Plaid and Plagiarism

by Molly Macrae

  The better to see into your motives, my dear, Janet thought with a shiver. Or into your soul.

  “On the other hand, a more interesting angle for our female readers might be whether or not you’ve considered how dangerous an adjoining tearoom, run by Steamy Summer Nights and the culinary heir of Helen MacLean, will be to your waistline.”

  Janet put her hands in her lap, the better to avoid swatting gadflies. She felt a subtle pressure on her right foot and shot a glance at Summer.

  “Why don’t you write the article from another perspective,” Summer said as she laid a business card on the table, “one with a more international audience in mind.” Her fingers dallied over the card in such a way that Janet couldn’t read it. Una couldn’t, either, but her eyes didn’t leave it as Summer slid the card several inches closer to her. “Think of the millions of Americans who identify as ‘Scottish.’”

  “Obsessive Outlanders,” Una said. “Born-again Bravehearts. They’re a beautiful people.”

  “Exactly. Think about attracting the attention of a mere fraction of them. A fraction willing, able, and, if you play them right, eager to support local initiatives. Think about economic impact. Think about a leap upward in your career. I’ll give you my AP contact.” She slid the card three inches closer to Una, then stopped. “Better yet—” She put her hand over that card, produced another, and handed both to Una. “NPR will eat this kind of story, completely and totally, up.”

  The cards disappeared. Una looked at her phone and sang, “The texts, the texts are calling me,” then scraped her chair back. “I don’t do ‘Danny Boy’ any better than I do Bogie, I’m well aware, but I entertain myself and that’s not a bad thing. Ta very much for everything. Sorry to sip and slide so soon. Is that your kitchen there? Take me on a whirlwind tour of it, and if I like what I see I’ll be back tomorrow to record more of the color you’re adding to our local vicinity.”

  Summer took her into the kitchen. Janet didn’t follow, having had enough of Una for one “interview.” She knew she’d made the right decision when she heard what sounded like every cupboard and drawer being opened and banged shut in quick succession. Then Una’s voice came in rapturous tones.

  “Ooh, is that one of those fancy instant-hot, instant-cold, instant-ooh-la-la taps?”

  That was followed by the sound of gushing water. Una exited the kitchen before the water stopped gushing, and Janet pictured Summer flying across the kitchen to turn it off.

  “Cheerie-bye, then,” Una said on her way past. And she was gone.

  Janet found Summer standing in the middle of the kitchen looking slightly shell-shocked. “Thank you, Summer. I would have completely bungled that without you. Or thrown my teacup at her.”

  “A small dog would need three extra shots of espresso to reach her level of hyper.”

  “How on earth did you come up with that international audience and local initiative concoction?”

  Summer shrugged a shoulder. “Just something I’ve been thinking about. It might even turn into something for her.”

  “And your card trick—you’re very slick. It’s lucky you had them with you. Or do you carry them out of habit?”

  “I grabbed them when I went up to get the kettle.” Summer smiled. “I play a mean game of poker, too.”

  Under Kenneth’s watchful eye, Janet and Tallie went through the steps for closing out the cash register for the day. Janet didn’t mind telling anyone—and wished she’d had the chance to tell Una Graham—that she was endlessly impressed by her daughter. Tallie was the one who’d found the real estate listing for Yon Bonnie Books online two years ago. She knew the shop from their summer visits to Inversgail, and it fit perfectly into the why not game. Janet had started the game during a stretch of high mortgage bills, tuition payments, and budgetary stress at the library. Why not buy a restaurant on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, she’d asked, so we can live at the beach? Forever? Getting away from it all and making life changes were key elements of the game. Christine, an excellent cook, latched onto the game during the years of her husband’s illness. She planned menus for the restaurant and convinced the others to add a gift shop where she could sell the miles of scarves she stress-knitted. Tallie had taken the game into the realm of possibilities when she asked, Why not buy a bookstore?

  “First things first,” Janet said when the four of them stood on the deck behind the cottage that evening. “I’d like us to spread out and check the rest of the house. We took Jess’s word for it that only the kitchen is trashed, but we need to see for ourselves. Take pictures if you find anything. And open the windows as you go. If that smell has seeped into the furniture and curtains, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  “And then we need to be brave and muck through whatever rubbish Jess hasn’t cleared out of the kitchen,” Christine said. “We’re looking for anything with identifying information. Envelopes, pill bottles, that kind of thing.”

  “Names won’t prove anything,” Tallie said. A slim version of her mother, she’d pulled her dark hair into a stubby braid at the back of her head.

  “But they might tell us where the garbage came from,” Summer countered. “And that could lead somewhere. What about checking the shed? We might as well be thorough. Will it be locked?”

  “Much good that did the house,” Janet said. She sorted through the keys on her ring, pulled off two, and handed them to Summer. “Do you mind? I think it’s one of those.”

  “I’ll meet you inside in a few,” Summer said and hopped off the deck with a grace Janet envied.

