Thistles and Thieves

by Molly Macrae

  “This will sound cold, but we should add her to the suspect list. She had access to all three victims.”

  “Why would Lynsey want to kill Lachy?” Janet asked.

  “Are you kidding?” Summer said. “Think how many times a neighbor ends up telling a reporter about how kind, how gentle, how normal the serial killer across the street was all those years. It doesn’t feel good, picking and prying at someone and wondering the worst, but the truth is, we don’t know what Lynsey is really like.”

  “Just like we don’t know what Malcolm or Lachy or Gerald was really like,” Janet said.

  “The sooner we figure this out, the sooner we can go back to liking people as indiscriminately as we want,” said Christine.

  “Here’s a what if,” Janet said. “What if Lachy took his problem-solving skills and applied them to Malcolm’s death? Lynsey said Malcolm’s death bothered him. She told him about the ride detail by detail. She didn’t say it that way, but that’s how it sounded. He was bothered, he thought it through, and he calmed down.”

  “If he had a problem, she said he’d think it through and work it out,” Tallie said.

  “What if, in thinking it through, he figured something out, but didn’t understand the full meaning or the danger involved, and he confronted the killer?” Janet asked.

  “Over and done and move on,” said Summer. “Except this time it would be over and done and dead.”

  “Here’s another theory,” Christine said. “If the killer realizes Lynsey gave Lachy the pieces he used to solve his puzzle, then that puts her in danger, too.”

  “She might be in danger, anyway,” Summer said. “From some other piece of this we’re missing or just not seeing.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but we’re missing or not seeing a lot of pieces,” Janet said. “It feels like most of them. But if Lynsey is in danger, and if the killer is watching, then we might be, too. We’ve been down this path before. It’s time for serious precautions.”

  “As Snapper in Chief, I anticipated that and I have it covered,” Tallie said, just as they heard a rap on the front door. “Here’s the number one precaution now.”

  21

  Tallie went to the door, and the other three looked to see who’d arrived.

  “Norman,” Christine said, turning back around. “Figures. Not that I’m complaining.”

  “Norman plus one,” Summer said, and then to Inspector Reddick, who followed Hobbs to stand in front of the fireplace, “Do you two pal around together often?”

  “It’s the norm, from time to time,” Reddick said with an offhand smile.

  Several weeks earlier, the women had asked Hobbs if he knew Reddick’s first name, as they’d never actually heard it. “Norman,” Hobbs had told them, to which Christine had responded, “That won’t do. We only have room for one. We’ll call him Reddick.”

  “I let Norman know Lynsey was coming by this evening,” Tallie said to the group. “Just in case.”

  “And Constable Hobbs let me know,” Reddick said, “because I want to be sure you understand that you do not have a case. However, we do appreciate your concerns and good intentions.”

  “The information we collect, too, I assume,” Christine said. “Shall we fill you in on the myriad of ‘what if’s and ‘but’s we spewed out this evening?”

  “Please do,” Reddick said.

  The women took turns recalling the conversation with Lynsey, and their thoughts after she left. Hobbs took notes. And then Janet showed them the book Lynsey had asked them to give to Florence.

  “Do you need to take it as evidence?” she asked.

  “Not at this time,” Reddick said.

  “Does that mean you don’t think Lachlann stole it from Gerald?” Christine asked.

  “My response was neither a confirmation nor a denial,” Reddick said, “but your question provides a fine segue into our other reason for being here. We thought we’d try an experiment.” He glanced at Hobbs. “Rather, I thought I’d try one. The constable is on the fence.”

  “The constable is unsure anything will rein in your . . . curiosity,” Hobbs said.

  “For many reasons, we don’t want you under our feet actively trying to uncover the answers to your questions about these crimes,” Reddick said. “Here’s my deal. You ask me your questions. In exchange, I’ll answer those I can and ensure the others are given serious consideration. Some we might not have thought of, so you’ll be helping us.”

