by Molly Macrae
“It’s only a local, well, a regional festival by now. In years past we’ve had no more than a dozen and a half.”
“And what about meetings? We’re still getting our feet under us in the shop, and we hope to open the tearoom the week after next. I hesitate to overcommit.”
“There’s only the one meeting after you’ve read and scored the entries. At that time, judges will meet, discuss their favorites, and choose the winners. We’ve perfected the process over the years so that it’s well suited for busy people. I would consider your participation a personal favor.”
“Personal” is laying it on a bit thick, Janet thought. “It sounds like a worthy—”
“Indeed worthy, and a wonderful way for you to feel as though you’re becoming part of the wider community.”
Without actually becoming part of it? Janet ignored that thought as unnecessarily snide and needlessly pessimistic. This pleasant woman was asking a favor and painting it as prettily as she could to make it more likely she would say yes. It was a fair strategy. She’d used it herself with volunteers and skeptical board members any number of times. “How soon do you need an answer?” she asked.
“I hate to put you on the spot, but sooner than soon, I’m afraid. Today—now—if possible. Oh, and did I tell you that Ian Atkinson is one of our judges this year, as well? Now, that caught your interest, I can see. Perhaps I should have mentioned him first.”
Janet wondered why she hadn’t.
“I think he’s looking for ways to make a better connection with the community. From what I understand, that isn’t always easy for a writer. In any case, his participation should increase our chances for press coverage at the festival.”
“How long are the entries? Roughly.”
“A good question, without a single answer, I’m afraid. We get a good many short poems of a local form called Skye-ku. Then there’s the usual run of short stories. They make up the bulk of the entries. We get play scripts, the occasional television script, and on through to some quite good creative nonfiction.”
“Novels?”
“Not so many. I will say this—the judges have generally enjoyed themselves thoroughly.”
Janet restacked the bookmarks next to the cash register, giving Sharon time to add any further grace notes to her request, and herself time to think of any other pertinent questions before deciding. Sharon seemed to have finished, though, and stood across the desk from her, looking hopeful.
“What do you say?” Sharon prompted. “May I put you down as a yes?”
“I—”
“Wonderful! Absolutely brilliant! I’m so pleased you’ve said aye.”
“What?”
“I can’t thank you enough. I know you won’t regret it. Here are the entries.” Sharon took the Scottish Library and Information Council bag from her shoulder and set it down in front of Janet. It made a solid thunk on the desk.
“You’ve taken a tremendous burden off my mind,” Sharon said.
Her shoulder, too. She lifted the bag. It easily held the equivalent of two or three reams of paper.
“Una’s death is a shocking tragedy for the community,” Sharon said. “She’s been a stalwart member of the judging committee and a supporter of the Inversgail Literary Festival from the beginning. But the festival will go on. Una would have been the first to say it must. And the contest will go on, too. It would be a shame to disappoint the entrants. In fact, it’s just occurred to me that we might rename one of the awards for her. In her honor. What do you think?”
Janet thought she might need to take several breaths on Sharon’s behalf or offer a paper bag against the threat of hyperventilation. But Sharon’s gratitude carried her forward.
“We’ll have our preliminary get-together at the library tomorrow at noon, sort of a working lunch—”
“Whoa. Wait.” Janet held up a hand. “I thought you said there was only one meeting, and that it comes after we’ve read the entries.”
“That’s right. Only the one meeting. Tomorrow is more or less a quick get-together to go over the ground rules.”
“You can’t email them?”
“We’ll only be half an hour or so. An hour tops. It’ll give the judges a wee bit of bonding time, as well. The instructions will be clearer this way, you see. No chance of misinterpretation. Make sure we’re all on the same page.” Sharon laughed at her joke. Janet didn’t. Sharon didn’t seem to mind.
“Despite the setback of Una’s death, I feel the fates are smiling on the contest this year. I don’t mind telling you, but I was that chuffed when I heard the bookshop had found a buyer at last. That gave us a graceful way to replace a certain member of the committee without causing ill will. And that’s when Ian Atkinson agreed to serve on the committee— a coup for the festival, and thank goodness a bloodless one.”
Janet didn’t laugh at that joke, either. Neither did Kenneth. He emerged from the office, visibly startling Sharon.
“Kenneth. Good heavens. You’re here.”
Kenneth crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame.
Janet rushed to fill an awkward silence. “Kenneth and Pamela are giving us a week of their time and expertise. Invaluable help. We can’t thank you enough, Kenneth. Really.”
“How nice,” Sharon said. Her pleasant smile now looked somewhat plastic. “I’ve been so busy—you know me, with my nose always stuck in the library—I must have missed the details of the sale. I thought you were off and away. Going someplace warm, didn’t I hear? Sounds lovely.”
Kenneth hadn’t moved. “That’s been Pamela’s dream. A move like that doesn’t happen overnight, though.”
“And how is Pamela?” Sharon asked.
“Dreaming of warmer . . . temperatures.” Kenneth pushed away from the door frame and came to stand behind the desk. That put Janet, still sitting on the stool, between him and Sharon. More awkward to stay, or slip away? Janet wondered. She stayed but tried to make herself smaller on the stool.
