by Molly Macrae
“Hmm. What?”
“Anyway, you’re learning how Summer is, too.”
“She has a passion for baking and an excellent work ethic. Beyond that?”
“No need to go beyond. She was a reporter longer than I was a lawyer. Her nose for news is just as good at sniffing out bull. She saw through Christine’s prickles the first time they met.”
“They share that passion for baking, too,” Janet said. “A match made in heaven. Or in an oven.”
“Or made in a patch of thistles. Summer can prickle right back if Christine gets to her.”
“That poor old guy died in a patch of thistles.”
Tallie pushed the teacup closer to Janet.
“It must be beautiful along there when they’re blooming,” Janet said. “The bank is covered with them. I’d like to know what kind they are, but I wasn’t really looking at them this morning.”
“Ask Rab. That’s the kind of thing he might know.”
“Almost anything is. Unless you ask him when he’s coming in to work this week.”
Rab MacGregor, who didn’t often have much to say, worked part-time in the bookshop and tearoom. They hadn’t actually hired him, but just as he might be anywhere from a weather-worn forty to a youthful sixty, he showed up anywhere from one to four days a week and seemed to know what needed doing, so they paid him. His dog came to work, too. Ranger, a seemingly self-trained cairn terrier, had claimed one of the chairs by the bookshop’s fireplace as his own. On workdays, he sat or dozed in the chair, like an indulgent spouse waiting for his love to finish shopping.
“Do we know if they’re coming in today?” Janet asked. “Rab and Ranger, I mean.” She looked at the front door, as if it would give her the answer. Someone else was just coming in. “Oh, bloody—hello, Ian.”
Janet bared her teeth, not caring if it looked more like a grimace than a smile. Ian Atkinson, her next-door neighbor, who also happened to be an internationally bestselling crime writer, was the thistle in her side. He’d told Janet that people often mistook him for Alan Rickman in his Sense and Sensibility phase. Janet admired the late actor and adored Jane Austen, and she wondered how either of them would feel about Ian’s reduction of Sense and Sensibility to a “phase.”
“Good morning, Janet. Nice to see you, Tallie.” Ian approached the counter, stopping halfway to flip glossy, lank hair off his forehead. “Janet, I can’t help but notice that you’ve changed.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your clothes.” He smirked. “I saw you get on your bicycle this morning.”
Tallie, with her back to Ian, made discreet gagging noises as she edged past her mother. “I’ll go put Hamish back with his friends then unpack the order in the storeroom. Sorry, but if you call, I might not hear.”
“So kind of you, dear.” Janet flashed the same rictus for Tallie that she’d used on Ian.
The short interruption didn’t jog Ian loose from his conversational track. “You were wearing something quite a bit more revea—” At that point, possibly noticing Janet’s teeth, he cleared his throat. “Where were you off to?”
“Getting some fresh air and exercise.”
“Relaxed, that’s what I meant to say. And now you look properly businesslike and bookish.”
“What can we do for you today, Ian?”
“Just stopped in to say hello. But while I’m here, is there anything for me to sign?”
“We have five copies of The Claymore in the Cloister coming in sometime next week. I’ll give you a call. How’s the new book coming?”
“Beginning to gel.” He gave a quick smile. “Either that or it’s turned to sludge. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”
“Do you have a title yet?”
“The editor and I are batting around a couple of them. Tell you what, though. I value your opinion as one who knows books. Which do you like best, The Dirk in the Distillery or The Chib in the Cheddar? Ah! I can see the answer on your face. We’ve already had two Cs, with claymore and cloister. That’s exactly what I said. Dirk and distillery are new. Different. Fresh. I couldn’t agree with you more. I’ll hold out for dirk and distillery. I’ll make a note . . .”
Ian’s part of the conversation turned into a muttered soliloquy and Janet didn’t hear any more. She watched him wander off into the fiction section. Probably to stand in front of his shelf of books and stare in awe.
As soon as Ian left the counter, Tallie reappeared. “Sorry to abandon you.”
