by Molly Macrae
“He has that effect.” The Queen began to retreat and Christine reached over to pat Janet’s knee. “I don’t blame you.”
“I do. I hold librarians to a higher standard. Just because I retired from lending books and started selling them doesn’t mean I can slip. But do you want to hear how awful Ian really was? This is the tone-deaf twit thinking he’s funny by imitating Dr. Murray.”
Janet got up and went to the fireplace where she propped her elbow on the mantelpiece. She flipped imaginary lank hair from her forehead, and in a plummier accent than Ian’s said, “Florrie, you doddery old duck, you make me laugh. Stop quacking.”
QE II vanished in an instant and a baffled Christine asked, “What did he call her?”
“Doddery old duck.”
“No, her name. Florrie. Janet, she isn’t his housekeeper; she’s his sister. Oh, I’ve not thought of Florrie in years. How did I not know she’s living back in Inversgail?”
“It could be a coincidence. There must be more than one Florrie in the area.”
“But a Florrie that Malcolm called ‘old duck’? Her mam couldn’t keep her out of puddles when she was a wean and so they called her Ducks.”
“Oh, please, no,” Janet said. “I can’t stand it. Ian was right? ‘Old duck’ is an endearment?”
“Stand firm, Janet. Doddery isn’t complimentary or endearing. You don’t need to forgive Ian for anything.”
“It didn’t stop there. He wondered what will happen to her now that Malcolm’s gone, which sounded surprisingly human, considering it came from Ian. But then he ruined it by joking about hiring her as his own live-in and having to put up with her dabbling around underfoot. He’s a good mimic, Christine. He might have picked up that attitude from Malcolm.”
“I’d hate to think it. But, oh, if it’s Florrie. She’s our age, Janet. We were at school together. We weren’t grand pals, but I knew she went up to St. Andrews when I went to Edinburgh. Last I heard she’d married and stayed in Aberdeen. If Ian could mistake her for a fussing, fretful . . . I’ve not heard anyone speak of her since I’ve been back.”
“You’ve been busy and it’s been a long time since you’ve known her,” Janet said. “Life happens.”
“She adored Malcolm. She’ll be devastated by this.”
“Are there other relatives? You said she married. Does she have family of her own?”
“A husband. Beyond that, I don’t know. There was another brother, though. Gerald. A year younger than Malcolm—Malcolm’s shadow. He didn’t follow him into medicine, though. He went into the military. Florrie said that was the opposite of medicine. I’ve no idea where he’s living. Or if.”
“We don’t know if Ian’s right about her living here,” Janet said. “Norman will know.”
“We can’t ask him.”
“Why not?”
“Because I called him an old plod this morning, after telling you we don’t laugh at old people.”
“You called him an old plod before you said that. You slipped, I slipped, we all do.”
“—and if I talk to him, I’ll do it again. That isn’t fair to other plods or to Norman. I need to rise above that kind of thing. I can’t do it on such short notice, though, but I do have a better idea. Are you all right getting home on the bike?”
“Of course.”
“Good. I’ll pop home and check on my own oldies and be round to pick you up in half an hour.”
“For?”
“A condolence call.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Christine. It sounds so awkward. She doesn’t know me. I don’t know her.”
“That makes a level playing field. She and I don’t know each other, either. Not anymore.”
Janet almost gave in and walked her bike home. Instead, reprising her groaning imitation of the Proclaimers with, “I would ride 500 miles,” muttered under her labored breath, she made it up the stair-step hill to Argyll Terrace and to the third stone cottage along on the right. Four snug rooms down and two up, built of granite as sturdy as the Beaton Bridge, and more durable than her marriage had been.
She turned in at the drive and glanced at a lamplit window upstairs in Ian’s house next door. That was his writing room, he’d told her. She often caught a furtive movement at the window when she arrived home, as though he’d just slipped out of view. If staring out the window is part of your secret creative process, Ian, don’t let my comings and goings interrupt. And if you’re just keeping tabs, that’s fine, too. She’d rather have a nosy neighbor than one who grumped and turned a blind eye.
