Thistles and Thieves

by Molly Macrae

  “How did you like the books?” Sharon asked.

  Janet tried to remember getting a book recommendation from Sharon any time recently, but knew her face must be as blank as her memory. “Sorry, Sharon. What books?”

  “Don’t tell me someone poached them from your doorstep.”

  “From my door—oh my gosh. You left them?” Janet looked at Tallie. “Sharon left them. Oh my gosh.”

  “I’d no idea they’d cause such a stir,” Sharon said. “A box of old books like that?”

  “But the library has book sales, doesn’t it?” Janet said.

  “Quite successful, too. We had one a fortnight back,” Sharon said. “But these arrived after, and we’re firm about not accepting donations until we put out the call. We’ve no room for storing boxes and boxes of castoffs.”

  Janet felt a moment of panic. “Please don’t bring them all to us.”

  “Well I’m sure I didn’t mean to create a stramash over them,” Sharon said, pulling in her chin. “I certainly won’t in future.”

  Good, Janet thought. Aloud, she was placatory. “It’s just that we don’t sell many used books, and we have the same storage issues.”

  “The anonymous note had us guessing,” Tallie said. “You created a mystery more than an uproar.”

  “Didn’t I sign the note? Och, I didn’t mean to be that mysterious.”

  “Do you know who brought the books to the library?” Janet asked. “Did they arrive in that box?”

  “They did. Believe me, if I knew who brought them, I’d have phoned immediately and told them to come collect them.” Her tone implied knuckle rapping, too.

  “We wondered if it might have been one of the late Murray brothers,” Tallie said.

  “Was that not a tragedy?” Sharon said. “A double tragedy. Gerald didn’t often come in the library. Malcolm did more frequently after he retired. Not much of a joiner, mind. Worn out from all those years of caring, I suppose.”

  “His sister, Florence, says he was always antisocial,” Janet said.

  “Doctors do have to kill their feelings. That allows them to work. That’s according to my brother who is one, but perhaps not a happy one. Malcolm did a lot of good in his life.”

  “Do you know when the books arrived?” Tallie asked. “What day?”

  “Saturday, so Malcolm might have brought them. He hasn’t before, though. Sorry for the confusion, but I know you like mysteries, so I don’t feel too bad. I’d best get back. Cheerio.”

  “Before you go, out of curiosity, why did you glue the box flaps shut?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Tallie sent the latest information about the foundling books to the cloud. Christine and Summer had both read the update when they came through from the tearoom at the end of the day.

  “Our box is both more and less mysterious,” Christine said.

  “Basant called it, though,” Janet said. “He was closest, anyway. He said the person who left the box was many things. Instead, several people were involved. It’s Murder on the Orient Express except without the train or the murder. Well, murder, yes—”

  “Murders,” Christine corrected.

  “Are all our theories about the books out the window now?” Summer asked.

  “I don’t think so,” said Tallie. “We still don’t know why or how the books got to the library. And at least some of them belonged to the Murrays.”

  “We don’t know who glued the flaps, either,” Janet said.

  “Someone at the library and Sharon wasn’t aware,” Christine suggested.

  “Well, it was irritating,” said Janet. “Summer, your theory about the zhen xian bao being stuck in the middle of the Culpeper is still good.”

  “If young Malcolm and Gerald took it, I bet they put it there,” Christine said.

  “I bet you’re right,” said Janet. “But who took it out and where is it?”

  “What about Ian’s theory?” Tallie asked. “Can we throw it out the window?”

  “I don’t see how we can,” Janet said. “Especially if the police are taking it seriously. When Gerald came into Nev’s last week, he looked like Malcolm to me. Anyone who didn’t know them well might make the same mistake.”

  “Lynsey might,” Christine said. “It’s harder to believe Isla or Lachy would, but seen at a distance, who’s to say?”

  “Who’s to say there isn’t a suspect we know nothing about?” Tallie said. “Someone we have no resources to identify or follow up on?”

