A Little Something Extra: Short Stories from the Invertary and Benson Security World

by Janet Elizabeth Henderson

  A little Something Extra

  Short Stories from the Invertary, Benson Security and Sinclair Sisters worlds

  Janet Elizabeth Henderson

  Copyright © 2019 by Janet Elizabeth Henderson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  A note from the author

  1. Betty’s Birthday

  2. It Wisnae Me

  3. Jena and Matt’s Honeymoon in Vegas

  4. Andrew McInnes’ Book Club

  5. The Breakfast Club

  6. The Reverend Morrison’s Last Christmas in Invertary

  7. Betty Wants Grandkids

  8. Aunty Megan Saves the Day

  9. The Day Donna Became Housekeeper at Kintyre Mansion

  10. Megan and Dimitri on the Job

  11. The Wookiee Wants a Wife (or at the very least, a date!)

  12. Isobel And Callum Get Married

  13. Kirsty and Lake Benson

  14. Ryan’s Heart

  15. Harry and Magenta

  16. A London Night

  17. Invertary’s Unofficial Council Has a Plan

  18. A New Client for Benson Security

  19. Valentine’s Day at Glasgow School of Art

  20. Jack’s Next Step

  21. Dear Abby

  A Glossary of Characters

  About the Author

  Also by Janet Elizabeth Henderson

  A note from the author

  Hello,

  * * *

  For some time now, I’ve been writing a short story each month for my newsletter. It’s a chance for everyone to catch up with their favorite characters and for me to tease some things coming up in the Invertary/Benson Security and Sinclair Sisters worlds.

  A few months ago, one of my readers suggested that I put these stories together in a book. And I thought that was a great idea—so thank you, Andrew. But I couldn’t just use the stories from the newsletter, so I’ve written eight new ones just for this book. I’ve arranged the stories in chronological order, so the timeline throughout the book makes sense. There’s a note at the top of each story to tell you where it sits in relation to my books.

  I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I enjoyed writing them. And if you’d like more short stories, make sure you’ve signed up for my newsletter.

  In the meantime, happy reading!

  * * *

  Janet x

  Betty’s Birthday

  Long before we meet her in Invertary.

  Betty McLeod spent her fiftieth birthday the same way she’d spent every birthday since turning twenty-five. Although, this year was a bit more special than most. It was a double celebration, of sorts—her fiftieth and what would have been her silver wedding anniversary.

  “Yer aff yer heid, you know that, right?” Edna McKintyre had been Betty’s best friend since primary school, and she was never shy about sharing her opinion. “I managed to get Davy to let me go out for the day, and instead of going tae the shops on Argyll Street, I’m on a bus to the middle of bloody nowhere.”

  “Auch, haud yer wheisht! We’re going to Bearsden, not Timbuktu. When we’re done here, there will still be time to get in a bit of shopping. I saw a braw tartan dress in Lewis’s that I’ve had my eye on. I wouldn’t mind getting a few of them to see me through.”

  “Like we’re no’ Scottish enough without adding everyday tartan to the mix. Why don’t you get one of those nice polka dot dresses everybody’s wearing?”

  “And look like everybody else? No thanks! I’m crafting ma signature style here. I’m looking for something timeless.”

  “Timeless? Aye, it would have to be, seeing as you’re in your fifties now and you’ve no’ got much time left.”

  “Speak for yourself! I plan to live forever.”

  “I hear that can happen when you sell your soul to the devil.”

  “Come on.” Betty tugged at her friend’s sleeve. “This is our stop.” She wriggled out of her seat, making sure not to shuggle the basket she’d carefully packed in Invertary.

  They made it to the front of the bus in one piece, just as it screeched to a halt.

  “Yer no Stirling Moss, you know that, right?” Betty shouted at the driver as they got off.

  He answered by speeding away from the curb.

  “Bearsden,” Edna said, putting on her poshest accent. “La-de-da. Maybe we should have dressed for the occasion.”

  The large houses of the newly wealthy lined the wide street, sitting back from the pavement behind well-tended gardens and high hedges.

  “Invertary looks better than this.”

  “Aye, but these people have money.”

  Betty sniffed at the thought. Anyone who was daft enough to think they were better than her because of a few pounds in the bank deserved everything they got.

  The house she was looking for was one of the newer builds, with boxy, boring architecture and tiny wee windows. Either the people who bought these houses didn’t like daylight, or they were hoping small windows would better deter the burglars. She snorted. Good luck wae that. In some areas of Glasgow, robbing a Bearsden house was a rite of passage.

  “This is the one.” She pushed through a curlicued gate and strode past a bunch of bored gnomes.

  Gnomes. In Bearsden. And people said she was low class.

  “Hurry up,” she snapped at Edna.

  “I’m coming. I’m coming. Hold yer horses, woman.”

  “Get the camera out.” Betty patted her short hair, which had started to thin—along with the hormones in her system. When a man lost his hair, he was manlier. When a woman lost her hair, she was a crabby old witch. There was no justice in the world—something she’d learned the hard way twenty-five years earlier.