  “Tallie, do you mind checking the bedrooms? And, Christine, you take the dining room. I’ll open the window in the lounge and start on the kitchen,” Janet said. “Call out if you find anything. Now take your last breath of fresh air,” she said, and unlocked the door.

  The smell was just as bad as Janet remembered. She went to the window in the family room, picturing herself staggering through a toxic swamp. As she wrestled with the catch on the casement, she heard Tallie taking the stairs two at a time the way she had as a child and a teenager, calling “Tally-ho” as she went. The catch finally gave and the window went up with a groan. She leaned out the window for another blessed breath of fresh air and heard another groan. An echo? Her scalp prickled.

  The sound came again, higher pitched and rising at the end. Behind her she heard Christine opening and closing drawers, and above her were Tallie’s feet. But at the bottom of the garden, Summer held on to the shed door, then doubled over, retching.

  Afterward, Janet tried to imagine how she’d got to Summer so quickly. Her only memory was of flying, arms stretched out to gather her in. But she must have called Christine and Tallie as she flew, because they followed, and they were there when Summer told them not to look in the shed. But of course they did, and they all saw the crumpled woman, and the pool of blood, and in her poor, thin neck, the sickle.

  5

  The four women waited for the police, sitting on the pew on the deck at the back of the house. Janet and Christine made comforting bookends for the younger women tucked between them. Four sets of hands were clasped in four laps. Three sets of eyes did not waver from the garden shed. Janet knew the door she’d closed didn’t keep them from seeing what lay inside, but as she watched their faces, she gave silent thanks for their levelheaded natures. Christine had known the right words to calm Summer. Tallie made a clear, concise call to the nonemergency Police Scotland number. With no hope the poor soul in the shed was hanging on to life, there was no emergency. It was Janet who’d herded them back up the hill to brush last year’s leaves from the pew and sit down.

  “I think this bodes well for the bookshop,” she said.

  Three shocked faces turned to stare at her.

  “Not this,” she rushed to explain. “Not this unspeakable—” She fluttered a hand toward the shed, and for a moment she thought she might lose her own level head. Tallie took her hand and held it. “I mean us,” Janet said. She squeezed Tallie�
�s hand. “I mean the four of us, and how we help each other and how well we work together. This is an unusual kind of acid test, but I think we passed.”

  “Did you expect us to fall out and start accusing each other of murder?” Christine asked. “No, forget I said that. That was a poor joke. I know you didn’t expect that. And to prove your point further, I agree with you. We are a good team. I just hope this unspeakable”—she mimicked Janet’s hand flutter—“doesn’t put a damper on our business. And I don’t mean to be disrespectful of the dead when I say that, God rest her soul.”

  Four heads bowed. Then Tallie asked quietly, “Is that Jess? Do we need a lawyer? A solicitor? Are they going to think you, or any of us, had something—”

  “It’s not Jess down there,” Janet cut in.

  “They’ve a similar build, but didn’t you recognize her?” Christine asked. “That’s Una Graham in the shed.”

  “I didn’t look that closely,” Tallie said.

  “Of course you didn’t, and I wish I hadn’t,” Christine said. “But this doesn’t look good for Jess. She wasn’t overly fond of Una.”

  “Do you think Jess snapped?” Janet asked. “I’ve always liked her. I don’t want to think she did this.”

  “Did she strike you as being entirely stable this morning?” Christine asked.

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Tallie said. She stood up. “Let’s make notes. Mom, you and Christine go over the gist of what you saw and heard this morning, in the order it happened, if you can, and sticking to facts. Summer, you’re the reporter—start reporting.”

  “But impressions should count for something, too,” Christine said.

  “Especially those of a trained professional,” said Janet. “I said I like Jess, but I trust Christine’s judgment. It comes from years of observation and working with people in all kinds of situations.”

  Christine nodded agreement.

  “So why don’t you mark impressions with a capital I in your notes, Summer,” Janet continued, “and mark facts with an F.”

  “Reporter,” Tallie said, pointing at Summer.

  “I know, dear. I’m just suggesting a method.” She was pleased when the younger women returned her smile, although she suspected Tallie’s was somewhat forced.

  “Notes will have to wait.” Summer nodded toward the garden gate behind Janet. “Police are here.”

  “One, anyway,” Christine said. “Local constable.”

  “Do you know him?” Janet asked.

  “I don’t know why you think I would.”

  The constable lifted his cap to them as he came through the gate, revealing a brush of salt-and-pepper hair. He took in his surroundings as he followed the flagged path toward the deck, appearing to take his time and looking as though he might be in the market for the property, eyeing the roof, squinting at the chimney. He stopped before he reached them and turned to look toward the bottom of the garden, his hands on his hips.

  “Out for an evening stroll, are you, Norman?” Christine called.

  “I thought you didn’t know him,” Janet whispered.

  “I’m as surprised as you are. I used to change his nappies,” Christine whispered back.

  “Evening, Mrs. Robertson,” the constable said. “Just giving Mr. Atkinson, next door, time to put his wellies on. Very keen on police work, is Mr. Atkinson. He writes crime novels. I don’t imagine he’ll intrude on us, but he might have a sudden urge to turn the compost.” He looked at the open window behind the women and took a few tentative sniffs. His brow creased as he must have caught a compost-like whiff from the kitchen.