“We’ll be away in another month or so,” Kenneth said. “I resigned from the committee because I didn’t want to be irresponsible toward the writers. Because of selling the shop, and the details of transferral and planning a move and packing, I didn’t think I’d be giving the entries my best attention or the attention they deserved. But if I’d known you wanted me off the committee that badly, Sharon, I would have obliged you years ago.”
“It isn’t really like that, Kenneth.”
“What’s it like, then, hey?”
“It’s not—”
“Go on. What’s it like?”
“Are you threatening me, Kenneth Lawrie?”
Sharon took a step back, and in the same instant Janet stood up. But as Janet swiveled to face Kenneth, the bell at the door jingled, and Constable Hobbs stepped in. And in the fraction of a second that it took for Janet to blink, she felt the scene shift. Sharon turned to Hobbs with a smile, Kenneth called a cheery greeting, and Norman Hobbs removed his hat, tucked it under his arm, and stood dripping on the floor.
9
And?” Christine asked. “Don’t stop there. What happened next?”
Janet, Christine, Tally, and Summer were sharing cheese and pickle sandwiches for supper in front of the fireplace after closing up shop for the day. Christine and Summer had returned from the Fort William catering supplier with samples of bread and rolls, and they’d stopped at the cheese monger along the High Street from Yon Bonnie Books to pick up the Mull Cheddar Christine had been craving. Janet and Tallie were eager to hear about the trip and, more to the point, the prices and delivery schedule Christine and Summer had negotiated. But when Christine asked where the Lawries were at the end of the day, Janet launched into the story of Sharon Davis’s visit, starting with Sharon’s request for Janet to become a judge for the writing contest and ending with Norman Hobbs dripping on the floor. She didn’t mention the rats, because the thought of them still made her mind skitter, or the ginger pear scones, because she and Tallie had eat
en the last two after Constable Hobbs left.
“Nothing really happened after that,” Janet said. “One minute Sharon looked as though she thought Kenneth was about to leap over both me and the desk to get at her, and the next they were acting like best mates. It was all tooth and claw and thunderheads, and then it was handshakes, plastic smiles, and sunshine—artificial sunshine, because, in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s still raining.”
“But it’s a soft rain and hardly noticeable,” Christine said.
All four looked out at the rain-glistened street and gray harbor.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Tallie asked.
“It’s the kind of rain that makes me feel like I’m healthy and growing,” Summer said.
“That’s fortunate,” said Janet.
“But get back to the argy-bargy,” Christine said.
“The argument? That’s all there was to it,” Janet said. “Sharon said she’d see me tomorrow at noon. Then she wished Kenneth good luck with the move, and Kenneth all but sang, ‘So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, good-bye.’ I gave Hobbs our notes, he left, and Tallie and I went about our business of selling books the rest of the afternoon.” She stopped there and chewed the last bite of her sandwich, but held up a finger to indicate a further thought. “Here’s something we might think about. Should we have a place for people to leave their wet things? Not just umbrellas, but bags and backpacks and whatnot. Customers might appreciate it, and it might save a few books from getting wet. I asked Pamela what they did about wet raincoats and such and she said, ‘Let there be drips.’ That sounded uncharacteristically cavalier. I think she’s already severed the metaphorical apron strings of the book business. And I wish I’d just said ‘cut’ instead of ‘severed.’”
“Here’s something that might make you feel better,” Summer said. “It’s an idea I had. Wouldn’t it be fun to offer slippers to customers? We could have a basket of them by the door with a sign that says, ‘take off your wet shoes and slip into cozy, knitted comfort.’”
“I like that,” Janet said. “I wonder if they’d go for it? I know I would. I would love it. But we’d end up with a lot of extra washing every day.”
“Or we could see if the laundry service for the tearoom will take them, too,” Summer said.
Christine stared at Summer, then at Janet, and turned to Tallie. “Exactly how threatening was Kenneth this morning? Is your mum exaggerating the situation, underreporting, or avoiding an unpleasant truth by digressing into woolly footwear?”
“The only unpleasant truth is that we can’t get into the house for a few more days,” Tallie said.
“Oh, Janet, I’m so sorry.” Christine put a hand on her friend’s shoulder.
“Hobbs was sorry, too,” Janet said, “so I didn’t throw a book at his head, like I wanted to.”
“Because you’re good.” Christine said. She gave Janet’s shoulder a squeeze. “Notice I didn’t say soft. But I should congratulate you on being made a member of the literary festival committee. A contest judge. Very good. It’s exciting, don’t you think? Or awful, depending on the entries. How many are there?”
Janet brought the bag from where she’d left it behind the sales desk. “I don’t know the breakdown by type or number of manuscripts,” she said, hefting the tote up and down, “but at a guess, I’d say between ten and ten and a half pounds.”
“Good Lord. Well, I’m sure it’ll be jolly fun.”
“I hope so. I was looking forward to reading Ian Atkinson’s The Bludgeon in the Bothy, but these better come first.”
“When do you have to have them read?”