Smirr and Butter, a rain gray tom and a butter pat of a kitten, noticed everything, too. They appeared from the family room as Janet came in the back door. Smirr advanced a few paces before flopping on his side. He yawned like a pensioner woken from a nap. Butter pounced on Smirr’s twitching tail then rubbed his forehead under Smirr’s chin. New additions to the Marsh household, the “lads” came from different backgrounds and experiences, and had become instant best mates.
Janet scooped up Butter on her way to the kitchen. Smirr reached a paw to pat at her foot as she passed, then followed her and leapt with nimble grace to the kitchen counter.
“Smirr, dear,” Janet said with mild reproof.
She put Butter on the floor and Smirr leapt back down to supervise the kitten while she organized a light evening meal for them. They tucked in and she went upstairs to exchange her khakis for black slacks. As she put on the matching black jacket, the cats came in to offer thanks with a few turns around her ankles. She looked down at the gray and yellow hairs they left behind. The kitten met her eye and mewed.
“You’re right,” she said. “A touch more color won’t hurt.”
She hung the jacket back in the wardrobe and slipped into a deep purple cardigan. Then she went to watch for the Vauxhall Christine drove. Christine’s parents still owned the car, but since moving in with them to be the extra pair of hands they needed, her father seemed content to borrow the keys from her rather than the other way around.
“You look proper, Janet,” Christine said when she got in the car. “Thank you.”
“For knowing how to dress?”
“For coming with me.”
“Did you ask your mum and dad what they know about Florrie?”
“Oh, aye, and Mum was right on top of it. Said she saw Florrie Friday last, at the school prize-giving. Florrie looked feart, but she did a grand job of reciting ‘To a Wee Mousie.’”
“That’s—”
“We would have been eight or nine at the time.”
“At least it’s a sweet memory. What about your dad?”
“He saw someone who reminded him of her in Inverness a few years back, but only in passing. By the time he realized who she might be and turned around to call hello, she’d turned a corner or gone into a shop. I don’t think they’ve heard about Malcolm. I didn’t say anything and Dad didn’t bring it up. I left it that way, for now, and left Dad fixing salmon for their tea.”
“Will we pick them up for Nev’s after we see Florrie?”
“Mum has a bit of a cold so Dad thought they’d stay in tonight.”
“Probably best, but I’m sorry I won’t see them. Do you know where we’re going?”
“Not far.”
“Not far” didn’t mean much, because Janet hadn’t paid attention to the turns Christine made and she didn’t recognize the neighborhood. Bigger front gardens with walls and gates. They might all have had live-in housekeepers once. Or still. Christine slowed and turned in at house Janet thought might be Georgian. Symmetrical. Stuffy rather than cozy. All the downstairs lights appeared to be on and spilling from windows not yet draped for the night.
“At least someone’s home,” Janet said as they got out of the car.
“You’re not expecting much from this visit, are you? You keep saying ‘at least.’”
“At least it isn’t raining, the wind isn’t blowing, and at least I came with you.”
Christine pus
hed the bell then took Janet’s arm in hers. They waited together, then heard a single bark somewhere inside and a lock turn and the latch snick. The door opened only wide enough for a woman to look out at them, expressionless.
“Florrie,” Christine said. “It’s Christine MacLean. I brought my friend Janet Marsh. We heard about Malcolm and we’ve come to offer our sympathy.”
Florrie looked at Christine and then Janet. “Why? What’s the point?” she asked, and closed the door in their faces.
5
Florrie! Wait!” Christine stared at the closed door, then turned a distraught face to Janet. Before Janet could think what to say, determination overtook the distress. “She didn’t slam it,” Christine said, and she reached toward the bell again.
Janet put a hand on Christine’s arm to stop her. “Wait,” she whispered. “I didn’t hear her relock it.” She tried the knob. It turned and she gently pushed the door open.
