by Molly Macrae
“It pains me to bring you this news, but your husband has been found, Mrs. Maclennan. Tha mi duilich. I am sorry.”
“How?” Lynsey asked.
“We came to you first,” Hobbs said to Lynsey. “Is there anyone else we should talk to? Is there anyone we can phone for you?”
She sat up, put her feet on the floor, and pulled the throw tightly around her. Hobbs hadn’t moved so they sat knees to knees, and now her eyes didn’t leave his face. To Janet, Lynsey’s eyes looked fevered, devoid of hope. Janet couldn’t see Hobbs’s eyes, but his back, the slight tilt of his head, his even breathing, were calm and solid.
“I want to know how,” Lynsey said.
Hobbs and everyone else looked at Reddick. Janet glanced at Ian. It was interesting to see him serious and still, possibly thinking of someone other than himself.
“The investigation is ongoing,” Reddick said.
“Rubbish.” Lynsey looked back at Hobbs. “Have you seen him? May I go to him?”
“It’s best you come with us now,” Hobbs said. He stood and held out a hand.
“Tell them it’s all rubbish,” Lynsey said, turning to Christine.
“They’re right, though,” Christine said. “Would you like any of us to come with you, Lynsey?”
“No.” Lynsey unwound herself from the throw. Then, ignoring Hobbs’s hand and muttering something that sounded like “great eejit,” she walked ahead of the two policemen to the front door.
Janet and Christine followed.
Hobbs turned and saw them. “Mrs. Marsh, Mrs. Robertson, you’ll not be coming with us.”
“No, Norman, we’ll be closing and locking the door behind you,” Janet said.
“Very wise, Mrs. Marsh.” Reddick opened the door. “You never know who might be wandering your neighborhood breaking and entering.”
“Or knocking and entering,” Christine said.
“We can leave your car here, Mrs. Maclennan,” Reddick said. “I’ll send someone round to fetch it for you.” The flash of humor Janet had seen in his eyes at Christine’s remark was there and gone.
“I’ve my bike,” Lynsey asked. “How are we going? Can we take it with us? And where’s Lachy’s car? Will someone bring it round? Or take me to it?”
“Can we fit the bike, Constable?” Reddick asked.
“I’m sorry, no.”
“I’ll put it in back with mine,” Janet said. “Is the bike locked, Lynsey?”
Lynsey didn’t answer.
The bike stood beside the front path. Hobbs went to look it over. “It’s not.”
“We’ll bring it round tomorrow,” Christine said.
“Kind of you,” said Reddick.
Hobbs gave them a considering look but said nothing more, and then he went to the car parked in front of the house. Reddick put a hand on Lynsey’s elbow and walked with her to the car. He opened the rear door for her and then got in the front passenger seat.
14
Reddick didn’t answer Lynsey’s question about Lachlann Mòr’s car,” Christine said as she and Janet watched Hobbs drive away.
“It puts terrible images in your mind, doesn’t it? And it’s so frustrating. They’re very good at keeping back key pieces of information.”
“Norman less so, if you know what you’re doing,” Christine said. “We’ll have to remember the trick of plying him with sherry if we’re ever in a pinch. I wonder what else and who else that works with? You put the bike away. We left Ian alone with Tallie. I’ll see if he needs protecting.”
High-flying clouds moved in to cover the stars as Janet wheeled Lynsey’s bike down her front path and along the pavement to her driveway. She thought she might smell rain coming. Or maybe it was the rain they’d already had. It often smelled of rain. A dog barked somewhere. A car in front of the house beyond Ian’s started up and drove away. Janet went down the drive and through the garden gate and parked Lynsey’s bike next to her own, on the deck beside the back door. She locked the two together and wondered if Lynsey’s parents were in the picture and could come to her.
When Janet went back into the living room, she found Tallie, Christine, and Ian each lost in thought—although Ian had gotten lost in his while still in her chair. She dropped onto the couch with a purposefully loud and irritated sigh.