“Survival of the fittest in action. You can run faster.” Janet spoke softly; Ian wasn’t above eavesdropping, claiming it gave him fodder for plots.
“Survival of Ian and the business, too. I can’t go around smacking every irritating author or customer. You’re all right?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Except for how it ended, how was your ride?”
Janet thought back on the wheeze-inducing hill. “My knees and thighs might have something to say about it later, but the view was worth it. Do you know what I thought when I looked out over Inversgail and the harbor, though? ‘To die for.’ I never should have.”
“But he was already gone. You know that, right?”
Janet picked up the plant guide and flipped through it without focusing on any of the pages.
“Saying what you did—something anyone who visits the Highlands might think or say—didn’t make it happen,” Tallie said.
“Of course not.”
“What were you doing way out there? Up there? I thought we agreed you’d start out slowly.”
“We did. Then I tested my capability, reassessed the terrain, calculated risks and possibilities, and amended the agreement. Level roads? Not a problem. A few gentle grades? Took them like a champ. The first hill of the Half-Hundred? Trust me; a haggis would have gone up that hill faster than I did. I’ll go up it again, too, because other than blowing like a belabored beluga by the time I reached the Beaton Bridge, I made it without embarrassing myself.” Janet’s voice rose just as surely as she’d ridden up the hill. “And I am going to ride in the next Haggis Half-Hundred.”
“You?” Ian stuck his head around the corner of a bookshelf.
“Why not?” Janet asked.
Ian stepped out into the open, hands raised, palms out. “Not what I meant. I’ve complete faith in you and your—” He waved a hand vaguely up and down his thigh. “Yes, well, what I meant to ask is, if you rode to the Beaton Bridge this morning, were you there for the excitement?”
“Excitement?” Janet said, wondering anew how Ian managed to write international blockbusters but so often clunked when it came to real life. She’d asked Christine if it were a British versus American disconnect, with the fault being on her end for misinterpreting. Christine, proud Scot, had scoffed. He’s English, she’d said, and a twit. There’s your disconnect.
“The excitement about Dr. Murray,” Ian said. “Found dead under the bridge. He was out bicycling, too. Had a heart attack, I suppose. You haven’t got a heart condition, have you, Janet? Even so, you should be careful.”
“He wasn’t found under the bridge,” Janet said. “You should be careful, too, Ian. Get your facts straight before you spread them or a load of misinformation and suppositions around.” She’d let the accumulation of his clunks get to her. Again. A deep breath didn’t quite clear the irritation from her voice. “When did they release the name?”
“Well, if you’re going to take that tone, I might just as easily ask how you appear to have insider—oh!” Ian bounced the heel of his hand off his forehead. “I should have known. You found him. Is this like a hobby for you? How many bodies have you’ve stumbled across since landing in our once peaceful Highland village? But I thought you were out for a bike ride. What were you doing under the bridge?”
“Not under the bridge,” Janet snapped.
Tallie jumped into an uncomfortable silence. “You knew the man? Was he local?”
“Doc Murray? He was about as local as you can get. A GP, ret
ired for several years now. Stayed here when he closed up his surgery. Quite distinguished looking. Think Patrick Stewart or Ian McKellen. Or Peter O’Toole. Long, tall, and patrician. Although, depending on his condition when you found him, perhaps that wasn’t the case this morning. Was he much disfig—”
“He looked sad and alone,” Janet said. Then, remembering the cupped hand, with its offering of water, she added, “Oddly enough, he looked at peace.”
“I do realize I ask what sound like callous and inappropriate questions,” Ian said. “Occupational hazard of the crime writing life. But Dr. Murray was well-loved. It’s a sad loss to the community.” He sighed in a way that made Janet believe he meant it.
“When was the name released?” she asked.
“Oh, you know, I must have heard it at some point this morning, the way one does. It must have been after they let his housekeeper know.”
Now he fiddled with a button, a thread coming loose on one of his leather elbow patches, the corner of an eyebrow—the targets random and none of his fiddling necessary as far as Janet could tell, and she didn’t believe him.