Florrie hadn’t moved. The blank expression on her face hadn’t budged, either.
As gently as she’d opened the door, Janet said, “Sorry for the intrusion, Florrie. I’m Janet. Sorry, too, for the reason we’re here, but I’m glad to meet you.” She did a quick search through her mental card catalog of people she’d met since arriving in Inversgail. The woman standing in front of her, appearing as rumpled and soft as her faded jeans and sweater, didn’t match anyone in the imaginary cards.
Florrie said nothing.
Has she even blinked? Janet wondered. She and Florrie were an even height, both shorter than Christine. Janet looked into Florrie’s eyes for any sign that she’d heard her, or if she had, that she cared; she didn’t find anything that gave her a clue. That’s not a vacant look, though. Someone’s definitely home behind those eyes, but that door is locked and bolted. Temptation pulled at Janet, goading her to turn around and search the dark behind her for whatever held Florrie’s gaze. Instead, she nudged Christine into action.
“Is there anyone we can call for you, Florrie?” Christine asked. “Have you had your tea?”
Christine took a half step forward. Florrie tilted her chin up a few degrees. Janet wondered if Florrie was finally making eye contact with Christine.
Christine took another half step.
Florrie took two back. “So it’s Christine, is it? I mind how we played together a summer or two.”
“It’s been a long time,” Christine said. “It’s good to see you, Florrie. I think Janet and I should come in and make you a cup of tea. What do you say to that, eh?”
“It’s Florence.” She turned and walked into the house, leaving them at the still open door.
“Did she ask us in?” Christine asked.
“No,” Janet said.
“We’ll go anyway.”
Janet tried too late to stop Christine; Christine had already started after Florence, and Janet decided not to make a scene by arguing with her. Because if we can do something to ease that woman’s pain . . . She closed the door, and at the click of the latch wondered, But is it pain? She tried to soothe her own unease by smoothing a furrow settling between her eyebrows. It didn’t help.
She hurried after the others, past a carpeted stair to the first floor, and along a dim, flagged hall. She caught a glimpse of an ornate frame hanging at the first landing up the stair and pictured a kilted ancestor keeping a watchful eye on the comings and goings in this dour place. Hers were the only footsteps she heard now, Christine having followed Florence into a room on the right, at the end of the hall. Only Christine looked around when Janet entered.
They stood in a room that made any discomfort the rest of the house held worthwhile. The walls were book lined, the space lit by a table lamp and crackling fire. An old spaniel lay on the hearthrug, nose toward the warmth. He lifted his head with a soft woof when Janet held her hands to that warmth. He didn’t challenge her right to be there, though, and went back to a dream of rabbits or grouse.
“What a lovely room,” Janet said. “I’d want to spend all my time here.”
“She’s a retired librarian,” Christine said to Florence. “Gets misty-eyed whenever a dozen or more books gather in one place. She’s right, though; the room’s as cozy as a snug. I’ll make the tea and bring it in here, shall I?”
“Don’t bother.”
“It’s no bother. I’m happy to do it.”
“If I want it, I’ll get it myself.”
“That’s all right, then. The fire’s lovely,” Christine said. “Shall we sit?”
Janet thought Christine must not have noticed the three chairs in the room—one pulled near the fire, a second over by the window to catch the light, the third at a delicate desk. Arranged for the pleasure of a single person.
“If I’d wanted company, I’d have said come ben.”
“But Florrie—”
“Florence.”
“You left the front door open,” Christine said. “Left it open and walked away.”
“Did I? I am competent, you know, despite . . .”
Florence’s voice trailed away as she turned to look at—what? Janet couldn’t tell if she was looking at the dog, the photograph on the end table beside the lone fireplace chair, the books on the shelf behind, or nothing at all.
“Will there be family here to help you with arrangements?” Janet asked. “There are so many details at a time like this.”
