Thistles and Thieves

by Molly Macrae

  “Pint in progress,” she said.

  Ian raised the pint to them and took a drink. “I’ve back-burnered the WIP while I—” He tapped the side of his nose with an index finger, then made a show of glancing around the room before motioning for the women to lean in. “While I work on a couple of theories. See if they have traction.”

  “What theories?” Janet asked.

  “Mistaken identity. Hear me out.” He raised his hand to stop interruptions, although there’d been none. “We have two brothers. Malcolm, the respected doctor, a man of healing. Gerald, ex-military, a vocation that implies a capacity for violence. Violence has a capacity for breeding enemies. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

  The women shook their heads.

  “What if the killer mistook Malcolm for Gerald? Then, learning of his mistake, he went back to finish the job. That’s the first theory.” Ian took another swallow from his pint. “The second still needs time with the old synapses.” The nose-tapping finger swirled near his temple. “Here’s a preview of it. If the brothers looked so much alike, is anyone sure the man on the bicycle was, indeed, Malcolm? Or could he be the man dead in the croft house?”

  To Janet, the swirling finger implied a capacity for lunacy more than deep thinking. Then she remembered Reddick’s advice for new detectives. “Is either of those theories likely?”

  “Or possible?” Tallie added.

  “That’s for my colleague in the force to decide,” Ian said. He raised his pint to them again. No one reciprocated. He drank and set it back down.

  “I see Rhona and Isla over there,” Christine said. “Do you know either of them, Ian?”

  Ian stood up to get a better look.

  “You want to work on your subtlety,” Janet said to him. “Turn your synapses loose on that.”

  Ian ignored the gibe. “Rhona’s an eco-nut. Isla? I don’t really know much.”

  But it was an unconvincing denial, and Janet caught Ian’s uneasy glance toward Isla’s table. “Of the little you do know, what do you think of her?” she asked.

  “Not the warm and fuzzy sort.”

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Tallie said. “You meant to add that, right?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Never mind,” Tallie said. “Who’s your colleague on the force?”

  “Can’t say. Must dash.” He tried leaving on a high note—nose to finger again, accompanied by an arched eyebrow. The note was sadly lowered by three sets of rolling eyes.

  “He knew the body at the bridge was Malcolm before we heard,” Janet said. “His ‘colleague’ must be someone in the Road Policing Unit. And his theory of mistaken identity could account for the missing item the RPU is looking for. The wrong man wouldn’t have it with him. Lynsey said Lachy didn’t believe Malcolm had died. Or was that just a turn of phrase?”

  “Are we taking Ian’s theory seriously?” Christine asked.

  “It’s Ian’s, so I’m predisposed not to believe it,” Tallie said. “But is it any more unlikely than someone killing Malcolm and then the other two?”

  “Danny’s free,” Christine said. “We’ll ask him.” She waved him over and told him the gist of Ian’s theory.

  “The killer’s a dafty, then,” Danny said. “Gerald wouldn’t wear tweed.”

  “Did you know him well enough to be that sure?” Janet asked.

  “Who do you know wears tweed? Ian? Malcolm?” Danny looked at his own jeans, bar apron, and habitually untucked shirt. “Gerald wouldn’t wear tweed. Fish supper is good tonight. Your mum and dad are having it, Chrissie. Any takers here?”

  Christine and Janet raised their hands.

  “Not just yet,” Tallie said. “When I come back.”

  “Give the word,” Danny said, and went to place the order.

  “Where are you off to?” Janet asked Tallie.

  “Next door to the Guardian. Check on the DIP—darts in progress.”

  “Let’s check on the oldies and their progress while we wait for Danny’s fish,” Christine said.

  Helen and David MacLean, Christine’s parents, were slightly deaf and completely devoted. Helen had more trouble hearing in the ambient noise of the pub, and David spent a good bit of his time repeating things into her better ear.

  “Have you tried the Melancholy Thistle Gin?” Helen asked as Christine and Janet sat. “That book you brought home says that wine made of melancholy thistles makes you merry as a cricket, so I reckoned gin might do the same.”

  “Is it working?” Janet asked.