  “That may be, but if Norman or Reddick knew that Lynsey or Isla were in the clear, they’d tell us,” Christine said. “There’d be no reason not to, and very good reasons to do so. Now, we’ve considered theories about thieves and mistaken identity. As well, we need to consider the jilted lover.”

  “Isla,” Janet said.

  “Aye. Florence says she and Malcolm had an affair, but it ended without Isla getting what she wanted. Depending on what she wanted, that could have been quite a blow and a motive.”

  “I’d love to believe murders don’t happen for those reasons,” Summer said, “but I spent too many years reporting that kind of story.”

  “But how did she manage to run him off the road, if she was on her bike?” Tallie asked.

  “She didn’t. She had an accomplice,” Summer said. “Someone who saw an opportunity and took it. Someone who spilled that terrible secret to Gerald, and then both of them—the accomplice and Gerald—had to be silenced.”

  “Or an accomplice who’s still out there,” Janet said. “Remember, Lynsey thinks Lachy figured something out and that’s what got him killed. Isla doesn’t have to be the killer; she might have someone killing for her.”

  “So many theories, so few hard facts,” Summer said. “We might as well be throwing darts to identify the villain.”

  “It’s not a perfect method,” said Christine, “but there’s something I learned during my years as a school social worker—it doesn’t have to be perfect, it just has to work.”

  Summer shrugged. “Then here’s another dart and another less-than-perfect way to identify the killer that I’ve been thinking about. Sudden violent death is shocking. It’s jarring. So if you took that life, if you’re the one who jarred everyone else, how do you react? If it’s someone like Lynsey or Isla, you’ve undoubtedly jarred yourself, too. Are you able to cope, or if we watch, can we tell something’s off-kilter?”

  “We know from personal experience that some killers manage quite well,” Tallie said. “Personal experience with killers—talk about jarring.”

  Christine raised an imaginary glass. “‘And if He doesn’t turn their hearts, may He turn their ankles, so we’ll know them by their hirpling,’ to borrow Norman’s word.”

  “Slàinte mhath,” Janet said. “To our own good health. Not theirs.”

  Norman Hobbs phoned Janet the next morning as the doorway meeting finished up. At his first words, she asked him to wait. “I’m turning up the volume so Christine, Summer, and Tallie can hear. There. Sorry, can you start again?”

  “They’ve made an arrest,” Hobbs said. “I thought you’d like to know. Put your minds at ease.”

  “Who?” Janet asked.

  “I’m not at liberty to say just yet.”

  “That doesn’t put our minds at ease,” Christine said.

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Robertson. An official statement is forthcoming.”

  “Norman,” Tallie said, “was Ian involved in the arrest? Because he just showed up at our front door and he’s gloating. And limping.”

  25

  Janet hesitated before unlocking the shop’s front door, but only because she wasn’t up for listening to Ian. On the other hand, Hobbs didn’t know if Ian had been involved in the arrest, and if he had, they just might hear details before the constable did. Also, it was time for Yon Bonnie Books to be open. Summer said she would open the tearoom so Christine could stay to hear what brought Ian so painfully to their door.

  “Morning, Ian,” Jan
et said. “What have you done to your ankle?”

  “Twisted it.” He limped to the counter. “Doing my duty.”

  “What duty would that be?” Tallie asked.

  Ian glanced around. “Are there customers?”

  “You just saw me unlock the door,” Janet said.

  “They might have come through from the tearoom.”

  “I’ll check.” Tallie made a quick circuit of the shop and came back. “Clear. What duty?”

  “The apprehension and arrest of Lynsey Maclennan for the murders of Malcolm and Gerald Murray and her own husband. The crime specialists and I joined forces last night. I sustained an injury, but I’m not in too much pain, I’m happy to report. She used you, by the way, the night she came to your house. Creating a sympathetic audience.”

  Janet wanted to wipe the smugness from his face and the condescension from his voice. Christine opened her mouth but closed it again, and her fingers curled into fists.

  “She couldn’t have done it without an accomplice,” Tallie said. “Not possibly.”