  “Make sure you get my best side,” Betty told Edna.

  “You don’t have a best side,” Edna muttered.

  Betty laughed, flashing teeth that had seen better days—something else she’d no doubt lose along with her hair. With no more delay, she removed the scarf covering her basket, picked up an egg she’d been storing for months just for this day, and lobbed it at the front door.

  It made a satisfying splatting noise as it hit, before running down the red paint.

  “Bloody hell!” Edna gagged. “How old are those eggs? I’m no’ staying here for this. I don’t want to puke.” With that, she ran back down the path.

  “You’d better have taken that picture,” Betty shouted after her. She needed it to round out her scrapbook.

  With evil delight, she took another egg from her basket and aimed for the pristine windows. It was worth suffering the smell to see the result.

  “Stop that right now!” The shout came from the back of the property. “I’m calling the police this time. I’ve had enough.”

  “Aye, it’s only been twenty-five years,” Betty said to the person who ran into the front garden. “I can see where your patience would be wearing a bit thin.” She threw another egg and smiled when it hit.

  “Betty McLeod, you’re a nasty, bitter old woman.”

  Betty turned to the woman she’d once trusted more than anyone. “And you’re a flabby old slag. How many spare tires is that around your waist now? Four?”

  “Get off ma property. Go find somethin
g else to do with your life instead of annoying me.”

  “I do plenty with my life. This just happens to be my annual highlight.” She threw another egg.

  “Haven’t you had enough revenge? It was a mistake. I told you that. I’m not even with him anymore. I haven’t been with him for twenty-four bloody years.” Hands on hips, she confronted Betty and glared at her. “I did you a favor. He was a bastard. You would have been miserable with him.”

  “You’re probably right. But I never got the chance to find out for myself, because you went to bed with him the week before the wedding.”

  “You didn’t miss anything,” Maureen said. “He was rubbish in bed.”

  “Another thing I never got to find out.” She lobbed two eggs at the same time for that cheek. “You always were a jealous wee cow. Always wanting everything I got my hands on. What was the matter, Mo, did you figure out that you’d always be in my shadow, no matter what you did?”

  Maureen snorted. “You’re delusional. Maw was right about you. You’re going to waste your whole life because you can’t let go of the past. You’re going to die a lonely, bitter old woman, Betty McLeod.”

  “Better than a two-faced, man-stealing, easy-with-her-favors old hag, Maureen McLeod.”

  “That’s it.” Betty’s younger sister threw up her hands in disgust. Drama queen. “I’m done with this. Have at it. Throw your eggs. I don’t care. You’re the one who’s missing out. You’re the one who has family you never see. Nieces and nephews you’ve never met. And all because Ramsay MacDonald had wandering hands. It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic.”

  “It wasnae only his hands that wandered though, was it?” Betty was running out of eggs. “And it wandered all over my own sister. I don’t know how you can live with yourself.”

  “It’s easy. Because you’re no’ here to drive me mad!”

  Damn it. She’d run out of eggs. But—she smirked at the house—she’d still managed to make a good job of decorating for her birthday.

  “I’m done,” Betty said. “See you next year.”

  “Ha! That’s where you’re mistaken. We won’t be here. Paul got a job in the States.”

  That made Betty pause. She might hate her sister with a vengeance, but America was awfully far away. It would be a helluva trip to make with two dozen rotten eggs.

  “Where in America?”

  “Like I’d tell you!” Maureen turned her back on Betty. “Enjoy your sad, lonely life without me. I know I’ll be living it up without you.” She disappeared back around the side of the house, and Betty wished she’d kept a few eggs to throw at her sister.

  “You’re dead to me,” she shouted after her, but it wasn’t up to the standard of her usual retorts.

  “Feeling better?” Edna said when Betty met up with her on the pavement outside the house.

  “I was, until Mo told me she’s moving to America.” Betty wanted to hit something at the thought. “How am I supposed to get my birthday vengeance now?”

  Edna linked her arm with Betty’s. “Maybe it’s time to move on. You’ve had twenty-five good years.”

  Betty let out a heavy sigh. “I’m still right pissed off with her.”

  “But no’ with Ramsay, I see.” It was a long-standing argument between them.

  “You can get over a man’s betrayal, but a sister should always be on your side.” She thought about it. “She’s dead to me. I am now, officially, family free.”

  “You, Betty McLeod, are a deeply disturbed individual.”

  There was no arguing with that. “Let’s get a pie at City Bakeries. Then we can go to the department store and see that tartan dress.”

  They headed toward the bus stop, arm in arm, as gray clouds gathered over Glasgow. Betty took some satisfaction in knowing that the rich folk got the bad weather, just like the rest of them.

  “Have you ever noticed,” Edna said, “that rotten eggs smell a lot like sulfur?”

  Betty smiled with satisfaction. Her nickname wasn’t Satan for nothing.