  “Och, aye,” Helen said. “And puts roses in my cheeks, my laddie tells me.” She looked at David. He brushed the backs of his arthritic fingers against one of her papery pink cheeks.

  “Speaking of laddies,” Christine said, “we were reminiscing with Florence Murray about her brothers, rest their souls.”

  “The rest?” Helen said. “No, Florrie never looked much like the rest.”

  A woman, at least as old as Helen, sitting across from them said, “Florrie and two boys, the Murrays have.”

  “Half, aye,” Helen said. “Florrie’s half-brothers, Malcolm and Gerald.”

  “Did I know that about Malcolm and Gerald?” Christine asked.

  “Their names? I’m sure you knew them,” Helen said. “Florrie’s their half-sister. Looks more like her mum than her dad.”

  “An interesting family,” David said. “Their dad and both the mums grew up in China, children of missionaries.”

  “Airs, aye, Florrie’s mum had a few airs,” Helen said.

  “Strict,” the woman across the table said. “She kept those lads in line.”

  “No, I don’t believe it’s lime,” Helen said, holding her glass to the light. “Made with thistles. Quite lovely.”

  “As are you,” Christine said, giving Helen a kiss on the forehead. “There’s Danny with our suppers. We’ll stop back in a wee while.”

  “We’ve lost our table again,” Janet said, “but no matter. Now I don’t need to call Maida.”

  Though cordial with each other, Janet and Maida didn’t have much in common beyond their shared, doted-upon grandsons. A short, spare woman, upright in morals and posture, Maida looked out of place in Nev’s. Janet thought it interesting that she didn’t look ill at ease.

  “Hello, Maida. Do you mind if we join you?” Janet asked.

  “You look as though you’re waiting for someone,” Christine said.

  “Here for a meeting,” Maida said, straightening a file folder on the table in front of her. When the door opened, she looked toward it, then looked back at the table and adjusted the folder again.

  “Do you know Florence Murray?” Janet asked.

  “Jones is her married name,” Maida said.

  “I guess you do, then,” Christine said.

  “Och, nae,” Maida said. “Only that she came to live here after her husband died.” She moved the folder a quarter inch. “They hadn’t much.”

  “You seem to know a lot—”

  “Och, nae.” Maida looked toward the door. “She’s been looking after Malcolm. Taking care of him. They were never close.”

  “What do you know about Gerald?” Janet asked.

  “Not much.”

  Janet waited for Maida’s spare “not much” to expand. It didn’t.

  “We’re a bit worried about Florrie,” Christine said.

  “Florence,” Maida corrected.

  “Florence and the house,” Janet said, while Christine quietly fumed. “We wondered if you might offer your services. For hire. We’re not suggesting you volunteer.”

  Maida didn’t answer immediately, and before she did Danny brought two plates of fish and chips to the table.

  “A table in the back’s opened up, Maida, or shall I bring you a supper, too?” Danny asked.

  “I’ll go to the back.” Maida tucked the file folder under her arm and stood.

  “We can move,” Janet said. “We didn’t mean to take over.”
<
br />   “You didn’t,” Maida said. “Our usual’s in back.”

  “What about Florence, Maida?” Christine asked. “Will you call on her?”

  “Och, well, I’ll see what I can do,” Maida said.

  “Let us know how it goes,” Janet said, then waited until Maida was out of earshot, before saying, “Not exactly enthused, is she?”

  “Usual Maida, though,” Christine said. “What’s unusual is this news that she has a usual table. It makes me wonder. If Gerald’s visits were so random and unusual, who did his appearance here Monday night surprise?”

  “That could feed into Ian’s theory.”

  “That was not my intention. Here come Tallie and Summer, and there goes James.”

  James had come in with the other women, but rather than join their table, as he so often did, he made his way toward the back.

  Christine turned to watch his progress and then whipped around to Tallie and Summer. “Sitting with Maida? What’s this all about?”

  Tallie and Summer both shrugged.

  “You’re of no use,” Christine said, “but I know a way to find out. Rhona and Isla are at a table back there. Come on, Janet.”

  “Again?”

  “Bring your fish.”