  “Her husband,” Ian said. “She killed him when she found out he’d talked to Gerald, and then she took care of Gerald. We were ahead of you on that, too.”

  “We weren’t in a competition, Ian,” Janet said. “This has never been a game.”

  Summer alerted the other three to the official statement when it was released later that morning. It told them nothing beyond Ian’s news. It made no mention of the police being assisted by a bestselling crime writer. Even that official snub of Ian’s role didn’t lighten the mood in the bookshop or tearoom.

  During a lull in business after lunch, Isla called Janet. “You’ve heard? About Lynsey?”

  “Yes. It’s awful. I’m stunned.”

  “I couldn’t comprehend it at first. Rhona’s shattered.”

  “How are you doing, Isla?”

  “I don’t want to believe it, but I think I do. Rhona’s shattered. Did I tell you that? It’s hard to keep it all straight. But that’s why I called. To tie up loose ends. I’ve got one. I have what you’ve been looking for. The zhen xian bao.”

  “You have—how did you know—”

  “I’m going to throw it off the bridge.”

  In her head Janet shrieked, What? But she forced her voice to be calm. “Why?”

  “Malcolm never wanted it found.”

  “Then why are you telling me?”

  “Loose ends. So you’ll know the answer. I know what it’s like to not have answers.”

  “What question will it answer?” Janet asked.

  “Police thought something was missing, aye?”

  “Have you called them?”

  “I’m not an eejit.”

  “Why do you trust me not to call them?”

  “It’ll be your word against mine that I ever had it, and it’s long gone.”

  “Don’t throw it off.”

  Isla said nothing.

  “May I at least see it before you do?”

  “I’m at the bridge. Not for long.”

  “Wait for me.” When Janet disconnected, Tallie stood in front of her. “Will you be all right here by yourself for a while?” Janet asked her.

  “You aren’t going anywhere by yourself,” Tallie said. “Not even for a little while.”

  “I’m not. Call Rab—”

  The bell above the door jingled. “He’s shimmering in even as you speak,” said Tallie.

  “Rab, good. Can you help out in the tearoom? Tell Christine I need her and the car.”

  “Do you need Ranger?”

  “I don’t think so.” I hope not. “That’s an incredibly kind offer, though.” And if anything happened to him I would never forgive myself. “Tallie, call Norman. Tell him we’re making a welfare check on Isla. At the Beaton Bridge.” Janet thought for a moment. “And call Rhona. Make sure she’s okay.”

  “What’s Isla throwing off the bridge?” Tallie asked.

  “The zhen xian bao. We’re going to get it back for Florence.”

  “What are the chances the police got it wrong and Isla’s the accomplice or did it all on her own?” Christine asked as they got in the car. “What are the chances this is going to end badly?”

  “Tallie’s calling Norman.”

  “You’re awfully calm.”

  “It was her voice,” Janet said. “It reminded me of the kids when something would happen—fell off a bike or cut a finger. They’d teeter at the edge of tears and panic, watching my face, trying to hold on. If I stayed calm, sometimes they could back away from that edge.”

  “You hate edges.”

  “That’s why I asked you to come with me. If I start to panic, I’ll look at you.”

  When they came over the last hill before the bridge, they saw Isla and her bike in the middle of the span. She leaned against the stone wall, propped on her elbows, looking down the burn toward the rocks where Malcolm died.

  “We’ll keep the panic out of our approach, too,” Christine said, slowing down. Nearer the bridge, she pulled onto the verge and stopped. “There’s a liquor bottle on the wall beside her elbow. Looks like whisky. That might be what you heard in her voice.”

  As they walked toward the bridge, Isla straightened, putting one hand behind her back. With the other, she took a drink from the bottle. When she put the bottle back on the wall, Janet saw that it was Dalwhinnie.

  “Two against one?” Isla said.

  “Let’s say it’s three together,” Janet said. “How are you, Isla?”

  “Rhona and Lynsey and I were three and now that’s gone. Malcolm and I were two until Florence moved in. It would have ended anyway. That’s my luck. And now he’s gone, too.”