Tallie stirred herself. “You didn’t hear anything more about what happened?” She waved a hand at Christine. “She only came in, stared at each of us, and then sat and stared at nothing.”
“Norman and Reddick were careful,” Janet said. “The only thing we might have learned is from something they didn’t say. Lynsey asked about Lachy’s car and would someone bring it or take her to it. Reddick’s very smooth. He didn’t answer and didn’t call attention to that fact or the question.”
Smirr strolled back into the room, testing the air with the nose of a connoisseur. He sat down a wary distance from Ian, looked at him, and meowed loudly.
“Hullo, old chap,” Ian said. “What do want? Are you looking for a friendly lap?”
Smirr got back to his feet, turned his back on Ian, and did a full front-leg-extended, tail-and-rear-end-held-high stretch. Refreshed, he walked to the couch, jumped into Janet’s lap and licked her hand. Ian might have pouted. He picked up a pen and notebook from the arm of the chair.
“When Norman asked if there was anyone else they should talk to, that was carefully phrased, too,” Tallie said. “It was pretty obvious what they were getting at, but they never once said Lachy is dead.”
“What are you doing there, Ian?” Christine got up and stood in front of him more aggressively than Smirr had. “What are you writing?”
With the speed of a cat swiping a bite of cheese she grabbed the notebook from his hand. She turned her back on him and looked through the last several pages of the book. “You’ve been taking notes. He took notes from the time he got here.”
“Back-filled, actually,” Ian said. “While thoughts were still fresh.”
“I’m speechless,” Christine said without taking her eyes from the notebook.
“It’s how I process things. How I work. An occupational hazard, if you will.”
“It’s in extremely poor taste.” Christine continued turning pages, eyebrows rising and falling as she went. “But there aren’t any names.” She sounded more disappointed than speechless.
Ian smirked.
“How do you keep things straight without names?” she asked.
“Code. Keeps things from getting nasty in case of losing one.”
“Did you learn that the hard way?” Tallie asked.
“Not I, thank God,” Ian said. “A bestselling author who shall remain nameless had that misfortune, and I learned from that mistake.”
Janet heard a faint buzz and saw Ian’s phone on the arm of the chair. He looked at it and tapped the screen.
“Texting, too?” Janet asked. “What is this? Mystery writer multitasking?”
“Again, an occupational hazard. Texts from a colleague with interesting connections.”
“I’m appalled,” Janet said.
“And I apologize. Although, I rather doubt you’re as appalled as all that. In fact, you might like to know what I learned from my colleague—confirming what you already surmised. Lachlann Maclennan was found dead in his car this evening.”
“Lynsey, you poor dear,” Janet murmured.
“Where and how did it happen?” Tallie asked. “Was anyone else involved or hurt?”
Ian’s answer came as a single word, but it was indistinct, and he held up a hand. Then he put the hand to his chest—possibly to his heart—and cleared his throat. “Shot. He was shot. I have no further details.”
The enormity of the single word—shot—shook Janet and silenced them all. Janet swallowed and made herself breathe deeply before charging into Ian.
“What do you mean you have no further details?”
“There’s no more than that in his notebook, unless he hasn’t written it down yet,” Chr
istine said. “Or unless I grabbed it before he could.”
“But for your colleague to know that much, he or she must know more.” Janet stared at Ian until he looked away. She kept staring, trying to—what am I trying to do? Pry open his skull to find the information myself? She shook herself to get rid of the horrible thought. Another took its place. “Will Lynsey have to identify him?”
“It shouldn’t be necessary,” Ian said. “Depending on the circumstances, one or two people will be required, but neither of them need to be next of kin.”
“You know a ghastly thing like that off the top of your head?” Christine asked.
“I know a number of ghastly things. I’m a crime writer.”
“You must be wonderful entertainment at dinner parties,” Christine said.
“That’s not the type of dinner party I’d like to attend,” he said. “I interviewed Lachlann for the WIP a few months back. I liked him immediately.”
