinnae fash yersel about Ian calling the police. I’ve got something on him.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s a Peeping Tom.”
Maida refused to say anything more about Ian Atkinson being a Peeping Tom. Even after Janet poured three small glasses of sherry and they were sitting comfortably, companionably, in the living room, no amount of reasoning or cajoling would convince her. Janet knew from personal experience that Christine was an excellent cajoler, but even she failed to pry the details from Maida.
“If I tell what I know,” Maida said, “then I won’t be able to hold it over his head.”
“Why would you need to hold anything over Ian’s head?” Christine asked.
Maida took a small sip of her sherry and set the glass on the end table beside her. “It’s true, the occasion may never arise. Nevertheless.”
“You’ve trusted us this far,” Christine said. “You trusted us to sneak over there to Daphne’s this evening. You must know you can trust us with the rest of what you know.”
But Maida wouldn’t budge. She said goodbye, and when Christine offered to give her a lift, she said she’d walk home. She left without finishing her glass of sherry, which Janet thought was just as well, as she didn’t seem to have a head for alcohol.
“I shouldn’t have used the word ‘sneak,’” Christine said when Janet came back from walking Maida to the door. “Did you see her backbone straighten when I did? Do you think what she says is true?”
Janet pulled the curtains before sitting back down. “I should have done that as soon as we came in. Does that answer your question?” She told Christine about Ian overhearing her conversation with Daphne in the back garden after the missed sword class. “It’s unnerving to think he might’ve been peeping all this time. I don’t always pull the curtains, but you can bet I will now. Do you think Maida’s told anyone else?”
“Possibly not. It isn’t a topic of conversation that fits easily into the usual pleasantries. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it, Maida?’ ‘Yes, it is. It stopped raining for five whole minutes and the cat’s had kittens again, bless her furry wee heart. Speaking of which, did you know Ian Atkinson is a Peeping Tom? The great glaikit lump.’ It doesn’t quite work, does it?”
“Not quite, so you’re probably right. And she did say she might want to hold it over his head someday.”
Christine drained her sherry. “She probably regrets telling us.”
After seeing Christine off, Janet thought the social part of her evening was over. It wasn’t. She heard from two people she hadn’t expected to.
First came an electronic postcard from Sharon-the-librarian, with a photograph of bookstalls along the Seine:
Bonjour, Janet,
I’m sitting in a café, drinking wine, eating petite madeleines, and putting thoughts of visiting authors far behind me. The bookstalls are everything I hoped they’d be. I’ve already spent my book allowance for the foreseeable future.
Au revoir,
Sharon
Paris wasn’t a warm, sunny beach, and spending her money at the Parisian bookstalls might mean Sharon had less to spend at Yon Bonnie Books when she returned. But if books and a café in Paris brought her stress levels down, Janet was happy for her.
She took the sherry glasses out to the kitchen and realized she’d never put a curtain or shade on the window over the sink. She washed the glasses, thumbed her nose at anyone rude enough to be staring in, and went back to the living room to curl up with a book and bring her own stress levels down.
Her phone rang a short time later, but she’d fallen asleep. The ringing phone became part of a dream, morphing into an alarm bell alerting the world that Christine, Maida, and Ian Atkinson were breaking out of jail. In the dream, Janet couldn’t decide if she wanted to admit knowing them, but finally realized the alarm bell was more obnoxious than they were and she tried to muffle it with African violet leaves and an unruffled Rachel Carson, plus three dozen of her fellow Pekingese. Surfacing into reality, Jan
et fumbled the phone to her ear.
“Norman Hobbs, here, Mrs. Marsh.”
Janet’s phone slipped from her hand into her lap and from her lap down the side of the seat cushion. She fished it out and put it back to her ear. “Hello?”
“Norman Hobbs, here, Mrs. Marsh.”
“Where?”
“I’m so sorry. Did I wake you?”
“I certainly hope so. Where did you say you are?” She heard laughing and snatches of music in the background.
Hobbs belched quietly in her ear. “I beg your pardon.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“What?”
