Plaid and Plagiarism

by Molly Macrae

  “This is appalling,” Janet said. “It’s vandalism.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Jess said.

  “But what makes you think it’ll stop after you’ve cleaned it up and after I’ve moved in? How are they getting in? I didn’t see any signs of a break-in. Is this the renters? Revenge for not renewing the lease? I gave them three months’ notice. Have you had the locks changed? I’ll have them changed and now I am calling the police.”

  “No!” Jess caught at Janet’s hand. Janet pulled away and took the rock from her kangaroo pouch.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Janet said to Christine. “I feel like a cavewoman.”

  “And now she’s crying again,” Christine said.

  “For the love of— Stop it this instant. Jess Baillie, honest to Pete, I can’t take much more of this. Explain yourself or I will call the police.”

  “I want to know why she hasn’t called the police,” Christine said.

  “Don’t interrupt,” Janet said, rounding on Christine. “Now, pull yourself together, Jess, and sum it up.”

  “Och, fine. I can’t say it simpler than this. It’s Ug.”

  Janet threw her hands in the air, her right still holding tight to the knob of granite. But Christine scratched her head and Janet saw enlightenment spark in her eyes.

  “Una Graham,” Christine said, “advice columnist for the Inversgail Guardian. Is that who you mean?”

  Jess nodded.

  “She’s a good old-fashioned agony aunt,” Christine mused, “and affectionately known as Ug. You must have seen her column in the paper, Janet. Dad never misses it. Except for the tide tables, she’s the only reason some people do read the Guardian.”

  “She’s a real person?” Janet asked. “I thought the staff got together and answered the questions over pints. And made up half the questions, too. I’m sure someone told me that.”

  “If it was a skinny little shrew who told you, that was Ug herself,” Jess said. “Thinks she’s quite the wit. And she thinks she’s an investigative reporter now, too.”

  “We know someone who could give her a run for her money in that game,” Christine said. “Except our Summer has given up journalism to come sell books with us. I find this fascinating, Jess.”

  Janet gave Christine a look, tossed the rock in the air, and caught it with a snap.

  “But only fascinating from a sociological point of view,” Christine added. “You think Ug did this?”

  “She has it in for me,” Jess said. “She’d like nothing better than to put me out of business.”

  “If you have proof,” Janet said, “then go to the police.”

  “And I’ll stick my question in again,” said Christine. “Why haven’t you gone to the police?”

  Jess stared toward the kitchen. “There won’t be any proof.”

  “How did she even get in?”

  “Learnt how to pick locks from her brothers, because they were delinquents.”

  “She’s a burglar?” Christine asked, sounding confused and unconvinced.

  “No. She’s not. Because she’s smarter than that. But so am I, and I’m on to her.”

  “Why does she want to put you out of business?” Janet asked.

  “You see,” Jess said. “You don’t believe me.”

  “We’re trying to understand.”

  “And that’s why there’s no use calling the police. They won’t believe me, and they won’t try to understand, and they’ll do nothing. Ug is trying to make me jump and scream, like she did when we were girls and she put spiders in my schoolbag. And the teachers did nothing. But I’m not screaming this time. I won’t give Ug that satisfaction. I’m not saying anything about it. And that’s why I haven’t told Rosie anything at the office. Rosie’s sweet, but what she doesn’t know she can’t blather about. Please, Janet, let me take care of the mess. Promise me you won’t tell anyone about it. I’ll knock the last six months off my fees for managing the rental for the trouble this has caused. I can’t clear it all out today, but I’ll have it finished by tomorrow. And it won’t happen again. Una won’t come back once you’re living here. There’d be nothing in it for her.”

  “There are more holes in the Una ‘Ug’ Graham Theory of Rubbish Distribution than there are in the last scarf I tried to knit,” Christine said on the way back to the bookshop. “Do you believe any of it?”

  “Jess obviously believes it,” Janet said, “but I think I’d like to explore other possibilities. And call a locksmith.”

  “Agreed.”