  It Wisnae Me

  This story takes place between Lingerie Wars and Goody Two Shoes.

  “I’m designing my own knickers,” Betty announced to the Domino Boys as she stalked into the community center.

  The old men were gathered around their usual table, pretending to play dominoes. Really, their games were just an excuse to get together and gossip. It was pathetic. Betty didn’t gossip. That was nothing more than spreading other people’s news. Betty preferred to make her own.

  “Is there a reason you’re telling us this?” Archie McPherson said as he reached for the chocolate biscuits.

  Betty shoved his hand out of the way and nabbed the last two. “I figured if Kirsty can design underwear, then so can I. I’ve got a lot more experience than she does, and I’ve discovered a gap in the market. There’s no sexy underwear for your discerning oldie. I’m making knickers for people our age.”

  “Still no’ sure why you’re telling us this.” Archie scowled at the biscuits in her hand.

  She took a bite of one and grinned while she chewed, thankful she’d remembered to put her teeth in this time. “I’m starting with designs for men because their underwear is less complicated. And I need models,” she said with her mouth full. “That’s why I’m here. To ask if you want to model my underwear.”

  Hamish spat his tea over the table, and James thumped him on the back. Findlay looked like she’d asked them to lay an egg.

  “You’re aff yer heid if you think I’m going tae strut around in my underpants for you,” James said.

  Betty nodded sagely. “That’s what the Drymen Domino Team said you’d say.”

  “Drymen?” Hamish sat up straight. “You’ve been talking to the Drymen men?”

  “It just so happens I bumped into Charlie MacDonald at the post office a couple of hours ago. He’s up visiting his nephew. He thought the underwear was a great idea.” She rubbed her chin. “He even mentioned making a calendar and raising some money for their club. Of course, I said that I needed to offer the option to the Invertary team first. To keep it local, you understand. But he said you lot were too chicken to pose in your underwear.” She shrugged and turned away. “Nae skin aff ma nose. I’ve got my models.”

  She’d barely taken three steps before Archie piped up, “Now wait a wee minute. You can’t get the Drymen boys to model underwear designed in Invertary. We keep that stuff in-house. After Kirsty and Lake’s fashion show, people expect the folk of Invertary to know about underwear. And we’re no’ ashamed to be part of a local endeavor, are we boys?”

  There was a chorus of agreement. Swallowing her smile, Betty turned back to them. “I don’t know. The Drymen boys are a wee bit younger. They’ll probably sell more underwear.”

  James frowned at her. “I thought you said this underwear of yours was aimed at folk our age. Ones in their seventies and eighties?”

  “Aye,” she said.

  “Then what the hell are you doing going after younger models?”

  “To be fair, the Drymen boys are only in their sixties. Which means they can probably pull off sexy a wee bit better than you four can,” Betty said.

  “I can do sexy.” Findlay struck a pose that she assumed was meant as proof of his claim. It just looked like there was something stuck in his dentures and his tongue was working it out.

  “You’re right.” Betty kept a straight face. “You’re definitely what I need. And it would be good to keep it local. Those Drymen boys are awfy full o’ themselves anyway.”

  “Wait a minute,” Archie said. “How do we know you’re telling the truth about the Drymen Team wanting to model for you?”

  The men nodded their agreement.

  “If you don’t believe me, go catch Charlie. He’s at the pub. He’ll tell you.” There was no need to pull off another innocent look; for once she was telling the truth. Charlie would indeed back up her story.

  “She wouldn’t say that if it wasn’t true,” James said.

&n
bsp; “You really do have Drymen interested in this?” Hamish said.

  “Well,” Betty conceded, “they’ve no’ signed on the dotted line because I wanted to ask you lot first.”

  They shared a look.

  “We cannae let Drymen best us,” James said.

  “No,” Archie said, then looked at Betty. “You’ve got yourself some models.”

  “Great,” Betty said, “I’ve got a photographer all lined up. Be at this address at seven tonight.”

  She put a piece of paper in front of them on the table, and Archie picked it up.

  “That’s the cemetery,” he said, looking even more confused than usual.

  “Aye, what better place for a fashion shoot aimed at oldies than their next destination?”

  “I don’t see what’s sexy about a bunch of graves,” Findlay said.

  “Just be there on time. I know what I’m doing, and I brought in some experts to help.” With that, she tottered out of the room.

  As soon as she was through the swing doors and out into the street, she spotted Charlie MacDonald.

  “How’d it go?” he said.

  “Mission accomplished. Got them all signed up.” Betty grinned at him. “Guess that means I owe you a pie and a pint.”

  “That you do.” He chuckled.

  It was dark in the cemetery, but you wouldn’t have known it from the amount of light coming from Betty McLeod’s memorial statue. The one she’d had commissioned for when she died. It showed Mel Gibson from Braveheart carrying a replica of Betty in his arms. The statue had cost an arm and a leg but was worth every penny.