Tallie didn’t seem to, either. “Where did you hear it?” she asked.
Ian waved a hand and shook his head. Janet couldn’t tell if he was dismissing the question or hoping they’d believe it could have been anywhere and wasn’t important. Maybe it wasn’t.
“I wonder what happens to the housekeeper, now?” he said instead. “I wish I could afford a live-in, I’d offer her a job. Or maybe not. She’s a bit laughable, really, and I’d have her constantly dabbling around underfoot. A doddery old duck.”
“Don’t be rude,” Janet said.
“By calling her an old duck?”
“Or laughable or doddery,” Tallie said.
“They aren’t my words. Malcolm the great and good doctor called her that. ‘Florrie, you doddery old duck,’ he’d say, ‘you make me laugh. Stop quacking.’ It wasn’t meant to be rude, I’m quite sure. More a term of endearment.”
“Not really,” Tallie said. “No more than calling you an old dic—”
“Thank you, Ian,” Janet said over Tallie. “Thanks for taking time out of your busy day to stop in to see us, and thank you for letting us know about Dr. Murray. You mustn’t let us keep you, though.” She walked ahead of him to the door and held it for him. “We’ll see you later. Maybe next week. I’ll call you when your books come in.” When the door closed behind him, she muttered, “Or maybe I won’t. Tone-deaf twit.”
Back at the counter, she patted Tallie’s shoulder and said, “Sorry for interrupting you, dear. I agree with you completely. I’d say go ahead and finish that astute remark now, but I see children coming through from the tearoom.”
“No problem. It’ll keep.”
4
Now,” Janet said as she locked the door behind the last customer late that afternoon, “what were you dying to say about Ian?”
“Nah, that’s okay.” Tallie started counting down the cash drawer.
“Really? You bottled it up long enough. It might do you good to get it off your chest.”
“Or it might do me good to be more mature.”
“There’s my darling lawyer daughter.”
“Or I’ll get Summer to come up with a better insult,” Tallie said. “She has a wicked way with words.”
“Wicked words will have to wait,” Summer said, coming through from Cakes and Tales, followed by Christine. “Darts practice.”
“She made the Guardian team,” Christine said, rubbing Summer’s shoulders as though she were a boxing coach loosening up her champion’s trapezii.
“Barely made the team,” Summer said. “Part of it’s psychological. James thinks we can give the competition a false sense of security and superiority with the whole blond Barbie American thing.”
“You’re okay with that?” Tallie asked.
“Sure.” Summer removed the clips keeping her hair in a neat bun and shook out honey blond hair that fell to her elbows. “I see myself more as Boudicca than Barbie. But I have to practice. I can’t trade on my warrior good looks and not deliver. Want to come, Tallie? James hung a dartboard in the old press room. Top secret.”
“I won’t breathe a word,” Tallie said. “And on the way over, I’ll tell you about the wicked words.”
“See you at Nev’s later?” Janet asked.
The younger women waved and let themselves out the front door. Janet relocked it behind them and asked Christine, “Does Summer know Boudicca’s uprising wasn’t successful?”
“And that she poisoned herself afterwards? I didn’t want to bring her down. She’s that chuffed over making the team that it was all I could do to keep her from practicing with the leeks we got in for the vichyssoise.”
“Are you going ahead with adding soup to the menu, then?” Janet asked.
“No, we came to our senses. Tea and basic baked goods are enough to deal with. We’re doing well enough with them and they’re more practical for our space. So the leeks were, in fact, expendable, but Summer kept herself under control. We announced the soup decision this morning in the doorway.”
It had been Christine’s suggestion that the four of them meet for a few minutes before they opened each morning, “so we’re all on the same page or sipping from the same blend.” They shared information about the featured tea and scone of the day, new book displays, titles of particular interest, comments from or about customers, sometimes a joke or inspirational quote, and any concerns from the third branch of their business—Bedtime Stories, the bed and breakfast located in the rooms above the bookshop and tearoom. Janet chose the place for the meetings—between a teapot and a bookshelf—the interior doorway between Cakes and Tales and Yon Bonnie Books.
