Scones and Scoundrels

by Molly Macrae

“Yet he drank it with the laurel,” Janet said. “Why?”

  “The whisky in the flask with the tea was different,” Hobbs said. “He probably filled that himself. The extra bottle, the Ardbeg, made it look as though he’d brought plenty more to do the job properly.”

  “Window dressing?” Janet asked. “Or a stage prop? That means someone else was out there with him or went out later.”

  “Possibilities,” Hobbs said.

  “Why has Reddick been sniffing around your society?” Christine asked.

  “Sam Smith had a photocopy of a letter in his rucksack,” Hobbs said. “It was an anecdote about a Great-Great-Uncle Edward and his belief that a bottle of Laphroaig saved his life, on a voyage of polar exploration, when he was caught in a blizzard and buried in snow for three days with only his reindeer hide suit and the bottle to keep him warm. He didn’t drink the bottle while buried. He saved it to celebrate if he survived.”

  “Always good to have a goal,” Rab said.

  “A penciled note on the letter said that Great-Great-Uncle Edward lived in Inversgail and belonged to the Deoch-an-doris Society. We’re reasonably certain this was Edward Buchan. There have been no members of that family in Inversgail since he emigrated to Canada in 1903. As far as Reddick knows, Sam Smith didn’t ask anyone about the society while he was in town.”

  “Tell us about Ian,” Christine said.

  Hobbs and Rab exchanged looks.

  “Think of him the way you think of an exciseman,” she said. “If we know what you’re up against, then we can help thwart him.”

  “We think he stumbled across something while researching one of his books,” Hobbs said. “It must not have been anything specific, but it convinced him a secret society exists, and he seems to think that his books, or his dream to own a wee distillery, mean he should be allowed to join, if only he can track us down.”

  “Silly question, I’m sure,” Janet said, “but why not let him?”

  “Because no one needs him,” Hobbs said. “That sounds unnecessarily blunt, and membership isn’t based on anyone’s value to the society, but there are other ways of not needing someone. We don’t need the aggro.”

  “Or the ego,” Rab said.

  “May we have a list of members?” Janet asked.

  “Why?”

  “It’ll save further ferreting.”

  Hobbs brought the membership list to Yon Bonnie Books the next morning, before any customers arrived. It was in an unmarked envelope. Janet promised not to share it outside the SCONES and to keep it safe. Even so, she felt a smidge of resistance when she took the envelope from his hand.

  “Rab was the historian before me,” Hobbs said as she took the envelope, “but his tasting notes tended to be too flowery. I took over to improve the tone.”

  “That was good of you.” She ignored the renewed sniff in his voice and the smile Tallie hid behind a feigned cough. “Norman, do you know who died first? Was it Daphne or Tom?”

  “I haven’t read the official reports.”

  “A guess?”

  “My report, after finding Ms. Wood Sunday night, included the information that she’d made a pot of stew after leaving the signing at your shop. The pot was still warm and on the stove. The kitchen hadn’t been tidied, but parings and spills appeared to be fresh.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the kitchen of someone planning suicide, does it? It’s all so awful and shocking. Gillian wants to believe that Daphne poisoned Tom’s tea and scones and then herself. But that doesn’t account for the wrong whisky.”

  “Aye, to me, the stew indicates someone who was home all evening, not traveling up the glen with Tom or after him. Well, I’ll leave you to your business and I’ll attend to mine—more bad news, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh dear, what now?”

  “Another crime of opportunity, Mrs. Marsh. They do happen frequently, ken. This time, Sharon Davis is the unlucky recipient. Someone broke into her house last night.”

  28

  The burglary of the librarian’s house seemed to prove Norman Hobbs’s expertise on crimes of opportunity in Inversgail. Janet was ready to believe he might be right about the incident at Maida’s house, and almost ready to be convinced that Rab and Gillian had imagined patchouli lingering like a sneak thief in Tom’s.

  “If for no other reason, we have a business to run, and smelling patchouli where it didn’t belong complicates our investigation. It’s a nuance we don’t need.”

