Deadly Editions

by Paige Shelton

  “No thanks. We don’t have far to go,” I said.

  “Very well. Good luck to you both.”

  Leaving the pub was just like walking into the exaggerated wind in an old black-and-white movie. The force took the door and pulled it open so hard that Birk and I had to put both our backs into it to get it to shut. Once we did, we silently made our way toward the bookshop, being pushed along comically by the the wind.

  “Delaney!” a voice called from behind, seeming to fight the wind to reach us.

  We turned to see Sarah running in our direction. She was holding a stack of papers, or maybe cardboard. We tried to meet her partway, but the wind knocked us back a couple steps instead.

  Sarah’s neat ponytail was now blowing in her face. “I realized that something odd might have happened. These came in two days ago. I thought it strange, because they’re advertisements for another pub. The gentleman who brought this stack in said that the papers were to advertise a band, and since we didn’t have live music, would we mind giving them out. I argued a moment, but I’ve heard the group and they are good. I begrudgingly agreed, but I’ve kept them behind the counter.”

  I took the flyers, their ends flapping. They advertised a pub named Whistle Binkies—but it was the band’s name that garnered my and Birk’s full attention: Hyde and Seek.

  “This is definitely a clue,” I said to Birk over the wind. I glanced up at Sarah. “Can you describe the man to me?”

  “I’m not sure I can. He had no distinguishing features, rather average-looking, I think, but my pub was crowded, and I probably didn’t pay him much attention.”

  “Do you think you could recognize a picture of him?”

  “I doubt it. Sorry. I’m going back inside. Keep the flyers. They’re my only guess as to your clue, and I don’t need to give them out anyhow.” Sarah turned and made her way back to The Last Drop. She had to wrestle the door too.

  Without speaking Birk and I turned again and rode the wind as we headed to the relative calm and quiet of the bookshop.

  FIFTEEN

  “We’re going to a pub called”—I looked at the flyers again—“Whistle Binkies.”

  “I know that one,” Hamlet said. “Good music.”

  “Have you ever heard of the group called Hyde and Seek?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Other than the noise of the wind blowing outside, the bookshop was quiet. Grassmarket was quiet. It was as if Birk and I had been the last ones to find our way inside and out of the elements. It had taken a few moments to warm my fingers enough that I could show the thick flyers to the others.

  Rosie, Hamlet, and Hector had been inside the shop but not working. They’d taken chairs to the front and had been watching out the window. Someone had put a red sweater on Hector, and I realized that the cutest dog in the world could actually be even cuter.

  The scent of chocolate cloaked the other normal shop smells of old ink, paper, and bookbindings. Rosie had filled her desk with a carafe of hot cocoa and treats from the bakery next door, so we all could enjoy watching the storm out the window, certain that customers would either join us or wait elsewhere until it passed before resuming shopping. Soon we all had our own filled mugs.

  “We think that’s where we’ll find the subsequent clue, though I’m not sure we can call them clues as much as instructions on which pub to visit next. Considering the number of pubs in Edinburgh, this could go on forever,” I said.

  “There must be a pattern, a reason for the pubs chosen,” Hamlet said.

  Standing by the front window, Birk turned and nodded. “I agree, but we haven’t been able to figure that out, other than maybe a tenuous tie or two to Jekyll and Hyde.”

  “The storm, lass. Ye cannae go yet.” Rosie said.

  I nodded. “I know, but I really do think that the sooner the book is found, the sooner Shelagh will be found and that then we’ll also know who the New Monster is. I don’t know how this is all tied together, but it must be. We just heard on the news that the victim, Ritchie John, might have known Shelagh because of their shared love for horses. Learning that felt like another piece has been put into place, even if we’ve just got one small corner of the puzzle. The book might only be another corner, but … well, the sooner the better.”

  “Aye,” Hamlet said doubtfully.

  “What?”

  “He seemed like a nice man.”