  The four women looked at each other, and then three of them looked at Tallie.

  “This I didn’t count on,” she said, and then asked the policemen, “Is it a deal or more of an ultimatum?”

  “Call it a precaution,” Hobbs said.

  “Precautionary tales are some of my favorites,” Christine said. “Would you like the questions in writing, or did Norman bring a backup notebook?”

  Summer raised her hand. “We have them in writing—in a document. Things like: Do you have suspects? Are you looking for cars with wingdings? Did the same gun kill Lachlann and Gerald? But it’ll be more efficient to email the doc.”

  “Wonderful,” Reddick said. “As more questions occur to you, feel free to send them along. Before we go, you might appreciate hearing something I had to learn as a new detective. There’s a difference between what might have happened and what is likely to have happened. Or what is possible.”

  “Thank you, Inspector,” Janet said. “We’ll keep that in mind, and we won’t—how did you put it? We won’t get under your feet and actively try to uncover answers.”

  “Thank you,” Reddick said. “For your own safety and to allow us to do our work unimpeded.”

  “I’ve one last question,” Hobbs said. “Do you know who pointed Lynsey in your direction? Who suggested to her that you’ve . . .” He hesitated.

  “Solved murders?” Janet said.

  “If it’s any consolation,” Christine said, “our minds are boggled as well by this gift we seem to have.”

  “Rhona told Lynsey in Nev’s one evening,” Janet said.

  “Why?” Hobbs asked.

  “We’d been talking about Malcolm,” Janet said. “It was the day I found him.”

  “She’s impressed by our track record,” said Christine.

  “I see what you mean, though,” Janet said. “We don’t go around talking about it. It’s not a sideline for us.”

  “We don’t advertise our skills,” Christine said.

  “Good,” said Reddick.

  “Formidable though they’ve become,” Christine added.

  “She’s joking,” Janet said.

  “She’s right,” Christine said. “We are amateurs and we know it. We bumble and muddle and we’re certainly led astray by red herrings.”

  “Although, let’s not sell ourselves short,” Summer said.

  “No,” said Hobbs. “We wouldn’t want you to do that.”

  “But still, we are capable of bumbling and muddling,” Tallie said, “and that begs the question—does someone want us to fail? To screw things up so no one can get at the answers?”

  “Is that what you’re getting at, Norman?” Christine asked. “Do you see that as something that might happen, or as likely to happen?”

  “It’s certainly possible,” Janet said. “We have to wonder, then, who wants us to fail?”

  “It could be someone we aren’t aware of at all. Or it could be Rhona or Lynsey,” Christine said.

  “Or the other person at that table at Nev’s,” Janet said. “Isla.”

  “They were right to rein us in,” Christine said to Janet the next evening as they were on their way to Florence’s. “For the reasons they gave and others as well, I’m sure.”

  “It’s nice to know they value our contributions, though,” Janet said.

  “Isn’t it? And passively trying to uncover answers, rather than actively trying, is both pleasingly subtle and well within our amateur skill set.”

  “That was a good tip about staying
out from under their feet, too,” Janet said. “If we choose places they aren’t likely to go, we should be fine. And if they happen to show up, we’ll leave. That’s fairly straightforward.”

  Florence and Tapsalteerie met them at the door, both of them looking tired but not uninterested in company.

  “I haven’t quite been myself,” Florence said. “The police have been here again. Norman Hobbs and some others. It’s exhausting. I don’t suppose they’ll be back now Malcolm and Gerald are both gone. Both in a week. Hard to fathom.”

  “Are you sure you want to sit in here?” Janet asked as Florence and the old spaniel led them into the library.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Florence asked. She’d obviously been using the room. She had a fire going and there were plates from several meals, some half-eaten, on a desk that must have been Malcolm’s. She’d taken books from here and there on the shelves and left them in stacks with no discernable plan or pattern.