“I am competent,” Florence repeated, her voice thin but steady.
“We ken that,” Christine said. “It can be a comfort, though, to have someone else. Someone to lean on a little. Have you called anyone? Did Constable Hobbs call someone for you?”
“I laughed at him,” Florence said. “At Norman, when he came to the door. I thought it was fancy dress. Guising in something he bought at Oxfam.”
“Oh dear. Poor Norman,” Janet murmured.
“How was I to know that weedy Norman Hobbs grew up and joined the polis,” Florence said. “He surprised me, is all.”
“Dinnae fash,” Christine said. “He must be used to all sorts of remarks.”
“I didn’t believe him when he said Malcolm wasn’t here. He said he’d had an accident. Went off the road with his bike. Dead by the burn at the Beaton Bridge. But how can that be? He didn’t say goodbye.” Florence shook her head, as though to worry from it a reason for that lapse.
Christine moved closer to put an arm around her. “Without a goodbye makes it even harder, doesn’t it? But how was Malcolm to know?”
“That he was leaving the house?” Florence pulled away. “Why wouldn’t he know?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Christine said.
Janet, feeling less awkward than simply out of her depth, tried to smooth over the misunderstanding. “I thought Malcolm might have joined the Haggis Half-Hundred bike ride yesterday.”
“Oh, aye,” Florence said. “He’d no time for me if I wanted a chat, but he blethered on about that for weeks.”
“So maybe he went for the ride and that’s when he left the house,” Janet said. “But if he did, I wonder why none of the other riders reported him missing?”
“Why would they?” Florence said. “He wasn’t missing.”
Janet looked at Christine, hoping for guidance through the murk of this conversation.
Christine nodded that she understood and adopted her professional social worker voice. “You say he wasn’t missing, Florence. How do you square that with what happened? He went out and didn’t come back.”
“But he did. He came home after the ride. You can’t be any less missing than that. I spoke to him. I don’t know when he went out again, but he did, without saying a word. No ‘I’m going out for another ride, and I’ll see you after.’ No ‘Don’t bother getting my tea, and ta for all the times you do.’ No ‘Lock the door behind me. I’ll not be back.’”
“Did you tell Norman this?” Christine asked.
“What was he doing sneaking out like that? Again? And me standing here not even knowing he’d gone.”
“How awful for you,” Janet said. “Florence, there must be something we can do for you.”
“You can leave me in peace to get on with not mourning him.”
“You don’t mean that,” Christine said. “That’s the stress and all the emotions talking. I know how it can be. How hard it is to lose someone and say goodbye.”
“Easier to say good riddance.”
Janet waited until she heard the door locked behind them and they’d gone down the steps before saying, “Again? She said he was sneaking out again. What kind of good doctor does that? Again. I don’t like that word anymore. I don’t trust it or any of its implications.”
“Do you feel right, leaving Florrie here alone?” Christine looked back at the door as though weighing its strength against her determination if she decided to go back in.
“She said she’s competent,” Janet said. “Let’s not worry her by standing here, in case she’s watching.”
“She’s not. She’ll have gone back to her snug room to turn inward and beat down on herself and Malcolm.”
“Did you see any books in that snug library that looked like they were being read? There weren’t any lying around open. I didn’t see any obvious bookmarks. None of them were waiting for a reader to return and pick them up again.”
“I didn’t notice,” Christine said. “I watched her.”
“As one who gets misty-eyed wherever a dozen or more books gather, I did notice. There wasn’t a throw anywhere for a chilly evening, either.” Janet looked at the front of the house, the blank face of uncurtained windows staring into the dark. “The whole house is watching us. Get in the car, Christine. We can pull over farther down the street and talk more, but get us away.”
“How reliable do you think she is?” Christine asked as she backed out of the drive.
“I’m not sure what you’re asking and I’m not sure I can tell anyway. We stopped in unannounced at a very stressful time for her. And we were there all of five minutes.”