  Like so many shops along the High Street, Yon Bonnie Books looked as though it could have sprung straight out of an illustrated classic. Something by Scott or Maclaren, Janet thought, or one of their sentimental colleagues from the turn of the last century. The shop’s granite blocks and windows trimmed in dark green gave the exterior exactly the right look for a bookshop. The updated interior, with walls in primary colors and a mix of antique and modern fixtures, gave the shop humor and vitality. The background music, a mix of lilts, airs, and classical pieces, and the fireplace with its grouping of comfy chairs made everything cozy.

  Janet was pleased to see browsing customers when they returned. She apologized to “the girls” as well as Pamela and Kenneth Lawrie, the former owners of the shop, for being gone longer than they’d meant to be. The Lawries, who’d owned the shop for fifteen years, were preparing for their own move to Portugal—or anywhere warm, as Pamela had told them. But as part of the sales agreement they were staying on for a week to train the four new owners and to ease the transition.

  “You had a nice walk?” Pamela asked as she watched Janet’s daughter, Tallie, ring up a sale. Pamela reminded Janet of a library patron she’d known over the years, but never more than in passing—pleasant enough, she assumed, if one were able to breach the barrier. Friendly greetings hadn’t ever been enough to do that, though.

  “It was a nice walk and it’s a beautiful day,” Christine said.

  “The only thing making it more beautiful is being back here surrounded by new books and happy customers,” said Janet. Her flowery remark earned a raised eyebrow from Tallie, and Janet could see questions forming above her daughter’s head like smoke signals. Tallie had been practicing and teaching corporate law for most of her career—enjoying it, then enduring it, and finally telling Janet that if she stayed in it one more year, her soul might shrivel up and turn to dust. It was Tallie who’d found the “for sale” notice for Yon Bonnie Books.

  “That’s all right, then,” Pamela said. “We did expect you back sooner so we could go over the ordering process before lunch. It’s somewhat important, with the Inversgail Literary Festival being the biggest bookbuying week of the year, and only a fortnight away. But I expect the ordering process can wait.”

  “And we kept you waiting,” Janet said. “I’m sorry we took so long.”

  “Well, it’s no bother to me,” Pamela said. “It’s not as if this is my new livelihood, is it?”

  “Listen to her.” Kenneth, gap-toothed and soft in the middle, put his arm around Pamela. “There’s plenty of time yet to go over ordering, and it could be they’ll want to set up their own system, anyway. You’re all naturals at the book business, ladies. Speaking of which, has Una Graham been in touch?”

  Janet wondered if she looked as startled as Christine did at the mention of Una.

  “No? Well, she wants to do an article for the Guardian about the changing of the guard,” Kenneth said. “It’ll be a companion piece to their annual splash about the literary festival. She said she might come round this afternoon.”

  “I hope she doesn’t use ‘Changing of the Guard’ for the headline,” Pamela said. “It was trite before she became trite.”

  “Wheesht,” Kenneth said. “We feel very good about putting the shop in your hands, don’t we, Pammy?” Kenneth tickled her earlobe.

  Pamela flicked his hand away. “We’ve an appointment with the solicitor, Kenneth.”

 
As soon as the Lawries left the shop for their appointment, and in between customers, Janet and Christine broke their promise to Jess. They told the story in turns, and Janet gave Tallie and Summer high marks for listening without interrupting and without steadily lowering jaws.

  “This is . . . I can’t think of a good word for what this is,” Summer said when they’d finished. “And words rarely fail me.” Summer was a newspaperwoman who’d managed to hang on to her job during the downward spiral of daily newspaper readership. But she’d finally seen the writing on the masthead, and when the others had told her about the bookshop, she’d jumped ship, ready to reinvent herself.

  “I can think of the word,” Tallie said. “That story is full of—”

  “Holes,” Christine said. “That’s exactly what I told your mother.”

  “I called the locksmith,” Janet said. “He was at a job in Dornie today, but he’ll be around tomorrow. And we have a plan for filling those holes.”

  “And four of us will be more efficient than two,” Christine said. “Neither of you has plans for this evening, do you?”

  During a late-afternoon lull, Janet showed off her favorite methods for identifying and finding books when given few and sometimes inaccurate details. The demonstration was part of what Christine, Tallie, and Summer called their “Book Goddess” training. Pamela and Kenneth had returned, and Pamela’s hovering attention made Janet uneasy. But when she described some of the trickier requests she’d deciphered in her years as a librarian, Pamela applauded with the others.