  “Hamlet, I need to tell Inspector Winters about Darcy John. The police have probably already talked to her, but I feel like I should let them know what you’ve told me about Ritchie speaking in class. I don’t know why, but just in case it would help.”

  “Already done.” Hamlet smiled. “When I first heard the news, I rang Inspector Winters myself. He was surprised it wasn’t you ringing. He asked if you were okay. I told him you were fine.”

  “Good job,” I said.

  Birk faced us again. “At least there are no places more public than pubs. It’s not like we’re exploring the underworld city.”

  “Aye,” Rosie said.

  “However…” Hamlet looked at his phone. “Whistle Binkies doesn’t open until later. Not until six this evening.”

  “That’s good news. Ye’ll stay in and the storm will pass.” Rosie crossed her arms in front of herself, and Hector, sitting on her lap, sneezed in solidarity, once again pushing the boundaries of cuteness.

  “Yeah, I agree. Maybe get some work done,” I said, smiling at Hector.

  “I’m going to go home, lass,” Birk said. “Ring me and I’ll pick you up later. Let me know.”

  “All right.”

  “Don’t go, Birk.” Rosie glanced outside again. “Not yet.”

  “I’ll be all right. I’ve been in worse, and no one else out there is driving. I’ll be fine.”

  I watched Birk as he left the bookshop. He’d parked his car near where Tom parked his, up toward Tom’s pub. He walked into the wind but seemed to make it there just fine.

  “More hot chocolate, lass?” Rosie held the carafe in my direction.

  “Thank you.” I took the mug with one hand and punched Inspector Winters’s number on my phone with the other.

  He answered quickly, and I filled him on what had happened since I’d last seen him. He didn’t have a problem with Birk and me going to the pub that evening, which surprised me a little. He hadn’t been bothered by our other pub visits, but there was something else to his tone, something I couldn’t immediately identify. He mentioned that he appreciated Hamlet’s calling him earlier.

  “What’s up?” I finally asked.

  “We’ve made an arrest, lass. We think we have the man who killed Ritchie John and who’s been robbing homes. The New Monster.” He cleared his throat.

  “Really! That’s great. Who is it? Does he know anything about Shelagh?”

  “I can’t tell you yet, Delaney, you know that. I will share with you, though, that we haven’t found Shelagh and we are still very concerned about her well-being.”

  “Oh, I hope she’s found soon.”

  “We do too. I’m sure the media will be informed as soon as the police are certain they have the right man in custody. You’ll know soon enough.”

  “Okay,” I said again. “This is good news.”

  “Be safe, Delaney. Let me know what you find at the next pub.”

  “Will do.”

  We disconnected the call, and I slipped the phone into my back pocket. It occurred to me that Inspector Winters might actually be happy I had something to do to keep me out of his way.

  “What is it?” Hamlet asked.

  “They’ve arrested someone, but Inspector Winters wasn’t at liberty to tell me who.”

  “For what? The robberies? Shelagh? The Monster?” Rosie asked.

  I shook my head. “The robberies, maybe Ritchie John, maybe Shelagh, but I think they’re still trying to figure it all out.”

  “Och, no matter, an arrest is wonderful news.”

  “Yes, it is,” I said abse
ntly. I looked up and noticed Rosie and Hamlet looking back at me. “It’s not that I’m disappointed they’ve arrested someone, but it’s just occurred to me that maybe there’s more than one person doing these terrible things.”

  “I’m sure the police are considering that,” Hamlet said.

  “They’ll get the answers, lass,” Rosie said.

  “I know. I know.” I paused.

  Maybe I was listening for bookish voices, maybe I just needed to take a moment, but nothing spoke to me, nothing tried to right itself inside my intuition. I sighed. “I need to get some work done in the warehouse. I’ll be over there for a while.”

  “Let us know if ye need anything,” Rosie said as I made my way to the stairs.

  First though, I picked up Hector and greeted him properly. I wished I could take him over to the dark side with me, but it wasn’t the best place for him, and he would miss Rosie and Hamlet too much.

