“Brigid,” Tom said as he left. “Nice to see you.”
She nodded and they did a quick awkward dance as he walked out and she moved in toward me.
“Delaney,” she said.
“Hey, Brigid,” I said.
“I wondered. Have you had a chance to talk to the person I told you about? Grace?”
“Not yet. I tried, but the offices were closed yesterday. I was going to track her down this morning.”
Brigid smiled. “Good. Do you have time to come with me right now then?”
“Where?”
“A press conference. Grace will be there.” Brigid smiled.
“On a Sunday?”
“The news doesn’t take weekends off, Delaney.”
Spoken like a true journalist.
“Okay,” I said. “Do you think we can talk to her?”
“Maybe.” Brigid shrugged.
I told Rosie what we were doing, and Hector gave us a bark of encouragement.
“Be careful, lass,” Rosie said to me.
“We’re not going anywhere dangerous,” Brigid said. “It’s a public place with many other reporters. It will be fine. But we have to get going.”
I’d stashed my bag under the back table, and I went to retrieve it. Brigid, ever observant, stretched her neck to see if she was missing something in the corner.
“What do you have out?” she asked as she hurried next to me. Some of the documents that we’d found in our search were still spread out over the table. “Look at these. What are you doing with them?”
“Just organizing,” I said.
“So interesting.” She couldn’t pull her eyes away, even though she’d just said we needed to get going.
“There are a million stories here,” I said, giving her a little something. I picked up a letter kept inside a clear folder. “Here, here’s a letter that talks specifically about William Wallace. The writer of the letter knew him, apparently.”
“Really?” she said as she looked closer.
“Indeed.”
“What’s it say?”
The writing was next to impossible to decipher, but Hamlet had done the work. Underneath the protected document was his modern version, his translation. In fact, there were three copies.
“Here.” I gave her a copy. “Take this with you.”
“Thank you.” She blinked at me.
I still didn’t think she and I would be friends, but we might get past the snarky moments. And, I wasn’t going to talk to Edwin about an interview. Maybe the William Wallace letter would later help to diffuse some of her future anger.
She folded the piece of paper and put it in her bag. I sent Rosie a reassuring nod as we headed toward the door.
“Want to pop in for a quick one at Tom’s pub?” Brigid asked.
“Only if you do,” I said. “He’s not going in today, and I’m just along for the ride.”
She sent me a frown and then shook her head. “I was kidding. You know, I keep thinking he’s going to show his true colors and you’re going to end up terribly disappointed.”
And the hopes for diffusing her anger were gone, just like that. “I know you do.”
“I’m really beginning to wonder if I’m wrong. I might need to just accept that he didn’t care for me enough.”
Good feelings coming back. Brigid and my relationship was going to be rough, no matter what.
She glanced at me and laughed once. “I won’t deny that I’m jealous, but not because it’s Tom. I’m long over him. I guess I just admire you.”
“For keeping a man around. That’s not very feminist of you.”
“No, that’s not it. I admire your sense of self, your ability to see what’s there even if everyone else is telling you differently.”
“I think I’ve misrepresented myself to you. I have plenty of self-doubt, thank you very much.” I paused. “But when you know, you know. I had no doubt about Tom. And, I’m glad to hear you’re over him, because I admire you too. You’re a very good journalist, an exceptional writer.”
“You’ve been reading my stories?”
“I have, and they’re very good.”
“Prove it.”
Boy, she was going to be a needy friend, but good feelings were still overriding the bad ones. I proceeded to list a few of the stories she’d covered in the last couple of months. I had been following her stuff. And she was good.
“I’m honored,” she said.
I shrugged. “Like I said, you’re very good.”
“All right, that’s enough of our mutual admiration society. It’s time to get down to business. We are attending a press conference about Henry. Sort of.”
“What’s going on? Has someone been arrested for his murder?”
“I don’t think so. The Lord Provost didn’t express any condolences. Some folks thought that was wrong, tacky, and maybe even suspicious. The press conference should rectify the problem. That’s why it’s on a Sunday. They couldn’t wait a day more.”
“Maybe the police have someone though. I hope so.”
“That would be good,” Brigid said doubtfully.
I looked at her. “What?”
“I don’t think the police have the killer yet. I would know.”
“How?”
“You’ll see. Come on.”
We came upon Princes Street Gardens. A far corner I’d not visited yet. The garden was at the bottom of the other side of the castle than where the bookshop was located, and was once the place where the citizens of Edinburgh tossed their waste. And threw in accused witches, of course. If the accused drowned she was deemed not to be a witch. But if she didn’t, she was pulled from the waste and marched to another, different horrific death, some taking place over in Grassmarket. It was a brutal history in more ways than that one, but I was particularly and morbidly fascinated by the witchcraft angles.
We were at least on time for the press conference, but if we’d wanted to be up front we should have been there earlier. Still, the weather was cooperating—some clouds but no rain. Yet.
We took up a spot at the back of the crowd.
“There are so many people here. On a Sunday,” I said quietly.
There were probably about fifty people in attendance. A small area had been cordoned off for the press conference. At one end a podium with a microphone was up on a small riser and stood alone and unattended.