  “Brilliant,” Pamela said. “You see, it’s only a question of using your brain and your computer.”

  “And our patrons, our customers, will think we’re magic,” Janet said.

  “Don’t expect the ungrateful ones to thank you, though,” Pamela said. “They’ll say to whomever they’re with, or to anyone at all, ‘Look, I found it.’”

  “Isn’t that the truth?” Janet laughed, glad for this moment of comradery with Pamela. “Whatever makes them happy, though. Even when they were annoying, the patrons were always right.”

  “What makes our customers happy most often is browsing on their own,” Pamela said, putting the comradery back in its place. She rearranged a stack of bookmarks previously straightened by Christine. “I don’t know how it’s done in America, and you’ll certainly have plenty of them marching through here on the trail of their ancestors, but in general you don’t want to be overly loud or jump out at people when they first come through the door.”

  Christine appeared to inflate. Janet would have loved to hear Christine’s feelings about Pamela’s latest advice, but the jingle of the bell on the shop door intervened. A woman came in, and Janet glanced sideways at the others, suddenly afraid to make a move too obviously “American.” Pamela stepped back with a gesture as though to say, It’s all yours. Christine accepted the challenge but, in taking a moment to pat her hair and her composure back into place, missed her chance.

  “What, has the cat got all your tongues?” Kenneth asked, coming out of the stockroom and wiping his hands on a dustcloth. “I didn’t hear anyone greet— Oh, I say, good to see you, Una. Here she is, ladies— Una Graham of the Inversgail Guardian. Una, I’d like you to meet the new proprietors of Yon Bonnie Books.”

  4

  Una Graham held up a hand, postponing further introductions while she gave in to a raspy cough. Her moussed hair was a mixture of gray and an unhealthy yellow, as though the decades of cigarette smoke that had produced her cough had also precipitated out through her scalp. Jess Baillie’s description of her wasn’t far off, Janet realized. Minus the hair, Una was about her own height, with a sharp nose and chin. And if shrews had dark and darting eyes, even while coughing into their sharp elbows, then that part of Jess’s description matched as well.

  “Sorry,” Una said, putting a hand to her chest. “I gave up the pipes because of that cough.”

  “You never played the pipes,” Pamela said.

  “No, but it’s a good joke on myself, don’t you think?”

  Shrewish she might be, but Janet found herself liking Una Graham. The quick eyes held a humor Jess’s and Pamela’s lacked. “I’m Janet Marsh,” she said, stepping forward. “I wish you did play the pipes.”

  “People either run to them or away from them,” Una said. “Myself, I’m from the ‘stand back and wait for a kilt-raising breeze’ school of thought.” She pointed at Kenneth. “Mind you, I only said that to make Kenneth blush. I can take the pipes or leave them, but I’d happily die for a cup of tea right now. Have I heard right that you’re putting a tearoom in the empty space next door? If it were open, we could sit down over a pot and plate of cakes for an interview.”

  “Does she stop talking long enough to do an interview?” Christine whispered to Janet.

  “You’ll find I do,” Una said, “and you’ll also find I have exceptional hearing.” She turned in a circle, taking in the shelves and displays. Was she memorizing details, Janet wondered, or looking for a crack or flaw to stick her fingers in and probe? “Who’s your spokeswoman?” she asked.

  With little debate, they decided Janet and Summer would answer questions and give Una a tour of the planned tearoom. They told her touring the rooms for the B & B upstairs would have to wait until Janet and Tallie moved out of them.

  “Left your beds unmade, did you?” Una asked. “Afraid I’ll air your dirty laundry?” She paused long enough to cackle and cough, and then suggested they find a place to sit. “My feet will thank you,” she said, hiking a trouser leg to show them three-inch heels.

  Summer suggested sitting in the tearoom-to-be. “It isn’t cozy, yet, but it’ll be quiet and I can run upstairs and get the electric kettle.”

  “Then, do it, hen,” Una said. “Run like the wind. Fly, fly!”

  “Shall we go through to the tearoom?” Janet asked.

  “We’ll wait,” Una said, turning away. “I won’t be on my game until tea’s up.”