  I put him down again and then walked up and through the doorway. I flipped the switch that illuminated one single bare bulb on the high ceiling. The bulb had needed changing a few months ago. Tom had brought over an appropriately tall ladder and done the task. He’d asked if we wanted him to install a real fixture over the bulb, while he was there and all, but Edwin had said it wasn’t necessary, that he wasn’t sure we could handle something so sophisticated after decades of austerity.

  I walked down the stairs, feeling the typical chill, and hurried to the big red door. I inserted the blue skeleton key and turned it three times to the left. The bolt slid open, and I pushed. Once inside, I flipped up another switch and closed and locked the latch behind me.

  The chill was then gone. Somehow Edwin had made sure this old space in the back of the building was perfectly temperature-controlled. It was never too cold nor too hot—not that it was too hot in Scotland very often anyway.

  I was home. Well, one of my homes. Edwin had created the warehouse—with painstaking remodels—as a place where he could keep his treasures, items he’d collected over the years. Objects filled the tall shelves, some books but other things too—old-fashioned mousetraps, stuff from Egyptian tombs, coins, artwork, et cetera. He’d always meant to organize the space, but it had been more fun to put things in it than to organize them, so the tall room had turned into more of a retreat for him than a proper archive. When he decided it was time to get serious about organization, he searched for a new employee to help. I was the lucky new employee.

  I’d made a dent in my job, but it would take me years to get on top of everything—maybe forever, I sometimes joked with Edwin. He didn’t argue and in fact seemed to like the idea of my never leaving. It was always good when employers and employees were on the same page regarding employee retention.

  I looked at my desk. It was covered in jewelry cases and boxes. My latest task in here had been to evaluate the surprisingly large number of jewelry boxes that had been stored on the warehouse’s packed shelves. The project was only at its beginnings, and I still wasn’t quite sure how to figure out what all needed to be figured out. The day I’d received the message from Shelagh, I had become diverted, and I wasn’t ready to get back on any other track yet again. I scooted the boxes to one side of the desk and fired up my laptop.

  As things were loading, I glanced at the time and then made a call to The Tolbooth Tavern.

  “Tolbooth, how can I help ye?” the voice said.

  “Benton?”

  “Aye.”

  “It’s Delaney. I’m calling to see if your waitress remembered the messenger who brought the box of mugs.”

  “Och, aye. She did. She said it wasnae even a man a’tall but a lass.”

  “Did she describe her?”

  “All she had was ‘nothing special.’ She said the woman wore sunglasses and a cap over what was probably brown hair.”

  “Short, tall?”

  “Neither.”

  “A real messenger with a company or just a woman?”

  “She said she didnae see any sort of official anything on the woman’s shirt. I asked.”

  It seemed the world was suddenly full of average-looking people who didn’t make impressions, except for the Monster.

  “Thank you. Would you call me if you learn anything else?”

  “Aye. Got tae go now, though.”

  The call disconnected before I could tell him thank you or good-bye.

  “A woman?” I said aloud. “Shelagh?”

  I wondered if Benton had a camera running anywhere. I called the number again, but there was no answer. He probably had caller ID and was tired of me. I’d try again later.

  For now I had other research to do.

  I hadn’t found anything about Louis Chantrell the night before, but I tried again anyway. Still there was nothing. It was weirdly quiet.

  Findlay Sweet was a different matter, though. I found so much about him that I wondered if he knew how much of his personal information was available at the touch of a few keys. It seemed he’d made a small habit of getting into trouble. I didn’t find anything back as far as the days when Tom told his wife on him, but there was plenty of other bad behavior.

  Eight years earlier Findlay had been arrested for petty theft. He’d later been released on bond. In fact, he’d stolen from quite a few shops—jewelry, clothes, food. They weren’t things that would necessarily make the news, but he’d been involved in something that had—a car accident. As a result of that high-profile wreck, his crimes had made their way to any search that included his name.