Brigid only gave me half her attention. She was stretching her neck, standing on her tiptoes, trying to see a way up closer. I looked too but there were no open routes.
“There she is,” Brigid said.
“Grace Graham?” I asked.
“The one and only.”
A woman appeared on the riser and made her way to the podium. The air about her was no-nonsense. She wore her clothes like a uniform and her hair like a bulletproof helmet. If she wore makeup, it wasn’t visible from where we stood. She sent the crowd an impatient frown. I was immediately intimidated by her.
“Come on,” Brigid said as she took my arm and pulled me with her.
I sent strained smiles and “excuse me’s” as we made our way. Brigid stopped in a small pocket close to the front, only two people back from the rail.
Brigid made eye contact with Grace, and I thought I saw them send each other a small nod, but it could have been my imagination.
“Thank you all for coming out today.” Grace seemed solemn. “This will be quick. It has been brought to the Lord Provost’s attention that his office has been remiss in expressing condolences for the friends and loved ones of our dear Henry Stewart. I shall read a statement directly from the Lord Provost.” She looked down at the podium. “‘We apologize sincerely for our oversight regarding esteemed councilor Henry Stewart. We, like so many of you, were shocked by the tragedy and haven’t been able to get our heads around our loss. We should have said something sooner. We apologize and do, indeed, send our deepest condolences.’” Grace looked up. “That’s it, ladies and gentlemen. Other t
han, thank you so much for giving me some of your Sunday.”
A murmur spread through the crowd. Everyone wanted more, and hands shot up. Brigid’s included.
Grace said, “I’m not here today to answer questions, but I’ll take a couple. Yes, Mason,” she nodded at a man in a blue shirt, “what’s your question?”
“Are the police still sticking to their story that Stewart was the only person targeted in the bombing?”
“Yes,” Grace said. She hesitated briefly “We have been assured that there is no further imminent threat to our city or to the citizens of Edinburgh.”
“Grace, what evidence do the police have regarding Mr. Stewart’s killer?” a woman in a green jacket asked without waiting to be called upon.
The press conference was exactly what Brigid thought it was going to be. So many people had attended because so little information had been released. Everyone was curious, everyone wanted answers.
“The police haven’t shared with us any evidence they’ve discovered, but I know they are working diligently to find the killer.” Grace leaned closer to the microphone. “Thank you all for coming out.”
Just as Grace began to turn to leave, Brigid yelled, “Grace, Grace!”
Grace heard her, sent her a frown, but then faced forward again. “Yes, Brigid.”
“What had Henry Stewart been working on right before he was killed?” Brigid asked.
A rumble went through the crowd.
“I don’t know exactly,” Grace said.
“I’d really like to get your statement on that, Ms. Graham,” Brigid said.
“I just gave you the statement I came here to share today.” She looked away from Brigid and back out at the crowd. “Thank you all.”
This time Grace turned and walked away, ignoring any further questions.
“Don’t worry,” Brigid said to me. “She’ll want to talk to me in person now. That’s what we want, right?”
“Okay, whatever you say,” I said.
Considering how Brigid had interrupted Grace’s departure and the tone with which she had answered Brigid’s question, I couldn’t see how there was any way at all that Grace Graham would want to talk to either of us. Ever probably.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I was wrong, but I’d been tricked. Grace not only wanted to talk to Brigid, but she welcomed us, opening the door wide and signaling us in before she marched to her desk.
“She’s my aunt,” Brigid said quietly and with a satisfied smile as we made our way into a lovely office, much bigger than Lyle Mercado’s, and furnished with modern lines and splashes of chrome.
“That’s how you knew so much about the press conference,” I said.
“Aye,” Brigid said. “And that’s why she’s talking to us personally.”
“Aye,” Grace said as we came to two chairs and she turned to face us. “Brigid and I have been discussing many things lately. You must be Delaney.” She extended her hand over the desk.
We shook. “I am. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Have a seat,” Grace said. “I would have told you I was her aunt if you’d found me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said as I sat, but it was only in answer to her accusing tone. “I tried to call once, but I was worried about bothering you.”
Grace laughed without humor. “If only my niece felt the same.”
Brigid smiled again. “Thanks for seeing us, Auntie.”
“I’m not sure I had much choice, but I’m happy you’re both here.” Grace leaned back in her chair and looked at me. “I’ve been researching everything Brigid told me. My first question is—is it true that none of you at the bookshop are aware of any inspection?”
“That’s absolutely correct,” I said.
“I’ve spoken with the Lord Provost, Delaney, and he is convinced the inspection is valid. I looked up the inspector. His name is Dwayne Stover. Do you know him?”
“I don’t think so.” The name didn’t sound familiar at all. “It’s not valid though!”
“However.” Grace held up her hand. “The Lord Provost is going to make sure. He’s contacting the inspector, Dwayne, himself and said he will investigate. He won’t stop the vote because that would go against protocol, but he will make sure the council is fully informed.”
“Well. That’s good,” I said, filing the inspector’s name away in my mind.
“Yes, that’s good,” Grace said. “But, understand, if the buildings are dangerous, they’ll have to come down.”