“Now you can call me soft, because I forgot to ask. I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”
“Just as well you are soft, too,” Christine said, “so that you didn’t throw a book at Norman’s head. Mind you, I’m sure Norman’s had worse things hurled at him than books, and no one would blame you if you had clocked him. Did he say how much longer before you’re in the house? His crime specialists must have found something of interest. He didn’t let slip what, did he?”
“Tallie asked him both questions. He couldn’t say about the house and wouldn’t say anything about the investigation.”
“Even though we gave him our notes? Ingrate. I wonder if there’s any way we can find out without him.”
Tallie cleared her throat in a lawyerly, law-abiding way. “Back to Kenneth,” she said, “and how threatening he was or wasn’t. The situation was definitely tense. But only briefly, like Mom said. And I’ve never gotten that vibe off him before. I was watching from the office door, and except for moving closer to Sharon—which wouldn’t strike anyone as unusual under ordinary circumstances—Kenneth didn’t do anything that looked threatening. His words weren’t really threatening, either. It was in his voice.”
“Of course, you and I didn’t see his face,” Janet said, “and Sharon did.”
“True.”
“But I honestly didn’t feel like I was in any kind of danger sitting there between them,” Janet said. “Or much, until she backed away from the desk.”
“And then it was over, poof,” Tallie said, splaying her fingers when she said “poof,” and making Christine jump. “It was practically surreal. Sharon left. The Lawries left. Constable Hobbs probably couldn’t tell that anything had been going on. He looked around the shop, Mom gave him the notes, he disappointed her about the house, and then he left, too.”
“Inspecting,” Janet said. “I got the impression Hobbs was inspecting the place.”
“You got that feeling, too?” Tallie asked. “Yeah, definitely checking it over. He asked about the tearoom—like how long would the redecorating take? Did we expect it to be noisy with hammers or a power saw?”
“He asked me if we expected the work to disrupt the nice yet quiet and tasteful music and the calm atmosphere,” Janet said. “I asked him if he wanted a job writing our advertising copy.”
“What do you think he concluded?” Christine asked dryly.
“Not interested in the job, but pleasantly surprised by the bookshop and tearoom,” Tallie said. “Maybe I’m reading too much into the way he nodded. Happy enough, though.”
“There is still one thing I don’t understand,” Janet said. “Pamela was sitting in one of the chairs near the picture books this morning, reading. Starting to nod off. Maybe did nod off, because I thought I heard a snore. Then Sharon Davis came in and we talked for a while. And then Maida Fairlie came in.”
“How is mousy Maida?” Christine asked.
Mousy Maida —Janet still didn’t want to say anything about the rats. Time for that later. In fact, maybe the delay over getting into the house was a blessing in disguise. Now she’d have time to deal with that setback.
“Maida’s fine,” she said, “but calling her mousy is unkind, and we all need to be careful what we say in front of customers. That’s something Pamela said Kenneth is big on, and it’s something I firmly believe in.” She was thoughtful for a moment. “That’s interesting, though, now that we’ve witnessed Kenneth’s nonthreatening threats. A little disconnect there.”
“He wields careful words that hide a cudgel,” Tallie said.
“Passive-aggressive behavior at its nastiest,” said Christine, “if it’s a pattern. But go on about Maida.”
“It’s really about Pamela,” Janet said. “Maida came in, and Sharon went to browse. And when Sharon came back to the desk, she came down the aisle, past the picture books. And yet, when Kenneth popped out of the office, she was surprised and said she thought they’d already left Inversgail.”
“Your point being?” Christine asked.
“That she couldn’t have missed seeing Pamela. So why was she surprised to see Kenneth?
“Or,” said Tallie, “where was Pamela?”
“That’s really what I’m wondering,” Janet said. “Sharon made a complete tour of the shop and didn’t see her. And I didn’t see her go out the front. So where was she?”
“In the stockroom,” Christine said with a shrug. “Or she was taking a last look around the tearoom to make sure they aren’t leaving anything behind. Does it matter where she was?”
“I’m not sure,” Janet said. “I guess it made me think about opportunity. About who had the opportunity to kill Una. How easy it is for people to slip away and back again. How normal it is. Pamela was gone long enough that Sharon didn’t see her and long enough that she missed the words between Kenneth and Sharon.”
“‘Tension’ and ‘words’ are nice euphemisms,” said Christine. “Thank goodness it didn’t turn into a full-fledged rammie between them. Can you see the headline? ‘Bookseller Linked to Brawls and Bloodshed.’”
“Classic,” Summer said. “And then there’d be a picture of the garden shed with the caption ‘Blood Shed.’”
“Those are horrible things to say or think.” Janet crumpled her paper napkin, squeezing it into a tight ball. “But that sort of thing occurred to me, too. Not the picture and caption.” She shot an aggrieved look at Summer. “But unfavorable press, yes. We might at least be safe from the Guardian, though.” She told them about meeting James Haviland.
“I wouldn’t mind repaying his visit,” Summer said. “If nothing else, I’ll express my interest in a sister news organization and see if he’ll give me a tour. But maybe I can appeal to his better nature and try to ensure friendlier headlines. It’s worth a shot, anyway. I’ll do that tomorrow, after the decorators get started.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Christine said. “What are you doing with yourself this evening, Janet?”