  “Or leave it with me,” said Tallie. “I’ll save some for you.”

  Janet wasn’t sure that would happen, but she left her plate and followed Christine.

  “This isn’t going to work,” Christine muttered, halfway to Rhona and Isla’s table. “We’ll have to sit with our backs to Maida’s table.”

  “Too late,” Janet said through bared teeth. “Be nice.”

  Rhona waved them into the empty chairs at their table.

  “We did this last week under similar circumstances,” Christine said, setting down her plate of fish, and sitting. “I’m sorry to be repeating it so soon and for such a sad reason.”

  “It’s almost too horrible to think about.” Rhona swirled the ale in the bottom of her pint. “It’s as if thinking about it might conjure more, or worse.”

  “Don’t you think ‘worse’ is already here?” Isla asked. “We’re not like America,” she said, looking at Janet. “We aren’t used to gun violence the way you are.”

  “Wheesht,” said Rhona.

  “Hiding from ugly truth never helps,” Isla said.

  “True enough,” Christine said. “What was Lachy like?”

  “I used to joke that if I didn’t have my own husband, I’d be trying to get him away,” Rhona said.

  “A round peg in a round hole,” Isla said. “A perfect fit for the job.”

  “The police have their work cut out for them,” Rhona said. “Poor Lynsey. Poor lass.”

  “Is that what you’re up to now?” Isla asked.

  “Sorry?” Christine picked up a piece of fish and passed one to Janet.

  “Sleuthing,” Isla said.

  “Och, nae,” Christine said. Imitating Maida? Janet wasn’t sure. “We wouldn’t want to get in the way of the professionals.”

  “Away with you,” Rhona said. “You did well with your last case, and there’s no police here. Go on and ask your questions.”

  “All right,” Janet said. “There’s something we’ve been wondering—why was Malcolm wearing tweed?”

  “That’s your burning question?” Isla asked. “Why you found tweeds in the weeds?”

  “Wheesht, Isla. Respect for the dead, please,” Rhona said, and then to Janet, “Malcolm was old-fashioned that way. He said he saw no need to spend money on something that would make him look more like a beanpole than he already did. He kept a tool kit but had no need for pouches and packs and whatnot. He carried what he wanted in his coat pockets.”

  “What did he carry?” Janet asked.

  “The Road Police asked that,” said Rhona. “I wish I could say I know, if it would help catch who did it.”

  “Aye. The same,” Isla said. “On to Gerald? I only know what I’ve already told you from the few times I filled in for Lachy.”

  “I didn’t know him at all,” Rhona said.

  “I thought they might have had a falling out, mind,” Isla said.

  “Who?” Christine asked.

  “Malcolm and Gerald. I heard it somewhere.”

  “Any idea where?” Janet asked.

  “From Lachy?” Isla wondered. “Aye. It must have been from Lachy.”

  A convenient answer, Janet thought. No way to check it. Her phone buzzed with a text. “Sorry,” she said, “it might be the grandchildren. They like to send me emojis.” She looked at the display—not the grandchildren. Summer.

  Summer: “just realized isla is the woman making fun of Florence that made me so mad”

  Janet: “she was in the shop Thursday. Came through from tearoom”

  Summer: “didn’t see her. must have zipped through fast”

  When Janet looked up from her phone, Isla was watching her.

  “You found Malcolm,” Isla said. “We were just saying that if it was a car ran him off the road, mightn’t there be damage to the bike? You saw it. What do you think?”

  Janet pictured the bike’s bent fender. “I have no way of knowing how any of the damage happened,” she said. It was the truth, but the way Isla continued watching her made Janet think her statement had been as unconvincing as Isla’s about the brothers falling out.

  “It wasn’t the most convenient way of killing,” Christine said, drawing Isla’s attention from Janet.

  “A crime of opportunity, then,” Isla said. “Brilliant. You’ve solved it, and now I’ll take this opportunity for the toilets.”

  Janet only had to wait until Isla had left the table to hear Rhona’s usual excuse and dismissal of her friend’s attitude. Janet thought she sounded like someone who didn’t want to tell tales on a friend. But at what point does a friend go ahead and tell on a friend? she wondered.

