Mums and Mayhem

by Amanda Flower

  “Do you think the press conference is still happening?” If it was, I planned to be there.

  He shook his head. “It broke up just as I drove by. Chief Inspector Craig said he wasn’t taking any questions about the investigation. That sure upset some of the reporters. They seemed to think they could change his mind. Clearly, they had never met the man.”

  Clearly.

  He stretched. “I’d better head out. I have two more deliveries to make before I head back to Aberdeen. You know we have to keep the flowers fresh.”

  I did know.

  Carl left not long after that, and I went back into the shop to organize the flowers. While I worked, my mind wandered between the argument I’d had with my parents and Barley McFee’s death. I couldn’t get it out of my head that my parents might know more about Barley than they were letting on. What I didn’t understand was why they were being secretive about it. That wasn’t their way. At least I would have said that a few months ago, before I knew about the bizarre circumstances surrounding my birth, which they’d had no trouble keeping closemouthed about all this time.

  My parents had been very close friends with Uncle Ian, and it would have made more sense to me if they’d said they knew Barley—if he really had been a close friend of my godfather.

  There was a knock on the shop door, and I looked up from the arrangement I was in the middle of creating. With all these new flowers, I would be at the shop late into the night organizing them. It was certainly the worst day at the flower shop for Isla to be working at the pub. I was considering walking next door to ask if Raj could spare her for an hour or two, just so I could get a handle on all these flowers. I hadn’t had so many delivered at one time since before the shop’s grand opening.

  I set my scissors on the room table and dusted the pollen off my hands. I tried to remember to wear gloves, but it wasn’t unusual for me to walk around the village with slightly gold-tinted fingertips from all the pollen I encountered in working with the flowers.

  I opened the half door and stepped behind the counter. “May I help you?”

  “I believe so.” The moment the women spoke, I knew she wasn’t from around here. She had a clear English accent. I had lived in Great Britain long enough now that I could recognize the difference between an English and a Scottish accent. When I’d first arrived, I hadn’t a clue.

  My second clue that she wasn’t a Bellewick resident was her outfit. She wore a burgundy pencil-skirted suit, complete with nude pumps that would be a nightmare to walk down the village’s cobblestone streets in. The only person who dressed up that much in Bellewick was the local attorney, Cally Beckleberry, but everyone else was more or less dressed for comfort. I looked down at my skinny jeans and oversized sweater. I was no exception.

  “I’m looking for Fiona Knox,” she said.

  “I’m Fiona. Can I help you select some flowers?” Even as I asked, I knew that wasn’t why she was here.

  She held up her finger and poked her head out the door. “It’s her!” She waved whoever was standing there inside. The door opened again and a cameraman entered, wearing a Windbreaker emblazoned with the logo of the local Aberdeen news station.

  “We just want to know if we could have a moment of your time to answer a few questions about what happened when you found Barley McFee’s body,” the female reporter said, pulling a small microphone and a notepad out of her purse.

  “Why do you think I was the one who found the body?” I stumbled back.

  “It’s what everyone in the village is saying.” She looked at her notepad. “In fact, we ran into your sister Isla Knox, and she was the one to confirm that you were the person who originally found the body.” She studied me. “You two don’t look anything alike.”

  I frowned. I was well aware of my physical differences from my gorgeous younger sister. I didn’t need her to point them out. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. The police have asked me not to talk to the press.”

  “That would be Chief Inspector Craig, who you have a romantic relationship with, then?” She pointed the microphone at me.

  Isla! I shouted in my head. I loved my little sister dearly, but her mouth had gotten her and me into trouble more times than I could count. This time was no exception.

  “What’s your name?” I went on the offensive.

  She straightened her shoulders. “Trina Graham, Action News.”

  “Well, Trina,” I began. “I understand that you’re just doing your job by coming here to talk to me, but I really can’t say anything at all about what happened in the village yesterday. I will have to ask you to leave my shop, unless I could interest you in a bouquet.”

  She scowled. “Don’t you care a man is murdered?”

  I blinked. “Of course I care. I care when anyone passes away, especially under such horrible circumstances.”

  She leaned in. “Tell me about those circumstances. How was he killed? The more descriptive you can be, the better.”

  The fact that she was asking the question told me Craig hadn’t released that information yet, and I sure wasn’t going to say a peep about it. He must have a reason to keep the murder weapon a secret.

  “I’m happy to talk about flowers. We just had a fresh shipment today, so all the flowers are at their peak. This would be the time to buy.”

  She gestured at the cameraman to cut filming. He lowered his camera. “We are giving you a chance here to tell the story your way. If you let the gossip magazines at you, your reputation will be ruined.”

  What was with people in Scotland about reputation? Bernice was worried about the reputation of the village too.

  “Thank you for your concern,” I said coolly, “but I can’t go against the request of the police.”

  She eyed me. “Do you want it to make it on the news reports that the chief inspector is dating a primary witness? That would get Chief Inspector Craig removed from the case just to start.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening me?”

  “This story has the potential for international appeal because of Barley’s fame. Don’t believe for a second that I will let it fall through the cracks to be picked up by another reporter. This is my story.”