  “Patchouli is a pretty pungent and specific nuance,” Tallie said. “Nuance might be another word for clue. I don’t think we can ignore them.”

  “That’s irritatingly logical. Nuance might be another word for red herring, too, but I suppose we won’t know if any given nuance is leading us or misleading us until we’ve solved this thing.”

  “Nuance is to clue as smirr is to thunderplump.”

  “All right, I like that,” Janet said. “We’ll make it our new guiding principle. What’s our next step?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to park myself in the office. I want to read through Daphne’s websites again. There might be a nuance or two that went past me earlier.”

  “Take this with you.” Janet handed her Hobbs’s envelope. “Heaven forbid it should fall into the wrong hands. I’ll let the others know about Sharon’s burglary, and I’ll call if it gets busy.”

  “Champion pig calls only,” Tallie said.

  With no hint of smirr, thunderplump, or anything in between, Inversgail basked in a spate of sunshine for an hour or two that morning. While anyone with sense took advantage of it, the bookshop and tearoom grew quiet. Christine then took advantage of the lull and brought cups of tea for Janet and Tallie. She handed one to Janet and looked around. “Tallie?”

  “In the office,” Janet said. “On the trail of clues and nuances.”

  “Then she won’t miss the tea.” Christine settled herself on the stool behind the counter with the second cup. “This possibility that the scene of Tom’s murder was stage-managed interests me. But if Norman is willing to believe that was staged, why not the break-ins, as well? They could have been made to look like typical crimes of opportunity. James and Martin probably know enough, from covering stories for the paper, to make a break-in look like the work of bored kids.”

  “Anyone who reads enough mysteries or watches crime shows would be able to,” Janet said.

  “Sharon-the-burgled-librarian could. Any more postcards from her?” Christine asked. “Do we know she left Inversgail? Her cards are electronic. What if she invented an alibi for herself?”

  “That would mean she planned the murders weeks in advance, and part of her plot was a fake vacation. But why?”

  “Fake or not, everyone needs a vacation.”

  “I’m serious, Christine.”

  “So am I. She’s a master manipulator. She maneuvered level-headed-you into judging that literary contest when we first got here. And then here she came, complaining about Daphne’s list of dos and don’ts and silly needs, and asked if you’d kill her. And then said she would if you didn’t. Talk about stage-setting.”

  “We all say things like that from time to time. She was blowing off steam, not confessing.”

  “That’s part of her cleverness,” Christine said. “Creating a memorable scene to throw us off. Why should we discount her as a suspect just because we don’t know why she’d want Daphne dead?”

  “But we can’t just lob accusations. We need evidence. We need motive. Even if she did kill Daphne, what about Tom and Sam?”

  “Tom is easy; it made him look guilty. That motive works for any suspect. Poor Sam, though. He doesn’t fit into any theory easily.”

  “So, then, what about the break-ins?” Janet asked. “Can you really picture Sharon creeping around and getting into other people’s houses?” She stifled a giggle. “Actually, I’d like to see her try.”

  “If she’s the one Ian saw at Daphne’s, it’s no wonder he thinks the information is valu
able. Between him and Maida, what a pair.”

  “Why aren’t we suspecting either of them?” Janet asked.

  “We can work on them later. Continue with your objections to Sharon. This is useful.”

  “Why would she break in? What was she after? Did she fake the break-in at her house?”

  “Yes, because she knows about opportunistic crime. She did it to remove lingering doubts about the other two. We don’t know what she was after, but that would be true of any of our suspects. Think about it, though. Her house is more secluded than Daphne’s or Tom’s. Who else would know it had been burgled? She probably reported it herself through the anonymous tip line. What day is it?”

  “Monday.”

  “There you go, she picked the obvious day for it. Everyone in Inversgail knows she goes to Fort William to do her radio program on Mondays.”

  “Monday afternoons. Norman heard about the break-in this morning or last night. And your theory assumes she heard about the lingering doubts. How did she hear that if she’s pretending to be away, and where was she when Norman investigated?”