I swallowed hard. “They aren’t dangerous, I’m sure.”
“Let’s hope not,” Grace said.
“Is the Lord Provost going to investigate Henry’s actions?” Brigid said. “Aunt Grace, he was up to so many things, the Burgess Tickets, the bookshop. Maybe there were other things going on.”
“Ah, now that would make a good story, wouldn’t it? More secret stuff that government officials were trying to get done secretly and got Henry killed.”
“Aye, that would be great.”
“Brigid, the Lord Provost has looked, is looking, and will look at everything.” Her eyebrows came together. “And I’m afraid this part is off the record, but perhaps some things have slipped through the cracks, but I promise you, many people are on the case now. The police are investigating, and we have many internal investigations going on too.”
“Any idea who killed Henry?” Brigid asked.
Grace looked at me. “She’s asked me every day. I still have the same answer. No, I don’t have any idea.”
“Okay, off the record still, who do you think killed Henry?” Brigid asked.
Grace sighed. “If I’d had my own children, maybe I wouldn’t be wrapped around my niece’s finger. Henry was respected, but he was sometimes a difficult man, may he rest in peace. He would become impassioned about something none of the rest of the council could rouse up any interest in. He was famous amongst council members for it. He would campaign, he would ask others to plant seeds of ideas because he knew people sometimes tired of hearing from him. But, I don’t know of anyone who disliked him so much they would kill him.”
“They would just vote against him?” Brigid said.
“Aye. Or just not listen to him.” Grace looked at me again. “Are you aware that his nephew-in-law, Mikey Wooster, is also a council member? He was a part of the committee working on the things Henry had set in motion.”
“Yes, I met Mikey,” I said. “I talked to his wife recently. She didn’t know anything about Mikey’s actions on the committee, said she was going to talk to him, but I haven’t double-checked to see what has happened.”
Grace pursed her lips tightly as she inspected Brigid and me. “All right. Brigid, this is still off the record, but you might be able to use it for some background, okay?”
“Absolutely,” Brigid said.
“I don’t know the details, but Henry and Mikey argued the day before Henry was killed. Loudly. A couple of the councilors witnessed the argument.”
“Who?” Brigid asked.
“We are still off the record.”
“Aye,” Brigid said.
I wondered why Grace shared information so easily with Brigid, even off the record. Was it because they were family, or did Grace have other motivations? Did she use Brigid to put information out to the public to help the Lord Provost behind the scenes?
“They were also on Henry’s committee. Their names are Monika Hidasi and Simone Lazar.”
I’d found Bella Montrose, but not Monika or Simone. They were the three names Inspector Buchanan had given me, the councilors she’d spoken to. She’d thought I might be able to convince them to at least postpone the vote. I wasn’t going to tell Brigid and Grace about Inspector Buchanan’s note. Brigid wrote down the names, but didn’t ask more questions about them.
I sat forward on the chair. “Ms. Graham, if there really is a failed inspection, the results just can’t be accurate. The building is sound, I’m sure.” I hoped. “Could we hire an independent pa
rty to evaluate the building? Would that help?”
“I don’t know. I can suggest that as an idea.”
“I will do all the legwork, Ms. Graham,” I said. “I’ll take any direction you might give me.”
“I hear you. Let me see what I can do.”
“Thank you.”
Grace nodded. “You are welcome. Now, I have other work to do. If the two of you will excuse me.”
Brigid and I stood and moved toward the door, but Brigid stopped. “You’ll be there for dinner this weekend, Auntie?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” Grace smiled.
“Thank you,” I said again.
“I’ll be in touch,” Grace said to me.
“Well, we know something more,” Brigid said as we left the building and started walking back up the Royal Mile. “Let’s track down Mikey Wooster.”
“Because he argued with Henry? What about Monika and Simone? Or the inspector, Dwayne Stover?”
“Let’s start with Mikey. Grace said that Monika and Simone didn’t hear the exact words of the argument. Maybe later for Dwayne. Let’s go directly to the source, see if the argument might have led to a murder.”
“Okay.” I shrugged.
“Delaney, there’s a big story here, I can smell it.”
“What if it turns out to be boring and something from a simple clerical error?” I said as we turned a corner I didn’t remember exploring yet.
“It won’t. There was murder. There’s something big going on here.”
“What if we find a killer?” I asked, thinking that perhaps that should have been an obvious concern.
“Isn’t that the goal? I mean other than keeping the bookshop open,” Brigid said with a smile. “Come on, I know where we can probably find Wooster, and it’s a public place.”
TWENTY-NINE
“Why do you think he’s here?” I asked as we stood outside the restaurant.
“I looked him up already. When I heard he was married to Mary’s niece, I thought he might be someone I should talk to. He eats here all the time, particularly on the weekends.”
“Impressive,” I said.
Tom had taken me to Makers Gourmet Mash Bar once before. It was a lively place with a variety of delicious food. Some American, some Scottish. Haggis, which was, of course, distinctly Scottish, was a big part of the menu and something I was sure I would never acquire a taste for, even when its reputation was talked about as lovingly as Makers’ was.
The Stolen Letter Page 20
