by Molly Macrae
“Fifteen or twenty.”
“Ten tops. Aren’t you going to pull over?”
Christine didn’t answer. She turned a corner, gripping the steering wheel so her knuckles looked ready to pop.
“I’m not sure you’re safe to drive, Christine. I know how you get. You’ll worry over this until you’re completely distracted. And there’s a fog moving in.”
The Vauxhall took a corner too fast for Janet’s nerves.
“Honest to Pete!” She risked distracting Christine further by turning the full force of a scowl on her. “And you wonder if Florence is reliable.”
“But I never wonder about Nev’s. It’s aye reliable.”
“I didn’t know you needed a drink this badly,” Janet said as Christine parked in the closest space they could find near Nev’s.
“We arrived in one piece, didn’t we? And we’ve our standing date with the girls here later, so consider this just us being a wee bit early. It’s not a drink I need, anyway. It’s food. Anything fried.”
“That might not qualify as food.”
“Not such a terrible coping mechanism or vice, though. Will you join me?”
“Oh, aye.” Janet opened the door for Christine, and they left a creeping fog outside for the swirl of voices and pub smells—ale and battered fish with a twist of damp dog.
“Heaven,” Christine said.
Most of Nev’s clientele were locals, the pub’s exterior holding no appeal for passing tourists. It occupied a narrow building squeezed shoulder to shoulder between the Inversgail Guardian and Smith Funerals. Hardware for a sign hung above the door, empty for the past decade. Or two or three. In the basement, with its face to a corner, stood a sign with the faded words “Chamberlain’s Arms.” Anyone with a memory of the sign hanging out front knew it didn’t refer to Sir Neville. No one working at the pub claimed to know where the name Nev’s came from.
“How’s the evening’s dreich?” Danny, the barman, asked went they stopped to order their food.
“I’d like to bury it under a plate of whatever you have on special,” Christine said.
“One of those days?”
“And the day’s not over,” Janet said. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
“Fried haggis.” Danny said. “You’re sure?”
“Bring it on.”
“Comes with chips.”
“Brilliant. And bring the brown sauce.”
“Forget the sauce,” Christine said, “and we’ll hope it hasn’t been as bad as that, but bring two halves of the Selkie’s. We’ll be at our usual.”
“You’re early,” Danny said. “Seamus still has it.”
“No matter. We’ll find another.”
Nev’s had more interior corners than seemed natural for what appeared, from the outside, to be a rectangular building. The bar and small kitchen along the left side only took up space halfway down that long wall, though, and the room opened up beyond them. And the wall between Nev’s and Smith Funerals took two interesting jogs. The “Smithward” jog, on the street end of the businesses, gave Nev’s a room for darts. The corresponding “Nevward” jog, beyond the darts room, created the corner where Janet and Christine’s “usual” table sat. No one liked to speculate what Smith’s did with their bonus room.
The table had become their usual on Monday nights soon after they’d settled into their routine at Yon Bonnie Books. “Nev’s is a perfect place for us to go for a quality of life check,” Janet had said. Christine agreed, calling Nev’s neutral ground, an honest place where they could be honest with each other, “which isn’t always possible in front of customers in the shop.” Summer had liked the idea and offered a toast: “To whisky and unwinding.” Tallie had answered with one of her own: “Drams to drown the occasional dreich.”
With their table taken on this Monday evening, Janet and Christine looked for a next best place.
“The nearer one will do for now,” Janet said, nodding at a small table closer to the bar.
“Is that you, Christine?” Seamus called from “their” table as they sat. “Here, now.” The elderly man struggled to rise. “I’ve just been keeping it warm.”
“No rush, Seamus. We’re grand right here.”
“I’m away home the noo. Màiri won’t have heard about Malcolm Murray.”
“A sad day,” Christine said. “We’ve just been to see Florrie.”
“Eh? You’re sorry?” Seamus fiddled with a hearing aid as he passed them. “Aye, we’re all sorry. He’d aye a kind word. A great heart. Cheers to your mum and dad.”
“Thanks, Seamus. Mind how you go.”