“For the Whip,” Christine said. “What is that? Do you also write for a smut rag?”
“Work in progress. W. I. P. The book I’m currently writing.”
“Is it? How fascinating.” Christine surprised Janet by sounding as though she meant it. Then again, her smile looked as though she was filing the information away for future use—possibly in a way to irritate Ian.
“What sort of information were you looking for from Lachlann?” Tallie asked. “Does your WIP involve heavy event athletes?”
“Tangentially.” He trailed off, picked up his pen. Christine still had his notebook. He put the pen away in the inside breast pocket of his coat. “The book involves the problems of returning military veterans. I don’t want to say too much about it and jinx it.”
“Say enough so we have a better idea of Lachlann,” Tallie said.
“Sleuthing?” A bit of arch-Ian came through in the question, but Janet didn’t think his heart was in it.
“Trying to understand a tragedy,” Tallie said.
“One of the reasons I write. Well. As I said, I liked him. He was a dream interviewee. Thoughtful. Listened carefully to questions. Spoke sparingly but with intelligence and passion. If he was the same with his patients, then I have no doubt he provided excellent care. And I believe he provided an overlooked and undervalued service to his patients who are veterans. I asked him if that came from being a vet himself. That was a question he did not answer. But he spoke with passion about the problem of veteran suicides. I hope this was not a suicide. Lachlann Mòr was big in more ways than physical size.”
Ian looked at his phone, slipped it into his inside pocket, and stood up. Christine handed him his notebook. He patted other pockets as though checking possessions he might have shared around.
“Good night—oh.” He looked at Tallie. “You were right about the pudding—the amount of sugar. It’s my mother’s recipe. On closer reading, I saw she’d increased it for a church fete. It also takes longer than I’d remembered, so I’ll leave it for another day. No need to see me out.”
They watched Ian, minus his usual bluster or fanfare, step carefully over the kitten. Before turning down the back hall, he stopped and looked over his shoulder at them. “I wonder who identified Malcolm?”
The three women listened to his footsteps recede toward the back door, and to the door open and close. Then Tallie went to lock it. “Was that Ian who just left?” she asked when she came back to the living room. “Where was the buffoon who usually wears that jacket?”
“I caught glimpses of him,” Christine said. “But did you ever picture him cooking?”
“I think this evening deserves another small sherry each,” Janet said. Tallie started to get up. Janet waved her back. “I’ll get them. I need to do something normal.”
When they had their glasses, Tallie held hers to the light, turning it. “I have a confession to make. Something I did when I took Ian outside, when he showed up after Lynsey came, and I warned him not to say anything about seeing Norman here earlier.” She took a sip of the sherry, then a larger one. “Ian called Lynsey Linda, and I didn’t correct him. And then he came in here and I don’t know if that made her cry, or cry harder, or—”
“Pffft,” Christine said. “That’s a complete nonstarter. The buffoon we know would have found some other way to put his foot in it and make her cry. Not your fault.”
“It was mean, though,” Tallie said. “I did it on purpose, and considering the changeling Ian who just left, I feel kind of bad.”
Janet raised her glass. “I propose—well, it’s not a toast. It’s a question, maybe a speculation. Is anyone who we think they are?”
Christine came by in her parents’ Vauxhall just before dawn the next morning. She knocked softly on the front door with the wolf’s head. Janet had found the knocker in a shop in Tobermory decades before, when she and her husband bought the house and they and their young children spent summers in Inversgail. Christine took pleasure in reminding Janet that the handsome wolf was on track to be in her life longer than Curtis, Janet’s handsome rat of an ex-husband.
Tallie opened the door and let Christine in. “Mom’s upstairs. Coffee’s in the pot.” She led Christine to the kitchen, poured two cups, and yawned as she handed one to Christine. “Why the clandestine knock? I barely heard. And why so early?”
“It only seems early. You haven’t lived here through a winter, have you? Believe me, when you do, you’ll know you aren’t in central Illinois any longer. You think sunrise at half seven is dismal, wait until late December. If you see the sun even thinking about showing its face much before nine, you’ll think it’s a miracle.”