  “But you have the thread book—the zhen xian bao,” Janet said.

  “He said he’d leave it to me in his will. I knew he never would. I doubt he could. It meant too much to him.” Isla mimed tucking something in the inside pocket of a jacket. “He always carried it with him.”

  “But you have it now,” Christine said.

  “I shouldn’t.” Isla looked over the stone wall then looked at them out of the corners of her eyes. “I worried, during the ride, when I rode back and didn’t find him with the stragglers. He was fit for seventy.” She trailed off for a moment, then shook herself and went on. “Fit for an old man. I sent the stragglers on their way and rode back farther. I stopped here. And found him.”

  “I saw him when I stood here on the bridge,” Janet said.

  “He loved this bridge. Loved the views. Loved the thistles.” She pointed down the burn. “I saw him and went down. Couldn’t do anything for him. He was already dead. I took it from his pocket.”

  “But you didn’t tell the police,” Janet said.

  “And be accused of stealing? I knew how it would look.”

  “But you didn’t call them?”

  “He was gone.”

  “I’ve heard the thread book is quite pretty,” Christine said.

  “Not pretty. Beautiful.” Isla took another drink of the Dalwhinnie. “I haven’t had much that’s beautiful in my life. I had him. He had a beautiful life.”

  “I’d love to see the book,” Janet said.

  “What do you mean?” Isla squinted at them. “I don’t have it.”

  “You might be holding it behind your back,” Christine said. “You were holding it over the edge of the wall when we got here.”

  “When you phoned, I asked if I could see it,” Janet said. “We were hoping to convince you not to throw it off the bridge.”

  “You saw me throw it off the bridge Monday morning. Did you not wonder what that was?”

  “You said that was juniper.”

  “Did it look like juniper? Some detective.”

  Janet knew her calm was slipping and looked at Christine. Christine put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Throwing it in the burn was an interesting choice,” Christine said. “Why did you do that?”

  “He never wanted it found.”r />
  “What are you holding?” Christine asked.

  Isla brought an envelope from behind her back. She looked at it as though she’d forgotten why she had it, then handed it to Janet. “It must be for you.”

  “It hasn’t got my name,” Janet said, turning it front to back.

  Isla shrugged.

  The envelope contained a folded sheet of paper. Janet took it out and held it so Christine could read, too.

  What’s the good if all that’s good is gone?—Isla

  When Janet looked up from the note, Isla hadn’t moved, but tears streamed down her face.

  “The world’s a dark place when we lose good people,” Janet said. “I’m so glad you called, Isla. We’re here with you and for you.”

  “Calling was a good thing to do,” Christine said. “We can get you help.”

  Still crying, Isla dug for something in her pocket. “You should take this. It was in the zhen xian bao and belonged to his mother. Malcolm said he’d leave it to me in his will, too.”

  “You didn’t throw it in with the book?” Janet asked.

  “It didn’t belong in the book. He only kept it there to keep it from Florence. The book is just folds of paper. It has a chance to disappear in the water. But this is silver.” She handed Janet a small pin in the shape of a thistle. “He loved thistles. He was a thistle.”

  “Were you going to jump?” Janet asked quietly, looking at the pin cradled in her hand. When Isla didn’t answer, Janet glanced at her and then back at the pin. “The pin is beautiful, too, and you’re right. It didn’t belong in the book or down there in the water. But you don’t belong down there, either.”

  “I thought I belonged with Malcolm,” Isla said. “I thought I belonged with friends. What kind of friend kills?”

  “Do you believe Lynsey’s guilty?” Christine asked.

  Isla curled her hands around each other. She held them against her cheek and then her mouth, breathing hard for a few moments before speaking again. “I’ve been a district nurse, in and out of people’s houses, for twenty-three years. I see the worst in folk, and the best, and all of it turned upside down and backward from what you see and hear when you’re chatting with them down the pub. I’ve learnt I’m no judge of character or other people’s lives.”