They watched him make his way to the door, a hand on the back of a chair here and a shoulder there to steady himself.
“A bit squiffed?” Janet asked as they relocated to their table.
“Seamus? He’s teetotal. He’s just older and deafer. We’re not deaf, though. What can you hear? Is anyone at the other tables talking about Malcolm? Or Florrie?”
“I might hear something if I went and hovered,” Janet said.
“Good idea. Try over at that one—”
“No. And don’t you do it either. We’ll wait and ask Danny what he knows when he brings the food.”
Christine dropped into a chair and Janet saw Queen Elizabeth flicker in her eyes—a woman thwarted and sinking into the dumps. But does the real Elizabeth allow herself to feel so low? Janet wondered. In London, possibly, but certainly never at Balmoral. How interesting, though. Now that we have Boudicca with us, we have two queens on our hands. She wondered if this might be the right time to ask Christine if she was aware of the Elizabeth phenomenon.
“What’s that sly smile for, then, Janet?” Danny asked. He set two plates of deep-fried haggis and chips on the table, then two half pints of Selkie’s Tears, the house special ale.
“Not sly at all, Danny. Anticipatory. This looks and smells delicious.”
“Ta, Janet. Looks like I might need to bring the other half to get a smile out of you tonight, Chrissie. Why don’t you tell me what’s eating at you before you start eating this?”
“You’ve heard about Malcolm Murray?” Christine asked.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it? He hardly seemed to age. Like the Beaton Bridge itself.”
“A fixture,” Christine agreed.
“For decades, and he did a lot of good over those years. He’ll be missed.”
“Janet found him.”
“Did you, hen? I’m sorry. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. It isn’t something you soon forget.” Danny had found a young man dead behind Nev’s earlier in the fall. “People are saying it was Malcolm’s heart or a stroke. Medical emergency of some kind.” He quirked an eyebrow at Janet.
“It could’ve been something like that. Something made him lose control and leave the road, but I don’t know anything more.”
“Rhona and her lot are feeling it.” He nodded at a table in the area beyond the bar and kitchen. “They rode yesterday, too.”
“What do you hear about Florrie these days?” Christine asked.
“Me?” Danny said. “Not much. I heard she came back to live at the house. I don’t know when or why, and I’ve not seen her. Never saw much of Malcolm. Never at all in here. Will Tallie and Summer be joining you?”
“They’ll be along later,” Janet said.
“And your mum and dad, Chrissie?”
“Staying in tonight. Mum’s a bit peely-wally. Dad says it’s a cold.”
“It’s that time of year. Can I get you anything else? I need to—” He nodded toward the bar. “I’ll stop back later.”
Janet couldn’t think of Christine as Chrissie, any more than she could think of Queen Elizabeth as Lizzie or Betsy. But when Danny called her Chrissie, it suited her. He was the only one who did. They’d known each other since childhood and fallen into a comfortable, uncluttered relationship since her return.
When he’d gone back to the bar, Christine picked up one of her chips and immediatel
y dropped it. “Too hot. Don’t touch the haggis; it’ll be sizzling.”
Janet snatched her hand back from her own plate.
“So.” Christine stood. “While we let them cool, we’ll go extend our condolences to Rhona for the loss of a fellow half-hundred rider.”
“Oh, now,” Janet said, but she got up with an irritated tchah when Christine ignored her and plowed straight toward the far table where Rhona McNeish sat with two other women. Janet put a fingertip on one of her chips—hot, but hardly dangerous. She snapped up the chip and ate it. Then, with a more resigned tchah, she followed Christine.
Janet didn’t know Rhona well and hadn’t known she was involved with the Haggis Half-Hundred, but it didn’t surprise her. She’d first met Rhona as the leader of an environmental group that had worked tirelessly to restore a local wildlife area—Glen Sgail. Rhona, with her brush of red hair, reminded Janet of a Highland pony ready to winter outside. If Rhona were caught in the rain, Janet would expect her to shake herself off with a few efficient twitches and carry on.
“Here she is,” Christine said when Janet caught up to her at Rhona’s table. “I was just telling them you plan to join them on the next Half-Hundred.”