  “You’re so hung up on details,” Christine said.

  “They’re called nuances, and the devil is in them.”

  With the afternoon came a soft, steady rain—a dreep, Janet decided, and marked it off her list of rain words. Tourists came in, happy to be out of the dreep, with books to browse and the possibility of hot tea and a scone or shortbread. Martin came in, too, and brought the article and interview notes he’d promised to share with Summer. She gave him tea, a scone, and shortbread in thanks.

  “A file folder of papers?” Janet asked when Christine reported the exchange. “He can’t be thirty; why didn’t he zap over an electronic file? Or bring a copy of the recording? Surely he didn’t take notes by hand?”

  “You were going to take notes the other evening at Nev’s.”

  “But now I’m with it and shocked by such backward ways.”

  “He’s sipping tea and gazing at our Summer. I don’t know if that’s the only reason for the hand delivery of a paper file, but he’s a bit like a puppy.”

  “Have you noticed how often we need to straighten the picture books?” Tallie asked at the end of the day. She corralled a drift of them on the floor in front of the fireplace and took them back where they belonged.

  “At the library, we used to say that a discombobulation of books in the children’s area is a good sign,” Janet said. “It means children are reading. Here, we can hope it means parents will buy.”

  “Win-win. Long live discombobulation.”

  “Speaking of discombobulation,” Janet said. The door jingled and Ian stepped in. “Hello, Ian.” She wanted to leave the greeting at that, but her better nature insisted she behave. “What can we do for you?”

  “Just browsing, for now.”

  He stuck his hands in his tweed pockets and started down the first aisle, attempting to casually whistle along with the jazz on the sound system. His whistle quickly died and his browse looked to Janet more like a reconnaissance mission. He walked each of the aisles and looked into the tearoom. Tallie left her shelf-straightening and followed him back to the counter, where Janet’s better nature was rethinking itself.

  “Perfect timing,” Ian said. “I hope you appreciate that I waited until you were about to close to avoid upsetting customers.”

  “Waited for what?” Janet asked.

  “To share my theory about Daphne’s murder. Interested?”

  “Sure.” Tallie leaned her elbow on the counter next to him; he put two steps between her elbow and himself.

  “Everyone’s upset. Everyone feels like a suspect.”

  “Really?” Janet said.

  “You hadn’t noticed? You should get out more. I’ve been out and about, picking up the vibes of the community, and those vibes all say one thing: No one liked her. That fact gave me my clue. It’s like Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express. The police are stymied because they’re looking for a murderer, when, in fact, multiple people are in it together. And then it struck me how appropriate it would be if Summer uses Mandarin oranges in her orange almond scones. That would make this murder with the Oriental scones.”

  “Ian,” Janet said, “for so many reasons, don’t ever say that again.”

  Tallie moved a step closer to Ian; Ian moved two more away.

  “My offer still stands,” he said. “Quid pro quo. I’ll tell you who I saw in Daphne’s house in exchange for information about the whisky society.”

  “What makes you think we know anything about a whisky society?” Janet asked.

  “I have my sources. I know you have yours. As a good faith gesture, I’ll share this tidbit with you. Did you know a cache of whisky was buried in Inversgail during the Great War? The secret of its exact location long lost. There, now it’s your turn to share a tidbit.”

  “Sorry,” Tallie said. “Now we’re closed.”

  Christine and Summer arrived from the tearoom in time to see Ian huffing his way out the front door. “Not causing problems, is he?” Christine asked.

  “Nothing a good lock doesn’t solve.” Tallie turned the deadbolt.

  “We’ve had an idea,” Summer said. “Why don’t we stay here this evening?”

  “Nev’s will miss us,” Christine said, “but we can eat toasted cheese, muddle through our theories, and toss accusations at people we think we know.”

  “And see what sticks?” Janet said. “Sure. Can we start with Ian?”