“Are you in a pub? Are you inebriated?”
“No, I’m in Tulliallan.” He belched again. “Pardon me. I’ve been eating falafel. Did Reddick not tell you?”
Hobbs told Janet he was at the Scottish Police College in Tulliallan for a professional development immersion course introducing him to multiple cultures, languages, and religions. Janet said she thought that sounded smart. Hobbs agreed, though he realized others on the force weren’t as keen.
“That’s why courses like the one you’re on are so important,” Janet said. “And Reddick was being considerate of your privacy. I’m sure that’s why he didn’t tell us where you are.”
“No doubt.” Then Hobbs told her why he’d called. “Sam Smith.”
“Did you know him?”
He hadn’t, but he’d heard about the murder. “The Major Crime Team hasn’t found it necessary to consult with me, and as I’m not in Inversgail, I lack information.”
“Are they purposely keeping you in the dark?” Janet asked.
“I wouldn’t say precisely that.”
“You could ask Reddick to fill you in.”
“I like Reddick,” Hobbs said, “and I wouldn’t want to put him in an uncomfortable position.”
“May I interpret that to mean you don’t want whoever’s in charge to know you’re interested in the case?” Janet asked. “And should I be pleased that you think I can fill you in or worry that you think I’m overly interested in the case? I’ve seen Reddick a time or two, but now that I think about it, I don’t know who’s in charge.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you do know?”
“Is it that officious man who was here in the spring?”
“Quite possibly.”
Janet told Hobbs the little they knew about Sam Smith and the sequence of events leading up to his death, then asked, “Do you know Tom Laing?”
“Teaches at the high school?”
“Yes. Danny said he threw a punch or two, though he hadn’t seemed to be part of the party group, either. Here’s the thing about Tom being there, though. Earlier, we saw him leave with Gillian Bennett. She took him home because he’d had a bit too much. We don’t know why, how, or when he went back. We left before he did, anyway, and before Sam Smith or the party arrived, so all I have is secondhand information. How am I doing?”
“We being you and Mrs. Robertson?”
“And Tallie and Summer. Rab was there, too, and left when we did. We had a situation to attend to for the visiting author. You knew about her coming, right? Oh.”
“Mrs. Marsh?”
“You’ll want to know this. Daphne Wood, the author, is …” Janet trailed off as she tried to think of an efficient way to sum up Daphne.
“She’s what?”
“So many things.”
“And at least one of those things sounds troubling to you.”
Janet was quiet for a moment. Was she telling on Daphne? No, she thought. Daphne made it clear in her presentation at the library. “Basically, she doesn’t think enough is being done to find Sam Smith’s killer. She wanted us—Christine, Tallie, Summer, and me—to investigate. She wanted to join us in investigating. I told her no. Rab says she’s telling people that she is working with us.”
Now Hobbs was quiet, although Janet heard something that sounded like a hand rubbing the bristles of a five o’clock shadow.
“If it makes the situation any better,” she said, “or if it makes you feel better, Christine says Daphne is a bampot.”
“It’s difficult to see why that information should make the situation better,” Hobbs said. “Are you investi—”
“No. Do you know who else has mentioned investigating, though?”
Hobbs didn’t answer.
“Are you there, Norman?”
“Sorry, yes. I was just praying you wouldn’t say Ian Atkinson.”
“Prayers are tricky. They aren’t always answered right away or the way we want. Maybe Ian won’t be interested in the next case, but he’s been flitting around this one. Norman, are there any Peeping Toms in town?”
“None that I’ve heard about. Why?”
“Curiosity and precaution.”
“I like the word ‘precaution,’ Mrs. Marsh.”
“Norman, why haven’t the police released the cause of death? Danny was fairly certain the blow from the brick did it.”
“They could have held onto that information for several reasons. They might be keeping certain details out of the public forum while they locate and speak to the lads involved in the party.”
“And to Tom, too, I suppose. Do you want me to find out when and why Tom went back to Nev’s?”
“No, Mrs. Marsh. I do not.”