“That’s my goal, anyway,” Janet said. “We’ll see if I make it.”
“Of course, you will,” Rhona said. “If you’re looking to get in shape for it, you should join us on some of our shorter rides. Do you know Isla and Lynsey?” She nodded at one and then the other of the women at the table as she made her scant introductions.
“Pull a couple of chairs around,” Isla said.
Lynsey moved her chair over to make room.
If Rhona was a pony, Lynsey was a whippet—lean, alert, and eager to race. Janet thought she must be a few years younger than Tallie and Summer, maybe early- to mid-thirties. And Isla? She’s a . . . But Janet didn’t see a resemblance to any particular animal in the fifty-something woman watching her.
“We’ll join you another time,” Christine said. “Our food’s growing cold, but we wanted to come tell you how sorry we are about the way the ride ended for Malcolm Murray yesterday.”
Lynsey looked down at her hands clasped in front of her on the table. “I don’t want to believe it. Lachy doesn’t believe it.”
“Her husband,” Rhona said to Christine and Janet, “but it goes for all of us. We’ve never required riders to stay with a group or to ride in pairs. We might be rethinking that now.”
“We will be,” Lynsey said.
“Aye, we will,” Rhona agreed. “It makes sense.”
“Any idea what happened?” Christine asked.
“I said it would happen.”
Lynsey spoke so quietly that Janet wasn’t sure she’d heard right. And maybe she hadn’t; neither Rhona nor Isla reacted. Christine, though, looking both sympathetic and intrigued, put a hand on Lynsey’s shoulder and started to say something.
But Isla spoke first, looking at Janet, and cutting Christine off. “You’re the incomer who took over the bookshop. The American.”
“Guilty,” Janet said with a light laugh she hoped was disarming. “Incomer” wasn’t the friendliest word for someone who’d transplanted herself to Scotland, but it was true enough. “I didn’t take over the shop all by myself, though. Christine’s in it with me, and my daughter and another American.”
“And I’m more of a repatriate,” Christine said, rolling her Rs to good effect.
“Don’t mind Isla,” Rhona said. Then she pointed at Janet and Christine and said, “Did you know these two had something to do with solving the murders a month back? Never underestimate the power of a couple of canny women. We’re happy to have you in Inversgail and glad to have the shop still open and in good hands.”
“True enough,” Isla said. She raised her glass to Janet. “Better a canny incomer than another T-shirt shop.”
“Wheesht, Isla. Don’t mind her,” Rhona said again. “Come out for a ride with us, Janet. You, too, Christine. I’ll give you a call.”
They thanked her and returned to their haggis and chips, now barely tepid. Christine didn’t seem to mind. Janet decided she didn’t, either.
“What were you going to say to Lynsey?” she asked Christine.
Christine raised an eyebrow.
“When Lynsey said, ‘I said it would happen.’ You put your hand on her shoulder and started to say something.”
“Did I?” Christine thought, then shook her head. “Something helpful, like ‘don’t be a dafty,’ no doubt. I honestly don’t remember, though. Isla’s incomer nonsense drove it straight out of my head.”
“Then let me ask you this. You’re so anxious to ask about Malcolm, and to hover and listen in; what do you expect to hear? Or what do you hope to hear?”
“Not just about Malcolm,” Christine said. “Florrie, too.” Then she shook her head. “I honestly don’t know that, either. It might be that I’m trying to hold onto something, because I’m losing people, and the losses begin to add up. And Mum has a cold. But is it just a cold? Someday it won’t be.”
“You’re right. Someday it won’t, but not yet.”
“We don’t know that. We don’t know that at all.” Christine took up the salt shaker and shook it over her chips. Aggressively.
Janet took the shaker away from her. “They’re beyond help at this point. And I’ve been no help. I’ve been grousing at you and making things worse. I’m sorry, Christine.”
“Not worse. The opposite. Your jabs help. They give me something sharp, like a shard of glass, to focus on. It’s amazing how a few jabs with a shard keep you in the moment instead of drifting off into self-pity.”