  “I was sorry to hear about your mum, Norman,” Christine said when he reached them.

  “And she was very sorry to hear about your husband, as was I. Are you back for a visit?”

  “To stay. Looking after my own mum and dad.”

  “They’d be about my gran’s age, wouldn’t they? Well, time does not stand still for the old dears. So, then.” He straightened his back and saluted them. “Constable Norman Hobbs here, and I’ve had a report.” He took a spiral notebook from his breast pocket and held it so they could see the princess on the pink cover. “A birthday present from my youngest niece,” he said. “I promised her I’d let everyone I come in contact with admire it.” He carefully turned the cover back and looked at Janet, Tallie, and Summer. “I don’t believe I have the pleasure of knowing the rest of you. May I have your names and current addresses, please?”

  “Atkinson,” Christine said before Janet had a chance to speak. “Ian Atkinson, the author? The Ian Atkinson is living next door? He never did before.”

  “Incomer. Arrived two or three years ago,” Constable Hobbs said with a barely suppressed sniff.

  “The nerve,” Christine said with unsuppressed satisfaction. “Not that I personally have anything against incomers.”

  “No.”

  “And I daresay his presence is a benefit to the community,” Christine said.

  “He takes an interest, and that’s appreciated. In fact, I wonder why he hasn’t shown an interest in our gathering here this evening, writers being naturally nosy types. Or so I gather.” Constable Hobbs craned his neck to scan the house and garden next door. Janet cleared her throat, and he turned back to them.

  “I’m Janet Marsh, Constable Hobbs. I’m sorry to say I’m also an incomer. This is my house.”

  “May I be the first to remove my foot from my mouth and welcome you to our community, ma’am,” Hobbs said with another salute. “Please forgive my rude comment. Like Mrs. Robertson, I don’t personally have anything against newcomers.”

  Hobbs took down their names and contact information in a neat, if crabbed, hand in his pink notebook and didn’t offer further opinions. But when he heard he was speaking to the new owners of the bookshop, he stopped and shook each of their hands. “I’ve been tied up with family troubles,” he apologized, “or I would have stopped in to welcome you sooner. A lovely shop. It’s a bit of a step, relocating such a distance.”

  “A retirement scheme of sorts,” Janet said.

  “A multigenerational concept,” Christine added. “When it gets to that point, I can bring Mum and Dad along and park them by the fire so they won’t feel isolated.”

  “And Tallie and Summer are building viable second careers,” Janet said. “We planned carefully before taking that bit of a step.”

  “Very interesting.” Hobbs said. “Aye, well, that’s grand. Now, which one of you reported finding a body in the garden shed?”

  Tallie and Summer stepped forward, as caller and discoverer of the body, respectively. Hobbs listened intently, jotting notes, as Summer gave her account. Janet appreciated his matter-of-fact if somewhat cozy approach. It gave her a reassuring feeling, a sense that the stalwart strength of Police Scotland was there for them to lean on. She did wonder if Norman Hobbs had ever considered growing a mustache to help that impression along. He was at least forty, if Christine had indeed changed his nappies, and the salt-and-pepper hair seemed to prove that age. But his hair would be hidden under his cap most of the time, and she could picture certain elements of the community not taking his round baby face seriously. His demeanor was professional, though, and only a red flush creeping up his neck, and a tighter grip on his pencil and princess notebook, gave her the inkling this call might be something out of the ordinary.

  “Right,” Constable Hobbs said after hearing Summer’s account. “Wait here, please.”

  Janet and Christine exchanged glances and followed him. When Hobbs realized they were treading carefully behind him, he stopped and turned around.

  “I meant all of you should wait.” He hesitated, then closed the gap between them. “Twenty-three years on the force,” he said quietly, “and not once have I had a murder. The BBC calls Scotland the murder capital of the U.K., and yet I have never had a single one, and never had the chance to show what I can do. Natural causes, accidental deaths, aye. And suicides, I’ve dealt with a sad number of all o
f them. But murder? No.” He narrowed his eyes. “There is no chance this is any of the above, is there?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll be back shortly, then.”

  They watched him go.

  “I suppose this means we shouldn’t do any further rummaging or cleaning in the house,” Christine said. “All that rubbish might be evidence. And you still won’t be sleeping in your own bed.”

  “Is that a spring in his step?” Janet asked.

  The sun was beginning to set as Janet and Christine rejoined Tallie and Summer on the deck. None of them sat now, preferring to stand. Gulls wheeled and cried in the harbor. In another month, toward the end of June, it would be light enough after nine to read a book outdoors. With uncharacteristic sourness, Janet hoped it wouldn’t be another month before she was reading a book in her own bed.

  “Imagine Ian Atkinson living next door,” she said, changing this unhappy subject in her head. “I wonder if Jess knows that, and if she does, why she never said anything. I’m tempted to call her now and let her know what’s going on.”

  “Probably shouldn’t,” Tallie said.

  “No.”