  The space for the tearoom had been a baked potato shop in a previous life. Over the years that the Lawries had owned the building, they’d rented the space to a series of seasonal enterprises, most recently a shop selling t-shirts and other clothing of a more adult nature called Tartan Tees and Tease. The windows had been covered with tartan panels to avoid scandalizing passersby, and the door through from the bookshop had been kept locked.

  “We’ll take the panels off the windows when the work is far enough along to generate excitement,” Janet said when they were sitting with their tea at one of the tables left over from the baked potato era.

  “Excitement is exactly why the panels were installed.” Una wiggled her eyebrows. “Very popular place this was for a certain segment of Inversgail society, in addition to the tourists.” She pulled a small laptop from her shoulder bag and opened it. “Now, will your tearoom and B and B have names all their own, or are they part of the Yon Bonnie franchise?”

  “We’re calling the tearoom Cakes and Tales,” Summer said. “And we’re calling the bed-and-breakfast Bedtime Stories.”

  “You like words. That’s lovely. You’re the ex-newspaperwoman, aren’t you? It’s a glorious profession. Whatever made you give it up? But hold your answer.” Una erased the question from the air with her hand. “We’ll get back to you. First, my readers will want to know why, of all the book joints in all the towns in all the world, did you walk into this one and buy it? My Bogie is far from brilliant, but I’m sure you catch my drift.”

  Janet’s teacup stopped halfway to her lips. She set the cup down, moved it a safe distance aside, and leaned forward to tell what she thought of as their fun and still somewhat unbelievable story—how they’d turned a decades-old game of why not into a daydream-come-true. “Why—”

  “Why don’t you start with your division of labor,” Una said. “People love the DIY angle to small businesses, in case they fancy a go at one for themselves.”

  “Christine Robertson and Summer Jacobs will be in charge of the
tearoom, and my daughter, Tallie, and I will be in charge of the bookshop. That’s Tallie Marsh, short for Natalie. To be practical, though, we’re all cross-training.”

  “Right.” Una studied Janet, an index finger tapping pursed lips. “Nicknames are common enough, but does your daughter dislike her given name?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Are you sure?” Una asked, but before Janet got over her surprise at the question, Una went on. “I only ask because if there’s tension in the story—between partners, for instance—all the better. Books, tea, cakes, and pillows for strangers’ heads are all well and good, but I’m looking for that jagged shard of tension for an article that really grips our readers’ imaginations.”

  Janet turned to Summer. “Do we have tension?”

  “I haven’t noticed any.”

  “A shame,” Una said. “Moving on, you mentioned practicality. Is there any actual, practical bookshop or tearoom experience among you?”

  “Thirty-five years in public libraries, purchasing books for a popular collection, and proactively connecting those books with patrons,” Janet said, proud of being able to string those words together without spitting them at the woman across from her. The one she wasn’t liking quite so much after all. “And Tallie spent six weeks at a bookselling course in Wigtown—a program you might have heard of, in the town called ‘Scotland’s National Book Town.’”

  Una typed without comment, and then, without looking up, she pointed at Summer and said, “Cueing the tearoom experience.”

  “Two years in a steamy relationship with a master baker who taught me everything he knew, if you know what I mean, and then one day, between the yeast and the icing, we lost the magic, and I ran away to the Scottish Highlands to lose myself in tea and scones and ultimately find myself.”

  Una had stopped typing at the word “steamy.” When Summer finished, Una pointed at her again. “Cheeky. I like that. And if your Christine is anything like her mother in a kitchen, between the two of you Cakes and Tales should do very nicely. Now, let’s put the unsavory bits to bed, so to speak, and get back to my original Bogie question— why this bookshop in this town? I feel certain our readers will want to know if this is a trend, alarming or otherwise, toward foreign ownership of our homegrown businesses, a snapping up of our heritage, if you will. Although you, Steamy Summer Nights, raised another issue when you mentioned running away. Whether it’s true or not, I’ve read that a great many of the American students who come to study at our universities are either looking for something or running away from something, not necessarily successfully. I wonder which you’re doing— searching? Or running?” She studied Janet, lips pursed again and eyes narrowed.