  “I wouldn’t dare,” I said, a little more sarcastically than I intended.

  “I’ll find out what happened to Barley McFee, trust me.” She spun on her heel and marched out the door, the cameraman trailing along after her.

  I didn’t doubt for a second that she would try, but succeeding was a lot different from trying.

  Chapter Fifteen

  At lunchtime, I put a sign on the front door of the Climbing Rose saying I would be back in an hour and walked next door to the pub for lunch. During the quiet parts of the day, I worried over the state of my garden and the murder in turn. Could the two be connected? They’d happened very close to each other, but that would make me think Barley had a connection to the garden. As far as I knew, that wasn’t possible.

  I pushed open the heavy wooden door, and my eyes adjusted to the dim light. I didn’t know what it was about British pubs, but they all seemed to be intentionally dark, like it was part of their appeal.

  Before my vision acclimated, I heard a voice. “There’s the American girl. We were wondering when you’d stop by. There’s a murderer afoot, so it stands to reason that you would want to know about it.”

  I immediately recognized the hoarse rasp as Popeye’s. Popeye was one of three old sailors who spent their time divided between the Twisted Fox and the village harbor. I had never seen them go anywhere other than those two places. I knew that if I so much as ran into Popeye at Tesco, I would be shocked.

  Isla, who wore ripped jeans, a pink flannel shirt, and a white apron cinched around her waist, set three glasses of ale in front of the sailors. “Why do you call Fiona that American girl? I’m an American girl too. You never call me that.”

  Popeye smiled at her, and I almost fainted. In all the time I had lived in the village, I had never seen him s
mile once, but there he was, beaming at my sister.

  “Aye, I suppose that you are, but you seem to be more Scottish than she. No one could pour a pint of ale so well and be from the New World.”

  Isla laughed and then floated back to the bar with her tray. I shook my head. For all her faults, my sister had a way with people that put them at ease; apparently it worked on even the grouchiest of men.

  Isla stepped behind the bar and began rinsing glasses. “Raj is in the kitchen grabbing your tikka masala order with the cook.”

  “How does he know that’s what I want?” I asked.

  She set the glasses in a drying rack. “It’s what you always want.”

  A moment later, the swinging door between the bar and the kitchen opened and Raj stepped through it, holding a tray of white rice and a steaming brass bowl of tikka masala. It smelled heavenly. It was what I always wanted. Isla was right.

  He set it in front of me.

  “Thank you. You’re a prince.”

  He smiled. “Be careful. It’s hot.”

  “And spicy?” I asked hopefully.

  “So spicy that I’m sure you will break into a sweat.”

  “That sounds perfect,” I said. Before coming to Scotland, I hadn’t had much of a taste for spicy food, but with my flower shop being next to a pub that boasted a mix of Indian cuisine and standard pub fare, I now loved anything with a kick.

  I dipped my spoon into the bowl. “There was a man who was in the village for the concert by the name of Mick McFee. Does that ring any bells for you?”

  “The McFee does, since it was Barley’s last name,” Raj said.

  “He claimed to be a second cousin of Barley and said that he visited Barley and his parents here in the village often.”

  Raj thought about this for a moment. “Could be, but Barley had to have been my age or older. Presha and I didn’t come to this village until we were in our twenties. I wouldn’t have known Barley as a child. In fact, I believe he had already left the village and begun his career in music before we arrived. We heard of him, but yesterday was the first time I had ever seen him in person.”

  I nodded, but felt disappointed that Raj couldn’t tell me more. I wished there had been someone else in the village I could ask.

  I stirred the masala with my spoon in hopes of cooling it to a temperature I could actually put in my mouth.

  “I saw a cluster of women by the tour bus,” Raj said. “They looked like they were taking it hard.”

  I nodded. “That’s the BMGs.”

  “BMGs?”

  “Barclay McFee Grannies.”

  “I’m sorry I asked.”

  I told him about their late visit to the flower shop.

  “I wondered why you ordered so many flowers this morning,” Isla said, as she came out of the kitchen with a tray of food for one of the tables. It appeared that this set of diners was sticking to traditional British fare in the form of fish and chips and ale.

  “Do you have an idea who did him in yet?” Raj leaned in.

  I shifted on my seat. “Why on earth would you ask me that?”

  “It’s a fair question. It comes as no shock to anyone that you will help Chief Inspector Craig with the investigation. I’m sure he is looking forward to your support as well,” Raj said. “You two have become quite a team over the last several months.”

  I tasted my lunch, and it was as spicy and delicious as Raj had promised it would be. Eating also gave me time to control my expression. I didn’t think Craig was happy in the least that I might snoop around in the murder investigation, and I didn’t know if I even wanted to. I didn’t have any skin in the game this time. In the past when I was involved, I’d been the prime suspect both times. This time was very different. No one thought I had killed Barley. I’d had no reason to, and I had an alibi, since I’d been near the stage where everyone could see me at the time of the murder. What I did need to find out was what had happened to my garden. I wondered if it would be wise to close the shop a bit early so I could get home to the garden to investigate the crime that had happened at Duncreigan. Sales had been good yesterday with the last-minute arrival of the BMGs. Could I afford to take the rest of the day off?