  “Last time I was here, you said you don’t like this room.”

  “Times change,” Florence said. “Did you know this other man? The other one shot? Malcolm might have. Norman said he was a district nurse. For someone so antisocial, Malcolm knew a lot of people.”

  “He was quite well-liked and respected,” Christine said.

  “So I gather. People have been stopping by with an endless parade of indifferent food offerings.”

  After seeing the dirty plates, presumably with the remains of indifferent food, Janet was just as glad Florence hadn’t offered them refreshment. They’d brought with them the Barbara Pym book, though, that Lynsey had given them.

  Janet handed the book to Florence. “This belonged to your mother. It was given to us to give to you.”

  “It couldn’t have been,” Florence said. “No one had the right to give it to you. It was stolen.”

  Janet and Christine had only planned to give the book to Florence and glean what information they could from her reaction. They hadn’t expected to hear their theft theory confirmed straight out of the gate. They looked at each other, and Janet wondered if Christine would be able to rein in the questions that must be galloping through her head.

  “How good to have it back home from wherever it’s been and for however long it’s been gone,” Christine said. “What a relief that must be.”

  Florence didn’t comment.

  “The last time I was here, I told you about a box of books someone left at our shop,” Janet said. “Since then, it occurred to us they might have been Gerald’s.”

  “Does that matter to you?” Florence asked.

  “We’re just interested in connections,” Janet said.

  “Connections are sort of a hobby,” said Christine.

  “That sounds like one of those useless tips for how to make fascinating small talk,” Florence said.

  “I am glad to hear that friends have been coming round,” Christine said. “Malcolm touched a lot of lives.”

  “He touched one more often. Isla,” Florence said with a snort. “I wasn’t meant to know, but I did. I’m not deaf.”

  “Good heavens,” Christine said.

  “Is the Isla you’re talking about a nurse?” Janet asked. She rationalized asking the question by telling herself it had nothing to do with uncovering answers about crimes. Because it’s nothing more than blatant nosiness.

  Florence snorted again.

  Christine gave in to questions, too. “Isla and Malcolm?”

  “She didn’t get what she wanted,” Florence said. “Malcolm’s antisocial ways saved him there. Enough of her. Enough of that.”

  “How long did it go on?” Janet asked.

  Enough of that conversation, too, apparently—Florence didn’t answer. She gazed around as though mildly surprised by the state of the room.

  “Have you been looking for something in here?” Christine asked.

  “That’s the way it’s always been in this house,” Florence said. “It’s never where you left it or expect it to be.”

  “Has someone else been looking for something?” Janet asked. Florence didn’t answer, and Janet thought she might need to be more specific. She looked around, didn’t see any policemen with their tender feet, and plowed ahead. “Could someone have come in and stolen anything, Florence? Books?”

  “What is it with you and books?” Florence said. “But there is something. It is a book. The zhen xian bao.”

  “Sorry?” Janet said.

  “Thread book. Sewing box book. Zhen xian bao. Chinese. It belonged to Mum.”

  “Is that what you’re looking for?” Christine asked. “Can we help? Can you describe it?”

  “Beautiful.”

  “How big is it?” Janet asked.

  Florence measured out a rectangle with her hands about the size of a large checkbook. “Not terribly thick.”

  “When did it go missing?” Janet asked.

  “It didn’t go missing. They took it. Stole it.”

  “If someone stole it,” Christine said, “why are you looking for it?”

  “They stole it and hid it. Malcolm and Gerald. Like they stole this one.” She tossed the Pym book on a chair.

  “You might want to be careful with that,” Janet said. “It’s actually quite valuable.”

  “Worn thing like that? Daft idea.”

  “When did they steal the books?” Christine asked.

  “When they were clever lads. Did you know they were far more intelligent than I?”

  “You don’t believe that, do you?” Christine asked.

  “It’s hard not to when that’s what you’re told by everyone around you.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your intelligence, Florence. You went off to university.”