  “We’re riding tomorrow morning,” Rhona said. “A group of four or five of us. We’ll do an easy ten miles. You should come along, Janet.”

  “Is your idea of easy the same as mine?”

  “You won’t be the slowest in the group. Eight o’clock at the Stevenson statue.”

  “I’ll see you there,” Janet said, “unless it’s bucketing down.”

  “You already sound like one of us,” Rhona said. “You’ll be grand.”

  Janet and Christine headed back to their table, arriving in time to see Danny take a plate from Summer and reach for Tallie’s—empty but for five chips.

  “Oops,” Tallie said, saving the plate at the last minute. “These chips have Mom’s name on them.”

  “You can have my plate,” Christine said, “if you sit for a minute and answer a question or two.” She and Janet sat down, and Tallie pushed Janet’s plate back to her.

  “One minute, two questions,” Danny said.

  “What do you know about Rhona and Isla?” Christine asked.

  “Rhona’s married to a bloke works at the recycle center,” Danny said.

  “And Isla?” Janet asked.

  Danny glanced over his shoulder. “Has bit of a reputation. Nothing more than some of the lads. What I’ve always said? Isla has her wily ways.” He reached for Christine’s plate and started to get up.

  Christine put her hand on his. “One more. Did Malcolm take part in those wily ways?”

  Danny looked as though he wanted to glance around again, but instead looked at Christine’s plate and nudged a crumb. “You want to be careful, aye? Ask the wrong person a question like that, and you’ll get a story going it’ll be hard to stop. But no, if there was anything, it was a better kept secret than many.” He stood and wiggled an eyebrow at Christine. As Danny returned to the bar, Janet had the rare opportunity to see Christine blush.

  Rab came through the door, giving Christine a focus to overcome the blush.

  “Evening, Rab. Have a seat,” she said. “We were just talking about you.”

  “Oh, aye?” Rab took the seat Danny had v
acated and put a file folder on the table.

  “News to me, too, Rab,” Janet said, “but it’s nice to see you. Is Ranger—? Oh, hello, Ranger. Can he have a chip, Rab?”

  Ranger looked interested. Rab shook his head. “He’s slimming.”

  “They’re cold, anyway,” Janet said to Ranger, who’d turned his back on them.

  “Playing darts tonight?” Summer asked.

  “Meeting.” Rab nodded toward a table in back.

  Christine, having followed the nod, turned back to Rab and his folder. “With Maida and James?”

  “Creative writing group,” Rab said. “Fledgling. Called Pub Scrawl. Maida’s quite good with sonnets. Something else—” He took a piece of scrap paper from his folder, handed it to Janet. “Zhen xian bao.”

  “Whatever that is, we’ve heard it before,” Christine said.

  “It’s what Florence called the missing embroidery book she’s looking for,” Janet said, letting Tallie take the scrap of paper from her fingers.

  “Embroidery book, aye,” Rab said thoughtfully. “A wee bit more than that, mind.” He stood to go and then bent closer. “It’s a book of infinite mysteries.”

  “How did you know—” Janet started to ask, but Rab and Ranger were already on their way to the table in the back. “How did he know about the ginseng bow—”

  “Zhen xian bao,” Summer said, staring at her phone. “They are fabulous.”

  “He found a website,” Tallie said. “That’s what’s on the scrap of paper. Take a look.” She passed her phone to Janet and Christine.

  The website showed a handmade book that, when opened, revealed a sort of pop-up book made of folded boxes, each box made of a different piece of patterned paper—boxes within boxes, boxes that flowered into multiple boxes, boxes containing threads, needles, embroidery scissors—all folded into something slightly larger than a checkbook.

  “I immediately want one,” Christine said, “and I don’t do needlework.”

  “But how did Rab know we’d heard about zhen xian bao?” Janet asked.

  “Because,” Christine said, “he’s a MacGregor of infinite mysteries.”

  23

  Are you trying to prove something?” Tallie asked her mother the next morning. “Again? You could tell Rhona you aren’t ready for ten miles of hills. Or say you have a subsequent engagement.”