“Lovely. I’ve always wanted people to think of me like jagged, broken glass. But if it helps, I’m happy to oblige.” Janet picked up her fork. “Are we going to be able to eat all this?”
Christine popped a chip in her mouth, chewed, swallowed, and lifted her glass for a toast. “Och, aye, for tomorrow we die.”
Janet put her fork back on the plate.
“Too sharp? Too dark?” Christine asked. “See if this is better. Lift your glass.
May those who love us love us,
and those that don’t love us,
may God turn their hearts.
And if He doesn’t turn their hearts,
may He turn their ankles,
so we’ll know them by their limping.”
“That’s Irish, isn’t it?” Janet said. “Not Scottish.”
“I’ve heard otherwise, but who’s to say? It’s also meant for drinking whisky, but in the end does it really matter?”
“Not if it helps us see them coming.”
They touched glasses, and drank, and Christine, who had a view of the door, said, “Don’t look now, but guess who just came in.”
6
Norman or Ian,” Janet said. “Has to be.”
“No fair hedging your bets.”
“Ian, then. Unless—” She watched Christine’s face. “Unless it is Norman, and you’re going to try to pump him for information. And now you look disappointed, because it isn’t Norman and you just realized you want to pump him for information. Ha.” Janet crossed her arms in triumph. “It’s Ian.”
Her answer sounded louder than she’d expected, and she realized the room had grown quieter. Not silent, as tables toward the back still chatted and laughed. Nearer, she heard the sibilance of whispers. A few people stared toward the bar. Several others either stared into their glasses or had bowed their heads. Janet, arms still crossed and shoulders drawing in, leaned toward Christine and added her own whisper. “Not Ian. Who is it?”
“Gerald,” Christine whispered back.
“Who?” Janet mouthed, but Christine’s attention had also turned to the bar. Janet picked up her glass, for casual cover, swiveled halfway around, and almost dropped the glass.
The man she’d seen dead that morning, now wearing a field jacket and jeans, stood at the bar, silent, nursing a glass of whisky, with a book un
der his arm. Tall and thin, the nose and the cheekbones were unmistakable. Ian had said patrician. Janet thought raw, gaunt. Like a grizzled wolf losing ground in a lean year.
Danny stood across the bar from the man, wiping a glass and surveying his other customers with a look that clearly said, Nothing to see here. Leave the man be.
Janet swiveled back around and made Christine look at her. “The other brother?” she whispered.
“Malcolm’s shadow.”
They raised their eyebrows at each other and went back to eating. With something hanging over us, watching, Janet thought. Like a vulture.
Talk around them resumed at an almost normal level, then hushed again so that Janet heard the door swing shut.
“Gone?” she asked, and when Christine nodded, she added, “Why didn’t anyone say anything to him? If Malcolm is such a loss, why didn’t anyone offer the man their sympathy?”
“If I’d known that’s what would happen, I wouldn’t have started that silly guessing game about who came in.”
“What went on behind my back when he did come in?” Janet asked.
“He walked in and walked to the bar. The rest of the place, any of us, might not have existed. He didn’t look around, didn’t seem to care that people whispered or stopped talking.”
“Maybe he’s hard of hearing or deaf,” Janet said.
“I didn’t think of that. He walked straight to the bar and stopped in front of Danny. He nodded. Danny nodded. Danny got down a bottle, poured a dram, and handed it to him. You could be right. Neither of them said a word. No money passed between them, either. Gerald drank up, set the glass on the bar, and walked out. Tell me, Janet, did you get the feeling we were in the presence of a ghost?”
“Oh, believe me, when I first saw him, I thought he was Malcolm. So yes. And if everyone else felt the same way, maybe that’s why no one said anything.”
“I’m not overly shy,” Christine said. “But—”
“Maybe he is.”
“Maybe. Deaf, shy, antisocial. Dangerous? I can’t put my finger on it, but it felt like something was going on that wasn’t for me to interfere in. That’s not a situation I find myself in very often.” Christine raised her empty glass toward the bar. “Let’s see what nodding Danny can tell us.”