  The car accident had taken place just outside Edinburgh. Findlay’s car had been hit by a truck, but it seemed Findlay might have neglected to stop at a stop sign. The truck driver had been hospitalized for a long time, but he was surprisingly still alive, though no longer working for the trucking company. Though Findlay’s vehicle was the smaller one, it seemed he hadn’t been injured at all—one article mentioned that only a front fender had been damaged, but the truck had tipped over onto the driver’s side.

  Findlay had been sued, and he in turn had sued both the trucker and the company. The court cases had been newsworthy for a week or so according to a few articles I found, but all lawsuits were thrown out because nothing could be proved either way.

  There’d been no witnesses.

  One reporter had delved deeply into Findlay’s background, going so far as to mention his ex-wife. There was even a picture of her, though just like all important pictures lately, it was grainy.

  I enlarged it.

  Hang on. Jessica Sweet looked familiar. How did I know her? With short brown hair and a grim expression pulling on her mouth, there was something deeply familiar about her. Did I know her, or was I trying to make something of nothing?

  I couldn’t place her. She looked nothing like Shelagh O’Conner, but I had seen her somewhere, I was sure.

  That had been happening to me a lot lately.

  When you live and work someplace for a while, all people start to look familiar. We had enough loyal customers that I recognized most of them most of the time, but I wasn’t looking at a customer now.

  How did I know Jessica Sweet? Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I’d superimposed a familiar face over hers. Wishful thinking?

  A few months earlier, I’d become acquainted with a woman who looked like me, as well as the martyred Mary, Queen of Scots. Our time together had been interesting as well as rife with tragedy. We’d remained acquaintances but had never been able to quite become friends.

  What I’d noticed after we’d been out together in a few public places was that some people paid attention to what other people looked like, some simply didn’t. The contemporary Mary and I could go to a restaurant and a server might not be able to take her eyes off us, but in another restaurant with another server we weren’t given a second glance.

  I was somewhere in between. Sometimes I paid attention, sometimes I didn’t. But I was pretty sure I’d seen this woman somewhere recently.

  It would come to me eventually.

>   I sighed and moved on to something else. I spent some time searching for connections among all the people I’d met recently, but didn’t find much. Finally I opened my few-days-neglected email and went through it.

  My phone suddenly buzzed.

  “Birk?” I answered.

  “Shall I come by the bookshop to pick you up?”

  I looked up at the windows along the top of the warehouse. It was dark outside. I pulled the phone away from my head and checked the time. It was just after six. The afternoon had flown away.

  “How’s the storm?”

  “It let up a couple hours ago,” he said. “You okay?”

  “Fine, just got lost in some work. Yes, I’ll meet you outside the bookshop.”

  I grabbed my phone to call Tom as I made my way back to the other side, but he was calling me at the same time. It seemed my luck in having him home in the evenings had run out tonight, which was just as well since I was headed to another pub anyway. Rodger was working, but with two big groups of customers—one a wedding party, the other a girls’ night group—still inside the smallest pub in Scotland, it was going to have to be all hands on deck. I told him I’d found something to keep me busy. When I shared the name of the pub we were visiting, he laughed, saying even he hadn’t been to that one yet. I told him I’d try to memorize the details. He was just pleased I was going with Birk and not by myself.

  Before we hung up, I managed to let him know that the police had arrested someone. He said he hadn’t heard about that. I wished I’d thought to pay attention to the news again to see if the police had released the information yet. The day had truly gotten away from me.

  I came through the door to the light side, where Rosie, Hamlet, and Hector were still working. Though they’d noticed the improvement in the weather, they’d lost track of time too.

  “One of those days,” Rosie said as she stood and stretched.

  Hector had been on the floor next to her. Still in his red sweater, he stood and stretched too, one leg at a time. Yep, even cuter.

  I noticed Birk’s car outside, so I said good-bye quickly. Birk was just stepping out as I left the shop.