  They settled into the chairs by the fireplace with Isle of Mull cheddar toasted on thick slices of whole grain bread. Tallie told them she’d added notes about Daphne’s websites to the cloud. Summer gave them each a copy of Martin’s file, which she’d made on the machine in the office. Janet had the Deoch-an-doris Society membership list, but decided to wait before passing it around. Instead, she shared Ian’s theory.

  “Of course there could be more than one person involved,” Christine said. “Didn’t we already think of that?”

  “I’d wondered if Daphne and Tom were in it together,” Janet said. “But if Ian’s right, we’re living in a whole town of homicidal maniacs.”

  “He isn’t right,” Tallie said. “He’s a writer. Give him an inch and he’ll see a crime in every cup of tea.” She picked up Martin’s notes. “What’s good in here, Summer?”

  “I’ll give you the high points. Hang on.” Summer set her toasted cheese aside and leafed through the pages. “She had no particular affection for Inversgail. Her memories of people are foggy. Her family moved on or died. She talked about trees and said as long as she had them, she was never lonely. Martin asked, ‘Are trees a good substitute for filling one’s life with another person?’”

  “Did she bop him with her bokken?” Christine asked.

  “She came back with, ‘Does one need to fill one’s life with the mess of another person?’”

  “That’s a complicated question,” Tallie said.

  “Which he didn’t answer. They talked about her books. She said bookstores are anachronisms. He asked if she’d had any backlash from booksellers for saying that, and she said, ‘Backlash doesn’t worry me. I’m not a worrier. I’m a warrior. I’ll stand up for anyone who’s been taken advantage of, treated badly, beaten down, or killed. Physically, emotionally, or spiritually.’”

  “Go, Daphne,” Tallie said.

  “Yet she thoroughly trod on Tom in public.” Christine shook her head. “Then again, let she who is without inconsistencies be the first to pick holes.”

  “How far would she go to stand up for someone, do you think?” Janet asked. “And does a warrior use poison?”

  “A poison-tipped sword, maybe,” Tallie said. “But I thought we eliminated Daphne as a suspect because of Norman’s stew clue.”

  “But he also thinks the break-ins aren’t related, so let’s keep—”

  “An open mind?” Christine asked. “Such wise words, Janet.”

  “Learned from a wis
eacre friend.”

  “Always glad to do my bit. Do we have a list of clues floating in the cloud?”

  “Let’s start one when Summer’s finished,” Janet said.

  “Hold on.” While they’d been talking, Summer had eaten the rest of her toasted cheese. Now she wiped her fingers and picked up Martin’s file again. “I’m paraphrasing, here, but the warrior thing is why she wanted justice for Sam Smith. Then Martin asked something we wondered, too—why she said she knew Sam’s family when there’s no evidence he was related to anyone in Inversgail and Smith is the most common surname in Scotland. She said, ‘Smith is Everyman.’ He asked if she had suspects and if she was worried about the killer. She repeated her ‘I’m not a worrier. I’m a warrior’ thing and then said, ‘I’ve killed bears. But I’m not an idiot. People are more dangerous than wild animals.’ He said, ‘So you’re a worried warrior?’ She accused him of laughing at her and ended the interview.” Summer tapped the pages back into a neat stack. “Those are the highlights, according to me, but read the file, because something else might jump out at you.”

  “Did he record the interviews?” Janet asked. “It might be interesting to hear inflections.”

  “He must have,” Summer said, “but he didn’t offer it, so he might not be as willing to share it. Do you want me to ask?”

  “It can’t hurt.”

  “Could James have an ulterior motive for the cuts he made in the article?” Tallie asked.

  “I doubt it,” Summer said. “James wasn’t looking for edgy. As far as I can see, he cut out the edge, reframed the piece, and ended up with a perfectly good article that fits the Guardian’s style. Still, I know how it feels to have your work chopped up.” She took out her tablet. “But you move on. So, moving on to clues? I’ll start with my least favorites: scones and tea.”

  “Stew,” Christine said. “Electronic postcards.”

  “You’re just guessing about the postcards,” Janet said.

  “We’re guessing about a lot of things,” Christine said. “Let’s treat it like a game of associations and see what happens. Just sing them out.”