“You’re saying the Scottish winter sun is a sullen teenager?”
“Sullen, and depending on the weather, snarling.”
“But what I meant is why are you taking the bike back so early? Lynsey probably had a horrible night’s sleep. She might still be in bed.”
“I doubt she slept at all,” Christine said.
“But we might be lucky enough to arrive before the police.” Janet came into the kitchen wearing her jersey and leggings. “If they plan to call on her this morning, we’re counting on them having better manners than we do.”
“And what sort of manners do you have, going dressed like that?” Christine asked.
“I’m with it,” Janet said. “My leggings speak Lynsey’s language. Ready?” She and Christine headed for the back door and Janet called back to Tallie, “We’ll see you at Yon Bonnie in time to open.”
Christine had parked in the driveway behind Janet’s car. She opened the boot while Janet unlocked Lynsey’s bike and brought it through the garden gate. “Right then,” Christine said. “Help me lift it. Upsy-daisy and in it goes—oof—twist it the other way—not quite like that—there—and—almost—and—no, it bloody well is not going in.”
Puffing, they set the bike back on the ground.
“You knew that, didn’t you?” Christine asked.
“I’ll go get my helmet and meet you there.”
Janet coasted down toward the harbor and along the High Street. She passed Yon Bonnie Books and Cakes and Tales and then pedaled out the coastal road going south. The ride wouldn’t be as pleasant in a stiff breeze or if the road became packed with tourists and coaches. This morning, though, she heard shore birds crying over the sound of waves. Several miles along, she made a turn into one of the housing estates that had sprouted up on the southern edge of Inversgail.
Tallie had found the Maclennans’ address for her, and she spotted Christine’s car in front of a pebble-dashed semi-detached. The Maclennans lived not quite on the opposite end of the social scale from the Murrays, but certainly a much plainer life.
“I’ve been getting looks,” Christine said as she got out. “Neighbors heading for work and school. I’m surprised no one knocked on my window and asked my business.”
“You look respectable,” Janet said. “Like a social worker.”
“You look like a friend.” Christine reached into th
e car on the passenger side and took a bouquet of flowers and a casserole dish from the dashboard. “I’m a canny social worker, as well. I brought props to soothe the nosy neighbors.”
“The flowers are beautiful,” Janet said.
“No point in going halfway.”
Smoke rose from a few chimneys. Cars along the street started and puttered away. The Maclennan house appeared sound asleep. Janet wheeled the bike up the front path beside Christine, wondering when they’d gotten into the business of calling on the newly bereaved. Not a business, though, she thought, and not a bad habit to cultivate.
Christine pressed the doorbell and they heard it ring inside. They waited, hearing nothing else. Christine pressed the bell again. No one answered. Janet took an envelope from inside her jacket and slipped it through the mail slot.
“I came prepared, too. A sympathy card. I asked her to phone or come by. I gave her your number, too. I’ll take the bike back to my place.”
A young woman opened the front door of the other semi and called to them as they left. “Do you ken what’s happened? She’s not home. Police brought her home last night. After they left, someone else came round and she left with them. Lachy’s not been home at all.”
“There’s been a death in the family,” Christine said.
“Not Lachy’s da?”
“No,” Christine said.
“That’s good then. After their rammy, Sunday last, it would have been too bad.”
“Lachy and his da?” Janet asked. “Never! Do you know what it was about?”
“The language! I made the weans come inside so I missed most of it.”
They heard squeals and an eruption of tears from somewhere in the house.
“Something stolen, that’s what I’d guess,” the woman said. “But I’d best get back inside before the wee scunners do each other permanent damage. If I see Lynsey, I’ll tell her you called round.”
“Tell her Christine and Janet,” Christine said. “Ta, hen.”
The woman returned Janet’s wave and shut her door.
“You sounded like a native gossip, there, Janet. Now, shall we try wrestling that wee scunner into the boot one more time?”