“Did I miss anything else this morning?” Janet asked.
“We were more concerned about you and what you were going through with the poor, wee man,” Christine said.
“Not wee, according to Ian.”
“What would that great numpty know about him?”
“He was vague about how he knew,” Janet said, “but you might have known the man—a local GP, Malcolm Murray.”
“Good lord. Of course I knew him. You must have known him, too.”
“I don’t think I ever met him.”
“How could you not have? You must have needed him at some point during your summers here. You have children. Children are always scraping or bumping or coming down with something.”
“That’s a stereotype,” Janet said.
“Tallie broke her arm once. I distinctly remember that.”
“Slipping and falling after an ice storm in Champaign.”
“Are you sure?”
“It was three years ago. She was thirty-five.”
“Good lord,” Christine said again. “You see what the shock has done to my head.” With a hand to the brow of her shocked head, she trailed over to the chairs in front of the fireplace and dropped into one. “Malcolm Murray. It’s a sad loss.”
“I’m so sorry,” Janet said, sitting more gingerly in Ranger’s favorite chair. “I’m never sure if Ian’s being sincere, but he said that, too, and for once I believed him.”
“If he said it, then I wish I’d put it differently,” Christine said. “I meant that Malcolm’s death is a loss to Inversgail. Not to me, personally. Not really. Tony and I were gone for so many years that I didn’t know Malcolm professionally. I knew his reputation, though. I knew him growing up, too, but only from a distance. You were right. He was older than we are. Seven or eight years.”
“Wow. Seventy and still biking up and down these hills?” Janet said. “More power to him—oh dear.”
“Oh dear.” Christine nodded. “It’s that sudden absence, isn’t it? A life erased. Even if you didn’t know someone, a sudden death can take some getting used to. And for many people, this one will take a lot of getting used to. If you’re talking stereotypes, Malcolm Murray might have set the stereotype for ‘good doctor.’”<
br />
“Ian said something like that this morning, too,” Janet said. “And then he said something that made me wonder if I’d like the good doctor so much after all. Or like Ian, ever.”
“Wondering about Ian is a given. What did he say?”
“He claimed he was quoting Dr. Murray talking about his housekeeper, calling her old, laughable, and doddery. Maybe, just maybe, we can cut your good doctor some slack for saying that, but Ian gets out in the world. Literally. He does book tours all over Europe and in the States. He should know better. Tallie was ready to flay him. There’s no telling what Boudicca would do.”
“Why give Malcolm a pass?”
“Consideration for his upbringing and generation?” Janet shrugged. “I didn’t know the man or his background. Ian said the words were a form of endearment, and maybe for Malcolm they were. Ian laughed, though, and I told him it was rude.”
“And I’ll tell you something, Janet Marsh.”
Rising up inside Christine, snapping like blue lightning in her eyes and chilling her voice, came a phenomenon Christine seemed wholly unaware of. Janet had only witnessed it since their move to Scotland; she thought of it as the release of Christine’s inner Queen Elizabeth II.
“You and I are of Malcolm Murray’s generation, or close enough, and I am of this place,” the Queen said. “And though it’s true that I spent the past thirty years rubbing up against the rarefied and progressive attitudes of the state of Illinois’s flagship university and its vaunted, pancake-flat environs, my parents are of an even older generation, and they stayed right here in this place, and you’ll not hear them ever laughing at or ridiculing an old woman just because she’s old, nor will you find them treating her in a condescending manner. Neither will you hear them maligning old men.”
“I apologize, Christine.”
“Not everyone in a village is an idiot.” The Queen and Christine rolled their Rs and wore their dudgeon like ermine-edged robes.
“I know. Believe me, having grown up on a pig farm in those pancake flats, I do know that. I’m appalled that I was just as obtuse and rude as I accused Ian of being. That’s why he made us so mad this morning, though. Tallie came this close to being vulgar about him in front of the customers.”