  The phone under the bar rang, and Raj picked it up. He shook his head. “No, we usually don’t deliver, but we can do takeout for you if someone can come and pick it up.” There was a pause. “You will pay that much for delivery?” There was another pause. “All right. What will you have?” Raj removed a notebook from his pocket and a pen and began to write furiously. “It will be about thirty to forty minutes … No, thank you.” He hung up the phone and clapped his hands. “That’s one of the biggest orders we’ve ever had.”

  I leaned over the bar. “What was it for?”

  Instead of answering my question, he asked me one of his own: “Do you want to make a delivery?”

  I frowned. “I don’t work here. You should send Isla.”

  “But this is a delivery you would want to make.” He smoothed his moustache with his forefinger.

  “Since when does it look like I want to make deliveries?” I asked.

  “I thought you would want to make the delivery because it’s to the Thistle House to Barley McFee’s band.”

  My eyes went wide. “I really shouldn’t. Craig wouldn’t like it.”

  Raj chuckled. “But you want to.”

  I grinned. “Of course I want to go, but I can’t leave the flower shop for that long.”

  He grinned back. “The lunch rush is over. Isla can watch the flower shop for you for a little while—can’t you, Isla?”

  My sister came back around the bar with a tray full of dirty dishes. “Sure, but I didn’t hear—why am I watching the flower shop?”

  Raj gave her the quick version.

  She shook her head. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to leave that murder alone. You always have to snoop. It’s part of your DNA.”

  “No, it’s not, and really, this time I have no reason to snoop. I’m sorry Barley is dead, but I don’t know him and don’t know anyone he’s connected to.”

  Isla smiled. “Then why are you so eager to make the delivery? I could do it, and you could go back to your flower shop.”

  “Do you want to do it?” I asked reluctantly, because she had a point.

  “No way. I just know those people are going to complain about something, and I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life. Besides, Mom and Dad are at the Thistle House. I still haven’t told them about Seth.”

  “If you just want to tell them, Isla, do it. I don’t like the idea of you being tortured by keeping this secret.”

  “I’m not being tortured, but Mom keeps dropping hints about me moving back to the farm. I’m not leaving Bellewick. This is where Seth and I want to be. I’ve fallen in love with him, but I have also fallen in love with this village and the people here. I don’t want to leave them or you.”

  My heart swelled a little to know I was part of the reason my sister wanted to stay in Scotland. I would have been lying if I said I wouldn’t be sad if she left. It was nice to have a little piece of home—and family—in the village.

  “You will have to tell them eventually, just like I will have to tell them about Craig eventually,” I said.

  “I know,” she agreed. “I’m just thinking of the perfect way. I have some ideas, and I think they will be very impressed if I can pull it off.”

  That sounded more than a little ominous.

  “So you will make the delivery, Fiona?” Without waiting for an answer, Raj went on, “Give me twenty minutes to cook up the order, and you will be out the door. While I’m doing that, finish your own meal. I have a feeling you are going to need that energy.”

  I did too.

  As promised, Raj came back from the kitchen twenty minutes later with a heavy cardboard box.

  “Whoa,” I said. “Did they order everything on the menu?” I asked.

  “Just about,” he said. “Delivery is a new ventur
e I had never considered before. It might be a popular way for people to eat. Most Indian restaurants deliver.”

  “Most restaurants like that are in bigger cities, and so they have more people to deliver to.” I stood up from my barstool.

  “You always have to innovate to stay in business,” Raj said thoughtfully.

  I didn’t know how food delivery was innovation, but I saw his point.

  He pushed the box in my direction. “Now, be off with you. You have a murder to solve and food to deliver before it gets cold.”

  As I walked out the door, I wondered which of those tasks was more important. I guessed that in Raj’s estimation, it was the danger of cold masala.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You work as a delivery person and a florist. It must be a hard business selling flowers,” Eugenia said as she opened the front door of the guesthouse for me.

  I smiled as I carried the heavy box into the room. “I’m just helping Raj out.”

  She adjusted her glasses on her nose and blushed. “That’s so kind of you. Raj is a nice man.” She licked her lips. “When you were there, did he say what the specials are tonight? Usually I like to eat at the pub once a week.”

  I tried to keep my expression neutral, but was I right in suspecting a crush? “He didn’t, but I’m sure you could call and find out. It was probably on the menu board at the bar and I didn’t notice it.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll just walk down there later to stretch my legs. There are so many people staying at Thistle House right now that it will be nice to slip away for a few minutes.”

  “I think that’s a nice idea,” I said, doing my best to hide a smile.

  “Raj is a wonderful cook. I don’t eat at his pub as much as I like, since I have to cook for all the guests here. It’s easier to eat at home. There always seems to be leftovers.” She laughed. “I know I make too much. That’s what my poor husband used to say.”

  I didn’t know she had been married.

  As if she heard my unasked question, she said, “Floyd’s been gone for ten years now. He was a good man and was friends with your godfather, Ian MacCallister. Most people in the village were. Everyone liked Ian, and we were so proud of his service for Queen and country.”