“Because you don’t trust him or because you don’t trust me?” Janet immediately apologized for the questions and her tone of voice. “That was uncalled for, Norman.”
“But not unexpected. You have a streak of curiosity wider than most cats. That’s merely an observation, Mrs. Marsh, not a criticism.”
And it nicely glides over the fact that I’m quick to take offense, Janet thought, and maybe quicker to see a challenge. “Did you know Daphne Wood when she lived here?”
Hobbs had grown up in Inversgail and would be about the right age to be in school when Daphne and Gillian were. “I didn’t know her well,” he said. “I participated in a youth hillwalking group organized by Gillian’s father. Gillian and Daphne came along with us a few times. Why has Mrs. Robertson diagnosed her as a bampot?”
“Mood swings, for one thing,” Janet said. “If that’s what they are. Daphne’s mood swings, I mean, not Christine’s.” She heard a muffled snort in her ear. “Daphne’s a mixed bag. For someone who claims to prefer solitude and trees and the company of her dog, she’s occasionally, amazingly social. And then she’s not. She flips on, then off. When are you coming back?”
“At the weekend.”
“She’s doing a book signing at Yon Bonnie Books Sunday afternoon. Four o’clock. You should come and see her for yourself.”
“I might.”
“We’re expecting a good turnout, if for no other reason than people will want to see what she does next. She’s added an odd zest to life in Inversgail in more ways than one. And some of that zest was literal, if you consider the salad she made out of Maida’s houseplants. Tom will probably be there. He and Daphne have gone out on a couple of photo shoots that Gillian didn’t seem to know about.”
“I’ll give it some thought.”
“Maida might be there, too, even though Daphne accused her of attempted murder. Did I tell you that Daphne knows how to use a Samurai sword?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good. Refreshments will be served.”
16
Janet had the coffee ready and waiting when Tallie came downstairs for her run the next morning.
“What?” Tallie sat down across from her mother. “I know it’s something, because early isn’t you, and two days in a row, plus making the coffee, makes the person sitting in front of me practically an alien.”
“Do you remember the pact the four of us made when we were looking into Una’s murder? The buddy system. That we wouldn’t take chances by going places alone.”
“It’d be hard not to remember it. Why?”
“A couple of reasons, precaution being one.” Janet told
Tallie about Hobbs’s phone call. “It was one of those conversations that lets you fall asleep but starts poking at you and asking questions at four in the morning. I finally got up when I realized that for people who aren’t investigating a murder, we have a lot of information, a few trails we could follow, and a couple of people either encouraging us to investigate, convinced we are investigating, and—”
“Norman Hobbs isn’t one of them, is he?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Janet held up a finger. “And we’ve got Daphne telling people that she’s working with us and we’re all investigating the murder together.”
Tallie sat back and crossed her arms. “No wonder you woke up. That isn’t just annoying or disturbing, it’s alarming. If Sam Smith’s killer is here and hears Daphne or any of that, he might think we’re on his trail. Or she might.”
“I don’t want you out running by yourself.”
“Might think we’re on the trail,” Tallie repeated. “I know I just said it was alarming, but logically, is it that alarming? We don’t have a reputation for being super sleuths. The killer’s going to be more worried about the police.”
“It’s alarming to me. We don’t know who killed Sam Smith, or why, but we know that person is violent—suddenly violent, too. Think about it, Tallie. Who kills someone with a brick to the head? Sam’s death might have been premeditated, but it might not. You might say we don’t know enough about this person—”
“But we do. We know he or she’s a killer.”
“I don’t want you running alone.”
Tallie nodded.
“Oh, and there’s one more thing. Maida says Ian’s a Peeping Tom.”
“Gah!”
“I know, I know. Norman said he hasn’t heard any reports of Peeping Toms recently, though, so Maida could be wrong. Then again, she probably didn’t report him. She said she’s waiting to hold it over his head someday.”
“That is a such bad idea.”
“Again, I know. Here’s a good idea, though.” Janet raised one of her feet so Tallie could see her running shoe. “We can run together.”