  “That didn’t really work out. It’s been my experience that most things don’t.”

  “How do you know they stole the books?” Janet asked.

  “Gerald admitted it. Not in words. He picked up a new thread book in China and sent it. But it couldn’t replace Mum’s book, because her mother never held it or used it.”

  “That’s so sad,” Janet said.

  “It’s heartbreaking. Those books in your box,” Florence said. “When did they land on your doorstep?”

  “Tuesday morning.”

  Florence nodded. “They must be stolen, too.”

  “When do you think they were stolen?” Christine asked.

  “The day Malcolm died.”

  “I really am sorry now that I took the casserole to Florence,” Christine said as she drove Janet home. “Even worse, it was Mum’s recipe for stovies—leftovers made into comfort food. An unintended casserole of scraps joining the endless procession of indifferent food—how unfortunate.”

  “I’m sure your mum’s recipe isn’t at all indifferent,” Janet said. “In fact, I’d like to have it.”

  “Then you shall. When Florence was talking about Malcolm and Isla, she sounded like the grandmother in Cold Comfort Farm who saw something nasty in the woodshed.”

  “That was one of the books in the box.”

  “That’s what brought it to mind. Do you believe her? About the books, the affair, any of it?”

  “I have no idea,” Janet said. “This is hardly a revelation, but I think all the Murrays are strange. I really ought to call Maida and see if she can give Florence a hand with the house.”

  “If there was an affair, and if it was secret, he’d want it kept that way,” Christine said. “He had a reputation to maintain.”

  “Given their professions, it might have been easy for them to connect.”

  “We could talk to Florence again,” Christine said. “It’s good to stop by and I think it’s doing her some good.”

  “Yes, but is it good to keep digging things up?”

  Christine glanced at Janet. “You can’t lay anything to rest without digging.”

  22

  Florence volunteered the information about the affair,” Janet told Tallie the next evening as they walked to Ne
v’s. “We didn’t dig or step on constabulary toes in any way to get that gem. There was subsequent digging, yes. So technically we backslid. But we’ll work on that. It can be our goal for tonight.”

  “Nev’s is a good place to practice,” Tallie said. “I’m feeling a little jaded about our arrangement with Norman and Reddick. Duped might be a better word for it. We’ve sent them our files. We’ve sent updates. We got back nada.”

  “So far.”

  “So far. Looking on the bright side, the silence might mean we’ve gotten nearer the solution than we know, and they can’t tell us anything without jeopardizing the investigation.”

  “Then maybe it’s almost over,” Janet said. “There’s Christine’s car. Watch this.” She went to the car and put her hand on the hood. “Still warm. They haven’t been inside waiting long.”

  Tallie linked arms with her mother. “My very own super sleuth.”

  Inside, Christine was settling her parents at a long table with some of Nev’s other regulars—a group of neighbors, friends, and strangers who’d become friends as they’d drifted toward old age over decades of talk and ale and whisky. Janet and Tallie went over to say hello, and then they and Christine went to the bar to order.

  “Nice to see your mum feeling better,” Danny said.

  “Not so nice to see Ian at our table,” said Christine. “What’s he doing here?”

  “It might be your usual table, but Sunday’s not your usual night. Sorry, but a numpty’s money is as good as anyone else’s. I reckon if you want him gone, you can get rid of him faster than I ever could.”

  “This isn’t exactly his natural habitat,” Tallie said. “Makes me wonder what he’s up to.”

  “I’ll take drinks to Mum and Dad. Then we’ll join the numpty and find out.”

  Christine took the drinks to her parents and exchanged a few laughs. Then she, Janet, and Tallie carried their half pints over to their table where Ian sat alone.

  “What a nice surprise,” he said, as though he hadn’t been watching them since they’d come through the door.

  “How’s the WIP coming, Ian?” Christine asked. “I see you have a PIP.”

  “Sorry?”